Category Archives: Uncategorized


When desires aren’t met,

Remember this caveat…

what seems good

Isn’t understood,

Sometimes we’re better off yet!

Jonathan Caswell

Patrick’s Camera Collection Vol. 2 — Atomic Redhead

Welcome to part two of Patrick’s Camera collection! To recap, when Patrick and I began dating, he was focusing on a career as a photographer, and when I learned he didn’t collect anything, I gifted him a single vintage camera I had purchased years earlier. 364 more words

Patrick’s Camera Collection Vol. 2 — Atomic Redhead

The Lovely Lady Who Loves Tea



there was once a lovely lady who loves tea,  as graceful as a willow tree
slender and lithe and pretty
lives in extravagance, in Spanish -Mediterranean luxury home

its red tile roofs create shady overhangs
with large windows, exposed beams
features tall interior ceilings,
cool tile floors, lots of windows
bringing in fresh breeze

she likes to decorate both indoors
and out with bountiful flower
garden arrangements where tiny little birds flapping their wings are seen
singing tunes of melody unknown

the lovely lady who loves tea, weeping
as she sits in the window,  overlooking
an array of squatter area of improvised buildings, as shanties or shacks,  made of plywood, corrugated metal

sheets of plastic, cardboard boxes are its walls, lacks adequate infrastructure,
including proper sanitation, safe water supply,  drainage, and other basic necessities of human settlement

so the lovely lady who loves tea
is not only as graceful as a willow tree

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They had gone.


Lucy's Works

“where the dead walked
and the living were made of cardboard.”—Ezra Pound.

The apparition paradise projects onto
streets like death,
into the turn of the mountain

Forward on its side
where ice fell and mingled
leaf-like into the ocean

In pure rhythm like a God
in kinship with free
tamed with the ice-cold

Be it known in all hour
as beauty falls alone
where have all they gone?

They had gone home.

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Lucy's Works

Dirty rain

Upon the feathers; it is April,

Among the years broken in winter

When it was not winter,

And we could not have been alone;

This is where we dream

And it is where we no longer relent

In sorrow and regret;

The teeming of ice chips

Beneath our feet—moved like blood,

We occlude the protest; Mother Nature’s hymn

Is the birdsong when silence descends…

(Escaped upon ancient ruins)

The blood at your feet,

There will be no hyacinths for us

Among the yellow-lit roads…

In abandoned cities,

Not first or last,

In figments of papaya seeds

In our hands as we pass

The undergrowth at morning.

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