slumped, socks and flipflops snacks nearby, a can of wolf brand chili his backpack stashed under a table a corner chair, upstairs snoring lightly in the quiet section
an exhausted seat of questions: does his bed not suit? does he have one? what four walls, or lack thereof, give him no rest? if he needed help, would he ask for it? or would he go on a’snooze, hiding out in the more comfortable realm of broken down dreams?
Stuff and things that went through my head one afternoon hanging out at the library. Thanks for reading!
At dusk the birds have a lot to say to each other everybody has a lot of catching up to do, after their busy days
Perched together at last, there are meals to recount, close calls with danger (in the form of snakes, or cars, or cats) new friends made, who has hatchlings and who is still waiting
The evening fills up with their noisy chatty banter, so inviting and enticing, but we can’t join in or even really relate, since in the joyfulness of their avian life it all comes out as a song
Just a little something I wrote sitting out on my patio the other night. Hope y’all are having a happy summer so far! Thanks for reading!
Kimbell Art Museum, Ft Worth, TX | Turner exhibition 2022 | 35mm film photo by author
Shore birds with the arms and legs of industry rushing gush for tidal plunder half blinded drowned by beating spray steam and groan on the horizon with the heave ho of group effort always the sea will return to wash over what remains
This is the final ekphrastic poem from the exhibition of Turner paintings at the Kimbell Art Museum earlier this year. HERE you can see the painting this poem is based on. Thank you for reading!
Kimbell Art Museum, Ft Worth, TX | Turner exhibition, 2022 | 35mm film photo by author
Lashing out, fair rations the slap and sting of salt waves mixed with snow ice and fire, a cold burn swirl and tumult of upturned cargo and souls nearly foundering with progress breathless for the suffrage of a new life
This is the second of three ekphrastic poems I wrote at the Kimbell Art Museum during their exhibition of Turner paintings earlier this year. THIS is the painting the poem is based on. Thanks for reading!
Kimbell Art Museum, Ft Worth, TX | Turner Exhibition, 2022 | 35mm film image by author
The field of death illuminated Light suspended, in suspension pigment in medium, applied, brushed and varnished but not glossed – so much loss at what cost By their own light those who could not fight search for signs of life
Wandering in suspension the crowds pass in muted tones, hushed and dim making their own inspection frame by frame mostly weighed by age and time, and glossed by the wonder of art’s rime
This is the first of three ekphrastic poems that I’m going to share from the trip my daughter and I made to see an exhibition of Turner paintings at the Kimbell Art Museum earlier this year. THIS is the painting that the poem is based on. Thank you for reading!
Dad, September 2020 | 35mm kodak film (photo by author)
He sits in his usual place, a sturdy ocean of calm waiting. Heavy repose rests, stoic, in his lap, unperturbed by the silence humming in his drums. Gone is the beat that fanned the fire, the flames from his mouth; someone turned off the gas that combusted in his internal engine.
A stroke of bad luck. A rogue droplet, bent upon mischief, scrambled all his eggs. Now a handful of pills dully keep the leftovers warm.
The old stubborn ox put out to pasture, the bull wandering away, while we venture into the neighborhood to plaster up missing signs. Have you seen him? How is he? We look and look. He is there. He is not there.
In honor of Father’s Day, and my Dad’s 81st birthday (which is today!) I decided to share this prose poem I wrote a while back as a prompt response on Medium. If you’ve been following my blog, you’ve probably read me talking about how my Dad had a major stroke in 2020. I try not to let myself think about his current condition or how drastically different he is now from before; when I consider the reality of it, it makes me so sad that I can easily lose sight of the fact that he is still here with us, which feels like nothing short of a miracle.
I know that lots of people say to hug your loved ones, forgive them quick as you can for any grievances between you, life is short and precious, etc and all that blibbety blah – those words can be eye-rollers, but for me it’s all so true. My Dad used to exasperate me to no end; now, I would give anything for just 5 minutes with him pestering me like he used to. Things can change quickly, y’all! In my family we have this lesson before us to be grateful for what you have because you never know when it might be swept away.
Happy Father’s Day, all you Dads! Here’s to a day of whatever makes you happy, even (especially) if it’s telling groaner jokes and being obnoxious on purpose.
The beach is a poem In sand and sun, waves and time A poem without words
Greetings from the beach! How about this – what if the video at the top of this post was a poem prompt? I don’t need it now, because I am there, but I’ll need it when I’m back home and daydreaming about the tide. Want to write to the video? Go for it!
Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center | digital photo by author (using a lensbaby lens)
The night fog dampens sound weighs it down so it can’t rise to tap at the window pane or whisper shout in my ear
The night fog turns normal nine into mysterious midnight secrets breathing on the glass to expose ghost writing left behind by unseen fingers letters lingering in the dust for time to find
The night fog hides darkness and throws back light, a shock of gloss through the frosted mist that fights the odds to point the way forward
The Poetry Patio 