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: Pandora's Beauty Box
Yesterday, I went sailing on my Uncle’s 40 ft boat. Evidently, many other people had the same idea and were parked on the bay side with their flags displayed. As we approached the Gulf Side of Shell Island, a rainbow appeared. It was truly magical- A promise of remembrance of those who paid the ultimate […]
Along Crawfordville highway in between Panacea and Tallahassee is a Ford Car Graveyard. Twenty + cars dated from early 1900’s to mid are arranged in a semicircle from oldest to youngest. My girls and I stopped here coming back from the beach in Panacea. Evidently, all these cars were used on Pat Harvey’s family farm. […]
Florida County Hwy 65 runs from the interstate south through Hosford, FL through Apalachicola National Forest and dead ends on Hwy 98 on the coast in Carrabelle. It’s 54.7 miles from Hosford to Carabelle. While driving down this highway, there are no cities, there are no dollar stores or gas stations or any other […]
As promised, here are the wildflowers I encountered while driving on FL Hwy 65 towards Sumatra in the Apalachicola National Forest. I included the common and scientific name in the caption (for all that I could identify). You are welcome to share any of the pictures or use them as backgrounds. Tomorrow, I’ll post the […]
I hope everyone had a happy International Astronomy Day! Friday night, I finished photographing wildflowers and that photogenic water moccasin around sunset. As I prepared to drive back home, fireflies started to flash their lights in the hundreds (thousands?) . I stayed about another hour and captured them along with the stars. Earth/Sky website featured […]
: Hands Across The Aisle
My Pledge to use my Voice.
My America, the Eagle Distressed To even contemplate that we, as a nation, are akin to an Eagle— one with the Freedom of the skies– to have the time, the Liberty, to speak about this noble bird in any manner with total impunity, without fear of mortal retribution or imprisonment, is absolutely the epitome of […]
I stand as you stood many times before
laboring over dirty dishes in the sink.
As the warm water washes over my hands,
I gaze at the flowers in the window sill
and wonder if you smiled as I smile now,
smelling the sweet Calla lilies brought to you by little hands.
Did you sigh in relief as the dawn bubbles
removed the final crumbs from the pan,
the pan that you used to bake a cake for every year of my life.
Did your mind ever drift away–
as your hands continued their mindless task,
away through the window, down the driveway,
and the lane where we walked to Church together every Sunday.
As I stand in the echo of your memory,
drying the Just Flowers dinner plates
that served your cheese potatoes and other delights for countless family diners,
I wonder that if I complete this same task, touch this same plate
that you touched just a month before,
if I stand on the same tiles worn smooth by your feet,
will it reverse time, just for this moment,
and allow you to be with me once again.
As a painter treasures a blank canvas for its potential, a writer treasures a blank sheet of paper for its inspiration. A painter must listen to his canvas and make the first stroke; from which all other strokes will culminate. So must a writer fill the first page, the nature and connotation denotes the shape and form of subsequent pages.
Color upon the brush: meet your lover, canvas. Two worlds collide, moving both to a higher understanding. As soon as they meet, the blank and dumb canvas is neither blind nor mute. He now speaks with the vitality of his new eyes. Behold: a new creation, though he is only one brush stroke he will grow. Every new brush stroke perfectly placed; there are no mistakes. Hence, such “mistakes” give the world its flavor, and if aborted, the world looses another color. Thus, the world is not colorless; an empty canvas beckons the painter to paint new shades.
Mighty pen: meet your lover, inspiration. A harsh taskmistress, she is. She demands letters grouped in sensible words, then dressed into full bodies. Minutes bleed into hours and days of this love. Until, behold, the first page has been born. These hours of labor reward its mother with a bundle of hope. “What is this new squirming creature? How am I to nurture it, feed it, help it grow?” The mother inevitably asks. Grow it shall. More pages of life will be added, each new word as important as the old. All comprise this new creation and give life where none once lived. One can only live word by word, page by page.
This truth brings the end back to the beginning. Just as the painter writes with colors for the human eyes, a writer paints with words for the human soul. Yet, even when an end or completion dawns, it brings new inspiration, new potential for the beholder.
I saw the butterfly
on the cold, grey cement.
At first I mistook it for a leaf,
spring green and spotted with decay.
But upon second glace,
I spied two slender feelers
And one beady black eye,
pleading for help.
I had to touch-
a velvety surprise.
Not like a leaf at all-
rubbery, rough or jagged,
But more like a babe’s bum-
powdered fresh and smooth:
I peeled the butterfly
from the cold, grey cement.
Its guts, splattered by many hard soles,
had plastered it to the sidewalk.
I wondered how a creature of such beauty
had fallen under foot and heal,
Trod upon, and walked over
regardless of saintly stature:
Holding it in one hand
I kept if from harm- if only for a while.
With my other hand
I lit the butterfly ablaze-
consumed, consumed—one last
I released the butterfly’s ashes
to the cold, grey cement.
No longer plastered to this earth
by guts and wings,
But free to fly
upon the winds of a
Dawn sings her morning song
to wake painful Day.
Before she rises!
Kill her in her step,
Let not her head
rest in the sky.
Our time here-
in the stolen grove-
shall never end;
let’s Carpe Diem
and stay in the dark
A Sonnet of love and sorrow:
Oh my precious, my dear birthday present
In this moment I hold thee above,
After a long and arduous ascent,
I have returned to thee that I love.
You shine brighter than yonder yellow face;
Blind am I to this life, this world I hate:
Of fisssh, toothless, tasteless, leaving no trace.
“Gullum, Gullum.” I have become of late.
Yet, I, Smeagol, promise never to leave.
Hard fought, I stand upon these rocky grounds.
Never again to part, never to grieve.
Death I have forsaken in your gold bounds.
Now, as you descend in the fire with me;
My precious, eternity will I have with thee.