Monthly Archives: June 2009

The Folds

I don’t think I ever shared this painting. It’s not great or anything, I know, and I’m not sure of any real meaning for it exactly but I found I was unusually interested in the petal folds of roses and other flowers. The folds are symbolic to me in a way, because I always think of something being hidden there, something terrible being covered and disguised by something beautiful and secretive.



Filed under Art, Life, Thoughts

Elusive Blue




  This butterfly was the hardest to get a  photo of. I took a chance and shot at random caught it with it’s wings open. It happened in the shade so this image is edited for the color to show up better. Below are more poems. I swear I’m working on better material. I just wanted to post something today.


I, the beat-less piece of shade
Of life; I wish I could escape
But once again, they accept
My excuse as truth, so

These nails dig into the wrist
Over and again. Until this burning
Is a bite. Until the biting is a breath,
When the seconds slow to rest

And bloodstain my contemplation
Telling me I am what’s wrong
It shoves me to the brink and
Scolds me for my holding on



I am darkened enough
A sore in this dimension

The spare can never ask.
Not when, where or for what.

But I am not for shame and
Do not scream or look away

As in this moment, pain will own
And I will not deflect


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Filed under Art, Death, Life, personal, poems, poetry, Thoughts

Dying Note

 Dying Note

Slow wave and beat
Its given tears of melody
Listening near,
Now I’ve fallen in
The dying note takes me with it

A quiet leave
Consumed whole by its own grief
And we are in the dark,
Where whispers bleed
The heart, the sight–all memory

From light without a plea
Strained along by the echo’s breeze
As we dissolve cold,
One deep inbreathe
At end, in frozen reach

This weak poem was where I left off back in March. The poem was written before I made the image, which is inverted from it’s original.

I seriously thought about it yesterday and said if I’m not writing something, or even attempting to write, even when I’m fresh out of ideas, I should not bother anymore. Nothing else I do is going to keep me here. There’s enough anger over it now, after three months of putting it off my list of priorities, to write in between every empty moment. There are a lot of empty moments now. And there’s always something to say.


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Filed under Art, Death, pain, poems, poetry, Thoughts