don’t argue a thorn
demanding it soften
deny its embedding nature
to turn inward upon itself
poetry: be a woman
Women
poetry: how many more?
leaning on her staff
shuffling barefoot
she wavers slightly
heavy with the moon’s dark spill.
Photography: Women Are…
“She did not succumb to the battering of the brutal elements in her life. No, instead, with nourishment and strength from those surrounding her, and from her own deep, strong roots, she continued to grow; not just grow but thrive! So much so that she did not buckle under the weight that was not her own.”—Claudia
For the month of June, my model was my lovely friend Claudia. We met during sunrise, to avoid the heat, and our time together was magical. We wandered the same wooded area I had taken photos in last month, but it looked different, more golden and less dark green. I focused my camera on capturing her lovely energy, smile, and how she connects to nature.
Continue readingTurning 49
Every year on my birthday, I write a poem. This year, I decided to pair those words with a series of self-portraits. I’m so grateful for this space and for everyone who stops by to read. If any of these words or images resonate with you, please let me know—I’d love to hear from you. I’m so glad you’re here.
Continue readingPhotography: Women Are…
“A winner is a loser who tried one more time.
Not the smartest.
Not the fastest.
Just the one who didn’t stop.”
—George M. Moore Jr.
For the month of March, my model was my dear friend Penny. I met her in 2013 at the table read for the Listen to Your Mother stage show. We locked eyes across the table, and instantly connected. She possesses a warmth and kindness that allows her to make people feel profoundly seen, a rare gift. She’s a singer, writer, storyteller, caregiver, and one of my favorite people on the planet.
Continue readingPhotography: Women Are…
“You may live in the world as it is, but you can still work to create the world as it should be.” —Michelle Obama
For the month of February, my model was my dear friend Angy. We met in the fifth grade and became instant best friends. I’m grateful for her endearing trust in me, her incredible ability to always push forward, and her steadfast faith. She’s been the friend who always believes in big visions, reaches out when things are impossible, and never gives up on herself or others (me included).
Continue readingRainy Day in America
wetwalking she crept
into darkened oldwoods
bumblebush wept
missing sweetgoods
teardropleaves watch
fairies hiddenbreath wish
forgivenot bitter scotch
weave hopeful freshstitch
sisterthorns together cry
tornfists stitched anew
silkhands won’t comply
our earthbodies stay true
- As always, all photos were taken by me with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW.
poetry: a different story
somewhere there’s a baby
guarded by a half-wolf
named delilah. a fearless
baby that’s protected. nobody
hurts her. nobody slaps
her soft freckled cheeks
or pinches her butt
on the playground. she
doesn’t fall for his
hollow blue eyes. she
becomes a woman who
can howl. a woman
who growls from her
belly and snarls. nobody
makes her body their
own. she doesn’t run
after dark shadows hoping
they become light. she
doesn’t bend herself into
shapes to fit boxes
made for trapping. she
finds the moonlight behind
her own eyes. she
runs with packs of
stars and knows that
somewhere she’s a half-wolf
guarding a cradle. she
becomes the protector.
There was a real Delilah but my parents had to get rid of her because she protected me too well. I wish I remembered her.
Shoebox Poetry: Blurry Eddie
You carve our names “E+K”
into the ancient oak behind
your daddy’s church in hopes
I’ll see, but I’ve grown
tired of playing your endless
games. My drawers overflow with
your teeny-tiny top-secret
messages penned on newspaper scraps—
“I miss you,” “meet me
behind the old Bulto Market,”
and “kiss me, dearest Kate,
I’m dying for you.” Just
words. I need more than
blue-eyed winks and brief
hidden embraces. My love needs
sunshine—warm, bright, radiating fire
so vibrant it can’t be
stoppered or hidden. Explosive volcano
love, running thick down our
bodies. Popcorn love, loud hot
buttery passion devoured with both
hands. Instead, you give me
your blurry photograph standing at
301 Caroline Street, our secret
kissing place. You write in
sweeping curvy letters “this is
not very clear, but it’s
still me. Eddie.” Blurry love
is what you offered, thinking
I’d accept, but I deserve
someone who wants our love
to be broadcasted, shouted, screamed
into the streets. Bullhorn loud
love. Free to be me
love. So, I chased you
onto the old bridge, calling
out through hot tears, “choose
all of me or none
of me.” The bright moonlight
stretched my dark shadow so
it covered you entirely as
you walked away without looking
back. My young love never
wavered, but yours wasn’t brave
enough to fight. It’s funny
now, finding your thoughtless dare
scrawled in ink, “see how
long you can keep this.”
I kept it forever, blurry
Eddie. Not for you, though
for me.
I stayed in focus.
Shoebox Poetry: This is the second poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. I don’t have any idea who Eddie was, but I wanted to rewrite a possible old love story as a moment of empowerment for my grandmother. She was a fierce woman and I like to think she kept this photograph as a reminder of her strength. If someone out there happens to know Eddie, sorry. This is pure fiction and I’m sure he is/was a lovely man.
Bridgette Tales 