“i feel stars feeling me i am this one place here”—Neil
this building has four hallways
lined with comfy chairs
you’re down the one i’m not
sitting next to the window
sunlight absorbing fingers
typing eager, starry threads
poetry: hallway
Writing
poetry: harvest
stir me with wind
gathering like storms
setting water droplets
upon air, like breath.
call me beetle bright
oil slick remembered
momentarily still.
i’m nothing words
and all the words
and you’re still here.
gather me in a basket
to set upon a table
and i’ll sing for you.
poetry: in defense of joy
sun alive crawls
across my ceiling
waking these hands
to scrub the bathroom,
fold the laundry,
type letters.
poetry: writing
she could wear a dress
her mother stitched
for her thirteenth birthday
or a maroon scarf
she salvaged from a chest
in the locked attic
poetry: cup of haikus
poetry: circles
circles became wolf.
wolf tears at hip.
hip turned to shreds.
shreds like glass.
glass bites palm.
palm bleeds to see.
Photography: San Francisco
A few weeks ago, I drove my son to the airport in San Francisco and a week later returned to pick him up. On both occasions, I took my camera along for some street photography with the goal of experimenting with composition and having fun. I once again edited these in a retro-style, but this time making them brighter. I’d love to know what you think and if you have a favorite photo.
Continue readingPhotography: Women Are…
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are”—E. E. Cummings
Last week I escaped to my favorite place at Dillon Beach with a few good friends. The weather was warmer than usual and the tide extremely high. However, on the very last morning, a bit after sunrise, the fog rolled in, the tide rolled out, and I took these photos of my dear friend and July model, Heidi.
Continue readingpoetry: star shadow
words don’t matter
you do
across a table
carrying our years
cups in hand
shadow pens
starry paper
ray dotted cheeks
called-out names like a song
jane says look up
we rewrite the room
poetry: ink and fur
when my poem coyote hunts
it makes no sound.
hunger guides it—
a vibration like gnawing, like remembering,
like stalking white rabbits through thick pages.