photos & poems
showcasing the simple or sometimes eccentric beauty of our natural world
rose in milk jug
Words curl into drops of water that rejuvenate me
like the red rose drinking from its life juice
out of the milk jar that’s cloudy and faded,
its number eight greyed and worn
and peeling out of the edges,
green leaves beaded with condensation,
clamping against the sides of the jug
as they stay steadfast, so strong, so delicate.
The sturdy light green stem reminds me of life and youth
and my own seventeen years on this earth.
Seventeen years having loved this world
full of colors and shapes and sounds.
It reminds me that my life is slowly curling
at the edges one by one,
like the shiny, velvety petals on the rose in the milk jug.
So fragile, yet so strong.
Head bobs gently,
to the beat of the rattle of the wheels against the road.
Calm, calm, calm.
I don't know where I'm going.
Rather- I do.
It's a road trip. Of course I do.
Still I am swirling in a world of endless possibilities....
thinking to what we could do,
here in this tattered, half open car.
When we stop by a forest, I could be a bear.
My quiet sensibilities could convalesce into the one,
singular sound of my breathing,
and my paws against the rock.
A timeless, senseless beat.
My own rhythm continues, sounding steadily
in the heart of the forest, the trees, the ground beneath my feet,
of the eagle, whose eyes are sharp and whose wings are steady,
holding fast against the wind.
When I take my camera in my hand I can create my own quiet beat too.
Clicking the shutter slowly, quietly, then rapidly, a blur.
Smiling at the movements my fingers make and their catharsis,
noticing how with each energy wasted I make more in exchange
As I add my own to the beat of the bear, the eagle, my camera.
The beat is fast but It is calm.
Calm, calm, calm.
maple flavored latte in a travel cup
A maple flavored latte in a travel cup,
brewed with my roommate’s keurig,
mixed with the milk I’ve almost let expire,
tossed into my backpack on the way to class.
Maple flavored latte that warms me
like a blanket for the cold tone of my professor,
helps my eyes stay open just long enough to hear her words,
smells like home when philosophy readings make me feel lost.
Maple flavored latte,
brewed with my roommate’s keurig this morning.
Poisonous medicine to help me swallow
my roommate’s text:
“Those cockroaches in our kitchen?
The ones that march like ants in a line,
mutated alien colonies with too many limbs,
coming from the corner of the wall to underneath the microwave?
I think they’ve been breeding
inside the coffee machine."
Stop, for a second.
See the mountain.
Hear it. Feel it.
This is your existence.
You who has been,
who will be.
Listen to the gentle heartbeat
of the earth.
Stay calm, focused,
ignore the din of the people,
of those who do not know.
Do you hear how the earth suffers?
How it groans
when starry skies become smudges
made of graphite on paper?
Do you feel the wet rain on your back,
sticky and salty like the tears
the moist soil breathes one last time
before it is burnt into ashes?
Listen darling, listen.
You are the mountain now.
You are the beat.
You are the earth.
Learn darling, learn,
so that you can save
I often find I think most,
when the water is beating down my back,
and the steam is a white swirl
that fills my ears and nose.
When the only sound beside the crashes in my head
is the slow trickle of water pooling at my feet,
becoming a gentle pendulum that renderes me lost
in my own mind.
I find answers here.
The shower is the lost and found of my soul,
the hidden cave in the Bermuda Triangle
of my consciousness.
Here I can talk to mermaids and fairies.
Here I can write on the glass;
my pudgy fingers leave a dusty trail
as salty tears stain my face,
when my own inner oracle,
the sage that emerges only when I am
vulnerable, wet, stone cold,
reveals to me the answer
that I utter from broken lips
and that has always screamed
within my soul.