The empty space between two people where everything gets lost venom floats in the supercharged atmosphere of an argument ready to ignite
Words unspoken float in between rooms fill up vacant seats in cars and restaurants become the hollow pillow of regret next to you in the bed while through the open window lost letters drift falling in fat lazy flakes that soak in when they melt
I had a thought for a moment it was right there on the tip of my tongue but we vacillated through our languages and it was caught by a mistimed breath carried away through a crack in the floor a well-placed stitch can save nine but what we once whispered is now gone lost in the translation
On life and relationships and arguments I wish I hadn’t had. . . . .
Lake Sommerville State Park, TX | Ondu pinhole photo by author
the prick of a pin opens the darkened chamber to light — suffices with a broad embrace releases the pressure from obscurity, and softly focuses the desire to create
what our ancestors knew we refine, from raw to raw in matchboxes, beer cans, tea tins, even books
the lightest touch with piercing and tape bridges the divide flings wide the gate
A little poem for World Pinhole Photography Day! I wrote an article praising the technique on Medium; here’s a link where you can read it. Thanks, readers!
Georgetown, TX | medium format film image by author
They keep Ideal on the top shelf I stand on my tip toes, I still can’t reach it takes a stack of chairs, topped with a pile of books it takes stealth, so they don’t catch me at it even at the top, it evades my grasp
I push against the cabinet sweat and shove to knock it down but it won’t budge I try throwing things: big, little, light, heavy Always I miss the mark I try this for a long time Someone passes by and laughs so at last I walk away
Later, I saw Ideal on the street passing by so close I could have grabbed on to its coat tails I noticed chips in its gilded veneer ragged ends to its fine sleeves
I noticed my view had changed Ideal walked on without a glance I turned back to where I was headed flipped up my collar kept going my own way
This poem from my Medium archive was a response to Samantha Lazar’s Sky Collection Prompt #18, galvanized by the quote
“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”
Margaret Atwood.
Perfection has trolled me my whole life, like a shadow that I don’t want to turn around and face. I try to run away, but it’s always there!
She flips and flops a furry sponge soaking up the sun seeking fiery heat inside or out maintaining a constant state of roast inside and out hot to the touch pat the pet and watch her glow
This poem was in response to a verb prompt. How about those whiskers? The old girl is 100% pampered, 100% loved, 100% of the time. I’m allergic to cats so this is the first one I’ve had the pleasure to really know, and I’m so thankful for her presence in my life (and house) for the past decade!
Reading in bed, what delight! Yet this “me” time is never quite right For as soon as I lay I’m so pooped from the day It’s as if someone snuffed out the light.
The grammar stickler in me worries that the use of “lay” is improper; I’ve left it, however, because of the rhyme.Where are my fellow mamas – hands up, and high five!
In the dusk of an Easter weekend while nature held its breath in vigil vigilant the Saturday gloom of evening gathered fistfuls of the overabundant growth that lined the path
Trees and brambles breathed pressing in on either side anticipating dawn’s fresh dew of renewal even while night prepared to fall
The briars offered up a rabbit wily, listening navigating the open void between two sides of the road for a moment, still, then gone in a fluff and puff back into the leafy garden springtime born
This poem is in response to a weekly writing prompt I read on LadyJabberwocky’s blog. Thank you for reading! Y’all check out her blog and try the prompts!
The fine point of truth that joins turning the refinement of forest titans into the resolute skeleton that shelters whole orchards of human souls piecing the perching place of birds together into the plane of refreshment
The spike that needs a strike to do its job pneumatic’s fire, or hammer’s pound upon the blunter end will do the trick holding treasures to walls stringing light from rooftops poking holes that bind disappearing within leaving behind only the gleam of a round face
This poem was in response to a prompt by JD Harms on Medium. Y’all check out his work! Thank you for reading!
Medium format film self portrait, September 5, 2019 (photograph by the author)
I sing the song of America, my country, sweet land the clay from which I was made where my ancestors sailed before there was an island to receive them and again, later, leaving their names upon the island’s wall Believers, all of them in the promise of freedom and rebirth with passion enough to join a revolution to stand up for the stricken with courage enough to weather the tyrant’s Tower
I sing the song of Texas, the proud state that raised me for the hometown much maligned for my grandparents, forging south Believers, all of them in our ability to strive and achieve I sing for the hope that burns like a fire in the heart stacking hard work and perseverance layer on layer, year on year for love, the mortar to hold the life of a family together that produced a name to stand behind and the treasure that grows the more it is given away like a lucky penny in my pocket
I sing for the memory of the individuals who built this place in their humanity, in all their triumphs and defeats in their trials and errors, their rights and wrongs I hear them singing back how we are all one in our successes and failures how the tides from this turbulent sea of liberty rush out from our shores to touch the hands of the world how the prize we seek hides like a pearl not in the shell of desire but in the glowing mantle of compassion and duty I sing, because I still believe in the dream
This is the third poem in my series 3 at 43 – singing the song of another year of me. . . . from a couple years ago now. Self portrait photos plus self portrait poems! Thank you for reading!
Central Park, 2012, Hasselblad 500cm and Kodak Tri-X (photograph by the author)
Poked by a prompt the shrill of an alarm a slight jab at the sleeper maybe it will prompt me to poke others who were waiting to awaken whether they knew it or not too much hibernation should be promptly remedied generate a little buzz toss it out there and watch the ripples ruffling feathers truncating forty winks nudge, nudge nap time is over
Oh how I do love a provocative prompt! Who doesn’t? This poem was in response to something or another on Medium, I forget what since it was a couple of years ago. Thank you for reading!
The Poetry Patio 