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poetry: catch me

i stack the sky vertically, holding
space for falling words, but summer
heat traps crooked letters, twisting
type for tiny starlings to feast—pecking
pesky verbs, spitting harsh consonants
onto parched summer grass. he
said ‘imagine that’ and ‘birds like 
nests,’ so i scurry and scrawl every tree,
gathering orphaned lettered pieces of you,
to anchor my pillow as ink-black night 
bleeds with barely a moon. quiet, listen 
to the nothing of my whispering breath
as soft feathers fold the dark—
with a tiny click.

11/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day.

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Photography: Strawberry Moon

I’ve been doing a lot of portrait photography lately, and neglecting my nature shots. I tried to remedy that by capturing the moon a few weeks ago, but I couldn’t find it before it got super dark outside. Here’s my best attempt, including two shots I took while doing an adorable family shoot at the river.

Also, thank you to those reading my daily poems. It’s a project I’ve been wanting to do for a while, but it’s honestly feeling like a lot. I appreciate everyone rooting me on and supporting me.

Have a wonderful rest of your weekend.

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  • These were taken with my Olympus E-M1 MarkII, using several different lenses and edited with Lightroom Classic. 
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poetry: sunlight slits

whisper soft again, friend
describe cold smoke, warm mother
blue-glazed bowl of soup
another cat in the window
dusty fan-blown strands

ten whole days widen slits
where tiny words swallowed
or tap danced
or overly devoured
around wispy sunlight fingers

peeled painted eyelids open
spiraled dragon breath
rocks stacked with books
green moss lingered
two arms flung upward

toward you

10/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.

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poetry: lemon wind

my shadow threw flowers
into the sea for you. floated
words on petals, threads
for you to pull. calling
through bright sun, casting
into murky waters. see
how closed curtains float
when blown. fresh lemon
wind leaning against bark
until the wood vibrates
you—again and again.

8/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.

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Poetry: Playdate

When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you unlock the deadbolt and brace yourself.
He has to clear the entryway at a full sprint,
and you don’t want to be collateral damage.

When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you better have sourdough toast, pickles,
and sparkling water on the counter.
Apparently, saving the neighborhood
requires a very specific diet.

When Spider-Man comes to your house,
he will absolutely chase your rabbit around the backyard.
He’ll get burrs stuck to his polyester muscles,
sit in the hammock to pick them off,
and roast your gardening skills.

When Spider-Man comes to your house,
he might peel back his mask just far enough to breathe,
expose his secret identity,
and clobber you at dominoes
until he literally rolls off his chair laughing.

When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you will notice the exact moment
his shins match the length of yours.
You’ll look at his massive feet,
look at the trail of stuffed animals leading into the hallway,
and accept reality:
A superhero is in your living room right now.

So you forget the gardening. You ignore the toys.

And you get on the floor.

7/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.

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poetry: looping


it bled in again,
choking the lights to a dull gray—
predictably lame,
with broken teeth
to gnaw frayed scabs
like grinding old gum.

the silence roaring like white noise,
crawling through me,
carving old words into my stomach,
predictably lame syllables
hissing like searing wounds.

until—predictably lame—
stupid tears burst forth
stealing my breath
reminding me:
doing nothing gets nothing.

so do nothing again
and get nothing again—
but I am so damn tired
of choking on it.

6/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.

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poetry: this is good?

one time i stood
under a flowering pear tree
in my wild backyard
and thought, this is good.
it was warm
and i’d just finished nursing my baby girl.
she heavy-slept in a sling
on my freckled chest.
her hair was red
and my feet were bare.

one time i stood
on a street in london
in my doc martens
and thought, this is good.
it was warm
and i’d just toured buckingham palace
pretending i belonged.
steaming tea, a double-decker bus.
my dress was red
and my socks were yellow.

one time i stood
all alone
in my choked bedroom—
the air was hot,
the bed unmade—
a shadow stretched
over drifts of laundry
left to fold.
my face was red,
the pen denting my thumb,
and i thought,
is this good?

5/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.

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Photography: Fourth of July parade

Spent the morning at a Fourth of July parade cheering on horses, marching bands and old cars. Here’s a few of my favorite shots for you. Hope you stayed safe today and all your pets got lots of extra cuddles.

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poetry: yellow

freedom used to be yellow.
simple like holding my grandmother’s hand
in the church pews on sunday.
simple like the ribbons we tied
around the thick bark of the trees,
waiting for the soldiers to come home.

maybe that is why i still like parades.
the heavy hooves of the horses,
the bright brass of marching bands,
the gleam of old cars,
bubbles floating in the summer air.
i want it to be yellow again.

but knowledge changes all the colors.
i cannot pretend anymore.
it does not mean what it used to.

some people choose the blindness of yellow.
some people see the truth.

4/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.