I might miss caring when I’m dead
doing back flips with my horny god
in the ether I may stop
my glory gathering around me like
fireflies circling the mother fire
for a blink I might miss
wondering how my loved
ones are getting along without me
I might miss the cozy straightjacket limitations
of the short view on death
I might miss the exhilaration of
dread not knowing what
freedom lies in the Great Beyond
I’ll get over it.
This mirror is your wishing
You say to your face comes true.
This January hibiscus bud
Kissed by absence of color
My albino fingers exploring the
Hard petals the shy face of
A goddess willing to be
Searched blindly by the blind
Whose blindness comes from
Looking too much into the light.
My neighbor’s yard man runs
the mower over what is essentially
prickly dirt. I stand watching
under a bare tree whose branches
curl a come-hither. I notice myself
conspicuous and pervy watching
the yard man, my fidgety hands in
my pockets. This would all be perfect
Southern California Winter—me,
bare tree, pockets, pervyness,
yellow yard, yard man outrunning
the mild chill. All perfect had all
these things not been dead
Shadow at the tips and
Shadow at the center like
A god who is honest about
What it means to be a god.
I am legally blind so I know—photography is a weird sport for me. What I am finding so lovely about it though is that I am often capturing with the camera things I would have never seen with my naked eye. To me, in the bright day, this gazania looked like a simple white blur on a field of messy green. It wasn’t until I got home and started working with the picture that I saw all it’s beautiful purple and that soft explosion of orange at the center. I look forward to many more visual surprises the camera is bound to catch for m.
Picking up any pen is hard. Opening my notebook is one of the Herculean trials—the hard one.
Getting past the rickety-ness is worse still. It’s like hearing Atlas’ ancient knees pop as he hefts the Earth one more day. One more day. One more day.
I dread goals. I dread the lazy, yawning “what next” after I reach one. I dread not reaching any.
I dread being a flake—but worse, a joyless flake. No one loves a joyless flake like no one loves a fat person who is not jolly. I dread also being the fat person who is not jolly.
I dread my credit card payments. I keep my dreaded credit cards under my dreaded pens to keep me from the dreadful using them.
I keep lip balm under the dread pens and cards. Most of all, I dread being kissed unready.
Photography Playbook Prompt: Something you dread.
back a hollow throat
tells Her the gifts
you gave me
The path you
The dark you
made to lathe
my wounds in
I must blister.
I must burn.
Photo Prompt: Your Dark Side
I had fun with this one. I used a fish eye lens—my first successful experience with that. I played with the color a little in processing, but most of that is the natural light that comes in my office through the dark pink drapes.
I did a lot of selfies first, (the one below I like a lot), and I seemed to get a good bead on “depression” which is certainly a darker side of me, but I think the sad arrogance I got in the first photo is far more on point when it comes to personal darkness.
Sort of weird to start the year on the dark side, but I can say the bright side it exposes is knowing that even though I am low vision, I can find fun and creative expression in photography that is meaningful to me. May your 2021 be marvelous and full of opportunities to let your creative light shine.
I’ve had personal disasters
gluing a doily to the back of
a dollar store glass plate
Jesus quote sandwiched
In between. I cried
in front of my mother’s
church ladies, all
wrinkled and off center
the doily I mean. My
mother quilts dreams
and sews inspiration for
the whole of the female
church body. I unspool
thread everywhere and
haven’t the gift to finish the
thread things I start. I
couldn’t running backstitch
my way out of a wet
paper bag. What sort of a
Woman am I? My hands make
words not things. By the Word
the world was formed says He
who IS the church body. He
can’t understand my artless grief
who died for our sins yet still
found the time to craft the
mountains and thread the stars.
(Photography Playbook Prompt: Something you covet.)
by the twilit
nestled next door
the blue lit
A man paces
a white lit
argues with air
bites it off
the blue lit
witch kids clack