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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 […]
Tag Archives: dribbles
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
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.
Cherished are the moments when
We gathered in front of the photographer’s screen
Poised in mirth and aplomb,
Forever captured for endurance sake.
But heed this warning:
Long after the camera flashed,
And the film was developed,
After the “right” picture was chosen,
Picked up from the studio, and hung prominently on the wall,
The eternal clock was set into motion
Counting down the days and years when each and every person
Captured in this resplendent canvas
Will no longer have breath to praise it
Or eyes to behold the memories it encased.
Each beating heart, so full of life in this picture
Beats to this clock, but ever time moves on.
Eventually, hearts stop; lives fall short,
Returning to the dust from which it began.
Yet, just as the original authors intended
This picture, displayed on the living room wall,
Captured every family member’s likeness
To remind all that come before and after
Of that person’s form and feature.
Thus, one’s moments of happiness
Is also one’s living curse.
In the end, after the final stroke of the predetermined hour,
Those who smiled for the camera
Now Only smile from behind the canvas’s frame.
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 said Liberty, our Constitution eternal.
Yet, these very Freedoms that we have been given, and the idle time for such contemplation, has placed our nation in distress. Our nation, the majestic Eagle, appears to be tearing itself apart.
The left wing bites at the right wing,
right wing pulls off feathers from the left wing,
Until not enough remain and our Eagle nation flounders
Meanwhile, vultures gather hungrily,
waiting, watching the sky for discarded wingbits–
hoping that they’ll get more than pieces.
Where the vultures lurk, we do not wish to go.
We do not wish to be ripped apart and subjugated to Theocratic rule,
intestines bared and bones scattered.
I wish that we all would look past our own feathers,
if only for a minute,
and relish the heights that we have gained.
I pray, I meditate on the words set forth in our grand contract: “[no person shall] be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process.” So, think again if you desire to pluck the vane from the feather on the other wing, even if it seems to not belong with your own. “ALL persons born or naturalized in the United states… are citizens of the United States.”
Shall we climb higher or go to the vultures domain?
Shall our words lift the other wing, even with respectful dissent?
Or Shall we continue to pluck out that which offends until there are only vanes of the same colour?
Can we afford to ignore that we indeed, The Left Wing and Right wing,
are essential if our great nation is to stay in Flight?
What has been written
that has not already been written?
What has been said
that has not already been said?
Is there no new place,
no new frontier
that man and his imagination
have not explored?
|Can’t a single sparklight up a darkened room?
Can’t a lonely whisper
give voice to those once silent?
Is there not one action
that cannot change the universe?
Is there not one ripple
that cannot be felt across space and time?
***This is something originally written at least 10 years ago. It only existed as the words on the left column. I cut many words and added a little balance; I gave it wings so to speak.