All posts tagged: photos

The Lark & Her Young Ones

Snuck up upon this bird’s nest the other day and felt it too sweet not to share… and also because I felt like starting today with one of my favorite fables.  The Lark & Her Young Ones A Lark made her nest in a field of young wheat. As the days passed, the wheat stalks grew tall and the young birds, too, grew in strength. Then one day, when the ripe golden grain waved in the breeze, the Farmer and his son came into the field. “This wheat is now ready for reaping,” said the Farmer. “We must call in our neighbors and friends to help us harvest it.” The young Larks in their nest close by were much frightened, for they knew they would be in great danger if they did not leave the nest before the reapers came. When the Mother Lark returned with food for them, they told her what they had heard. “Do not be frightened, children,” said the Mother Lark. “If the Farmer said he would call in his neighbors …

Hiking Into a Happy New Year

The afternoon shuts its doors. The heart tightens it valves, the dragon maple sunk in its bones, The grass asleep in its wheel. The year squeezes to this point, the cold Hung like a lantern against the dark burn of a syllable: I roll it around on my tongue, I warm its edges … Charles Wright, closing lines to “Light Journal,” Zone Journals (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1988)

Can’t Get Started…

I’ve been in a slump. Getting up before the sun would even think to rise. Brush my teeth. Go to work. I’m going through the motions, but I’m not getting anything done.  Maybe it’s because I’m afraid, or just ambivalent. I need to start writing it all down, but the words won’t come. I’m typing this now in hopes it will act as some sort of remedy. I’m uninspired precisely at the time it hurts me to be.  I’ll feel my hand gripping around the pen, ink will spill out, but the paper inevitably crumbles, again, into the discard bin.  I’m the type who stresses easy, whose hair is turning grey as my fingers run against the keyboard. Do you ever feel like an imposter in your own life? Like you’re faking yourself out? I look at the steps that I have taken and I can’t remember whose shoes I was wearing when I made them. I look at this reflection of a person, but she doesn’t look back. It’s hard to motivate myself to …

A Vague Transgression

Our last night The split in the blinds cast slitted shadows on your skin The moon leaks a pale blue into the Filtered air and kicks up into our lungs  Cat in the sink sleeps away this August heat It’s four a.m  Phone sounds the waking bell You kick the sheets that tie around your knees and go to brush your teeth I pinch the creases of my eyes to keep from crying  Tears seep inevitably between my fingers  Walk downstairs  Wait for the coffee to steep  ….wait a little longer than it usually takes, Trying to grasp the precious moments you’re  Still with me, wishing maybe You’d stay for breakfast Or an extra day, or week But you don’t falter on those plans you made We walk in somber silence into the humid morning, Dragging our feet across the pavement to your car Grab the handle, kiss and wave goodbye Your lights fade across the blacktop lot I march back with folded arms into our empty flat Crawl up the stairs, flick off the lights …

Summer & a Few Simple Words…

The nights are growing longer and the days hotter. The summer has taken it’s hold of the landscape, the sunflowers and tall grasses are beginning to dry out and collapse into the brittle earth. It was an amazingly wet season for Texas, but now those green valleys are fading into brown, baby birds are growing out of their cottony plumage, and lining up ready for flight, leaving behind empty nests. The cicada’s song is becoming forlorn and dier. My skin is red and damp from the sunlight, even for the shortest jaunts. But that’s alright. It doesn’t bother me a bit. I think I have a soul made for summer. The summer melts away whatever was left of a winter depression, leaving me mended and restful. For the first time in a long time I’m in a place where I’m actively learning, taking everything anew, not just waiting for the days to end in somber reflection. That’s not to say I’m not feeling anxious. Sometimes I feel a thousand years old, sometimes it’s as though I can …

On Things Forgotten

Recoiled skies pass in reckless abandon The wind blows through the windows, Prickly pear and other thorny things sprouting limbs And creeping up the walls of this old sheriff’s office Remain the only living occupants. If walls could talk, they mightn’t choose to speak… We leave things hanging on hall trees, And mounted above mantles Small reminders that there was life inside at Some point. But the bones and blood Of these buildings runs cold, Until there is nothing but the Forlorn faith of somber cries From voices long underground. Ghost towns and old railyards mark the skin of This heartland, Long bleached from the sun and Rusted away from unfair weather. It’s a wonder what this place must’ve been Before time turned executioner, Before people picked up their shadows And blew away like rain-flit flames Struggling for a life that is no longer theirs. Now the frames wilt And weather away in rural decay, Things that once housed, fed, and warmed Now sink back into deformed Earth. Laughes do not echo off the walls, The …