Naked

Naked
we sat on the edge of the wooden dock and silently slipped our white moonlit forms into the water
cold wasn't the first thing we felt - it was the wet, and the shock of water on skin, in crevices -
refreshing,
then cold.
we floated, four fish without scales or fins or gills - loons, really.
we made our loon calls in the dark and waited for answers from across the pond

Spencer Pond - A Fuller Sketch

These are the photos I submitted to the annual contest they have at Spencer Pond.
I miss that place.

for the "Camp Yard" category...

for the "Critters" category...

for the "Little Spencer Mountain" category...

for the "Nature" category...

and the last category (and possibly my favorite!) - "That Indoor Shot"....

Violignettes

This set of videos isn't quite done yet (there will probably be six or seven when I'm done) - all together the series will be called "Violignettes."

They still need some more editing, but these are what I have so far - enjoy!

****p.s. watch them FULLSCREEN (especially the last one!!!)****

"Duette"

"Kaleidoscope"

"Lightsong"

"Moonshine"

(this one's my favorite!)

.

GINJUICE

(two new poems, inspired by "The Dead Poets Society")

[why are] FATHERS [so complicated]

because he's the same as me,
that's why
because he's the same as me we can't look each other in the eye except on
special occasions
because he's the same as me
the slight frown
the preconceived frown
is more than can be shouldered
because it is heavier in the mind
and even heavier in the eye
because he is the same as me
and because i am the same as him
and because we used to know each other so well
looking him in the eye is hard sometimes, because he sees the side
that he kept to the side
and i know, like me
he doubts
and this vicarious life of ours
might never

***************************************************

dead poets society

the outlet -
ITS RIGHT THERE
all i have to do is stick my finger in
- i don't know why i haven't more often,
itd probably help me cry.
electric tears and the cold sting of snow, melting
and sticking
that's what i need.
but catharsis is never enough,

it demands repetition -
in,
and out,

and in again,
as often as possible

That's what makes the electricity

more than a numbness.

You can't have shock without contrast -
You can't have poetry
without commitment -
without electricity,
and water -

the conduit.

Without the outlet, the hole in the wall filled with dust,
latent significance disguised as pocketed darkness -
as an unbridled action
yet to spark.

I'd like to be the first to stand on the desk,

when the time comes.

Sundial Soul

I have a sundial on my heart
to tell me when the sun rises
    and when it will set


Where the shadow falls
    where the line is blurred
time lengthens into earth-bent grays
    - from rosy dawns to sailor's delight,
    red sun-life pours shadow through my soul


I have a sundial in my soul
    to tell me where the sun rises
    and where it sets


Shadow shortens as the day grows longer,
    heat building as the sun climbs
- at the zenith, when the shadow disappears,
    the sun is forgotten for a moment,
    despite its light
-- til the orb descends and the shadow falls again
and gray lines trace the circle round my center,


    shadows ticking out the beats
    like hands in the sand.


I have a sundial on my soul
    to tell me that the sun rises,
    and that it sets
and the zenith's absent shadow
    is cast as light on stone.

A Morphing Fog

In my name is the cotton ball cloud that I have called a dragon,

mist and water, white in the sun,

casting a shadow of its shape in the hollow of the valley below,

accenting the light around the edges.

It is a morphing fog, this name that implies an image that sees a soul.

Like Stained Glass

(this is a micro-fiction piece that I accidentally wrote while I was trying to write a poem lol)


She held the flashlight against the inside of her palm,
just to prove that the bones and veins were all there,
glowing reddish pink with lines of black running through.

In the dark of the windowless bathroom, the glow was brighter than the nightlight she still used in her room.

She was ten - she stopped sucking her thumb at seven, a few years later than was socially acceptable. She liked the salty bitterness of it, the way her thumbpad would crinkle into raisiny wrinkles after all the salt had been sucked out.

After that night in the bathroom, she didn't need a nightlight anymore, because all she had to do to conquer the dark was lift her left hand towards the ceiling, and let the glow it held suffice.

She slept on her side, with her hand tucked beneath her head to cradle her cheek. Her nightlight was out, and the moon was new. In her sleep, her face seemed to radiate a rosy brilliance, filling her room with a soft, dim light.

She was ten. Her father had told her when she was younger that on full moon nights God was using a night light too. She thought that meant that God knew we needed the moon, needed the light, so He took pity on us. But later she knew it meant that even God is afraid of the dark sometimes. Even God needs a nightlight, sometimes - even God.

She wondered what color God's hand glowed when He held it to the moon. If His veins glowed blue or gold or if He had veins at all - Maybe His veins cast light instead of shadow, peeking out in specks through the dark to land on her wall through the sheer curtain in her bedroom window.

In the morning, after she left for school, her mother turned down the bed and and found a flashlight under the pillow, still switched to "ON". But when she opened it to replace the surely run-out batteries, she found the flashlight was empty.

To Sleep

lifted up and off
on the wings of a book,
an ethereal passage
born of light and air
- the words are like the shadows of dust mites
floating in a sunbeam escaped through a crack in the blinds
and where the sunbeam's scattered light-drops landed,
there the words were found and lifted off
and up
on the wings of becoming
in the passage of light from the pages