My Desire

Chameleon, by Daniel

Green heart, blue skin
All these years I fought for you
Inside of me: green or blue
I’ve lost the battle, you could not see
Green, blue, it’s only me

This picture shows my desire to be just like blue chameleon when i grow up 🙂 she said ‘absolutely not, for the job is taken’.. i stuck out my lip with a pout, and she said ‘well you could TRY’.. hope streamed into my heart, that’s all i wanted, was to try, for nobody can be bc, not even me, who so desperately wants to be 🙂

out the window

She says being a kid requires thinking time
and staring out of windows is part of that.
Windows are good for observing people too.

One day recently
– free of the usual obligations she has as a friendly child
– She said she stared out of the window all day.
She explained to me that Jesus recommends it.

Loosely Quoted from Anna Horsley

happy birthday Blair!! xoxox

While You Sleep

While You Sleep

Another year has come and another one gone

Just like the ship that sails alone

A gentle breeze blows and stirs me inside

Reviving my emotions with my own sense of pride

Laying in wait for the next perfect moment

Smiling at life while thinking of you

Listening so carefully to you while you sleep

Being ever so quiet; not making a peep

You bring to me happiness, strength, joy and love

My bright shining star sent from God above.

by Shirley A Parkerson


My ever faithful poodle, Crissy, used to love sitting on the back of the couch at my parents house when I still lived there. They had a huge picture window, and she loved to bark at the squirrels going by. Many years later when my husband and I moved off the boat we lived on, and back into a place with a huge picture window.. we put the couch right up against it, and I was so excited because I thought Crissy would love it, to be back in action again. But what I hadn’t considered was that my beloved dog was getting old, and when i put her on the back of the couch, and pointed out into the light, saying ‘what’s that, what’s that’ to Crissy, she just turned and jumped back down, and I realized that she couldn’t see. I don’t know who’s heart hurt more that day. Crissy died a couple years back, she was 20 years old. My new dog coco has taken up the position that was so painfully vacated.

it’s hard out there…

Poem by John Masters

Another thing I cant quite put into words
But I can show you what I am trying to say
I can show you how I mean it
I can show you how I feel it
I just have trouble sometimes
Putting these things into words.
How can I show you?
Through my lens, clear and correct
Through the lens my eye can see what it is I can’t quite put into words.
But I can show you…
and I will as long as you let me.

Date Night


Author: Brenda Sparkman

There is something special that you and I do,
we try to make sure we reserve time for just me and you.
It is referred to as our date night and it is plain to see,
that we really dont want or need any company.


A ferocious beast

An owner of humans

A killer of toilet paper

She sometimes kills tissues, too

The queen of the house

Demands respect


Andy Walker, age 14

Industry Scape

Prayer of a Truck Driver’s Wife

Dear Lord,
Please bless my husband while he’s out on the road. Please protect him from the wind and rain and cold. Help him to keep that big rig between the white lines so he can make it to his destination on time. May he find his back-haul quickly and make it home soon. Please light his night on the road with your stars and moon. Let him rest peacefully in his sleeper’s bed, and please let there be a good meal and fresh coffee at the truck stop ahead. Help me to keep the home fires burning while he’s outh there movin’ on. And give me the strength and wisdom to take care of things while he’s gone. May the road he travels be clear and dry, and may not temptation catch his eye. Help him rmember when he’s all alone that his loving wife and best friend is waiting for him here at home.

poem by Linda Smith


This image is for Kylie’s Caturday! I don’t own a cat, but this one happened to cross my path one morning when i was out shooting at 6 am.. is it GOOD luck when a white cat crosses your path? must be…

Kiss Kiss

That kiss, that kiss
That childlike kiss
That pecky on the cheek kiss
That I am here kiss
That who the hell cares kiss
That kiss, that kiss I miss

David Keig

Mobile Homes

REMORSE -A painful sadness
Can’t fit big screen TV through
Double-wide’s front door

Play Thing

Chatter like a chimpanzee.
Swinging, swinging in a tree,
Climbing high, dropping low,
Calling to a friend below,
“Come up! …

by Kleinhenz, Sydnie Meltzer

No Name

Have you ever noticed how we compartmentalize our lives, separating the years into distinctive blocks of time with concrete beginnings and endings. At first, all the blocks are separated by our age, or school grade. Then by the major life events….marriage, birth of a child, death of a parent. Gradually, the beginnings and endings of our blocks become more subtle and we usually don’t mark them as beginnings or endings till years after they occurred.

Sometimes, very rarely, and usually with nothing but a feeling, we know the minute we open our eyes that everything has changed.

by Steve the Trailer Park Sage


How insidious and lamentable the vast factory’s pollution
and overpopulation disaster more disastrous
than all the dead in every human war!
How clear it becomes to us then
that no one should have to be a slave!

From Antler: The Selected Poems

A Boy and his Dog

He has told me a thousand times over that
I am his reason for being: by the way he
rests against my leg; by the way he thumps
his tail at my smallest smile; by the way he
shows his hurt when I leave without taking him.
(I think it makes him sick with worry when he
is not along to care for me.)

When I am wrong, he is delighted to forgive.
When I am angry, he clowns to make me smile.
When I am happy, he is joy unbounded.
When I am a fool, he ignores it.
When I succeed, he brags.
Without him, I am only another man. With him,
I am all-powerful.

— Gene Hill

Come on up…

This world is not my home.
I’m just passing through
Come on up to the House


Eye See You

Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit nervous that the best of all the years have gone by
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit terrified and then I see the look in your eyes

Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart

The Replacements

I’m putting up another picture for today
so that nobody else has to be subjected
to dumpster graffiti
so there, are we fine now?



There once was a girl who loved pi
I never could quite fathom why
To her it’s a wonder
To me just a number
Its beauty revealed by and by

Three point one four one five nine
Makes the lazy student whine,
But give this ratio a try-
You’ll find that it’s as easy as pi!

— Tom Wilson & — Fred Russcol

Ride on…. Ride on.

When the two girls were playing dolls in the playground, he would sit on the big rocking-horse, charging madly into space, with a frenzy that made the little girls peer at him uneasily. Wildly the horse careered, the waving dark hair of the boy tossed, his eyes had a strange glare in them. The little girls dared not speak to him.

DH Lawrence

No Birds, No flowers

If there were no birds to cheer in my tears
if there were no song to sing a lullaby
if there were no flowers to bloom and blush in my days and nights
Who will pluck the wonders of wisdom
who will kiss the feathers of life and death
who will burn the light of eternal fire?

edited to be less offensive…

poem by: Kamaruzzaman

Time to Fish

There was a little kitten,
And she did a little fishin’,
The fish, she dutifully rendered to her mother —
Who said, “Bake him in a pie,
For his flavor’s very high,
Or confer him on the poor, if you’d rather.”

~ Mark Twain ~


I am a kind word uttered and repeated
By the voice of Nature;
I am a star fallen from the
Blue tent upon the green carpet.
I am the daughter of the elements
With whom Winter conceived;
To whom Spring gave birth; I was
Reared in the lap of Summer and I
Slept in the bed of Autumn.

I drink dew for wine, and hearken to
The voices of the birds, and dance
To the rhythmic swaying of the grass.

I am the lover’s gift; I am the wedding wreath;
I am the memory of a moment of happiness;
I am the last gift of the living to the dead;
I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.

But I look up high to see only the light,
And never look down to see my shadow.
This is wisdom which man must learn.

– Khalil Gibran


This bed is on fire
With passionate love
The neighbors complain
about the noises they heard

You’re driving me crazy,
when are you coming home

(I make myself laugh) 🙂
p.s. if anybody has me favorited, let me know so i can favorite you back!


I liked my husband’s hair when it was just growing out, only long enough to change direction under the pressure of my hand.. I’ll bet God does that with wheat fields, runs His hand back and forth over them, because it feels neat.. and just think, we thought it was the wind!

The Shave

My husband shaved his head. I tried to talk him out of it, but the call of mid-life was stronger than my warnings. I told him about how hard it was for me to grow my hair out of the pixie cut you see on my ‘about’ page. My hair is still short and that was a year or two ago. But in the immortal words of Joe Jackson ‘don’t you know that it’s different for girls?’… My husband’s hair is growing out now and he looks so cute that it’s not fair. He looks like one of those scruffy terriers you want to take home from the SPCA… Yes, the bald saga was a short story, he got tired of having to shave such a large area.. he looked good bald though, sort of like Jean Luc Piccard… though I would have preferred a dash of Yul Brenner 😉


Willing to
Inch one’s way
Loosely through
Ladles of
Meters run out as
Suburbia worries,
Believing the
Reaches an end,
Revolving like doors
Only out
Unless in,
Holed up in bare
Sallow soupy flesh

by John Burroughs
a.k.a. Jesus Crisis


To watch a woman dying that
wants to live.

You look inside yourself and feel ashamed
and embarrassed of your own pain.

To see her struggle to lift her head.

This is the end of the spree.

A later eulogy.

A tear left in some alleyway.
The night steers its course.

No end…
No end…



What do you ask your God for, at the end of day,
Kneeling beside your bed with bowed and hopeless head?
What mercy can He give you?—Dreams of the unborn
Children that haunt your soul like loving words unsaid—
Dreams, as a song half-heard through sleep in early morn?

Tender, and bitter-sweet, and shy, I’ve watched you holding
Another’s child. O childless woman, was it then
That, with an instant’s cry, your heart, made young again,
Was crucified for ever—those poor arms enfolding
The life, the consummation that had been denied you?
I too have longed for children. Ah, but you must not weep.
Something I have to whisper as I kneel beside you…
And you must pray for me before you fall asleep.

by Siegfried Sassoon


I know that I don’t know
All that I think I know.
I know I won’t see all of
The places I wish to go.
I know I’m not ready
For all that the world demands,
You don’t have to always hold me,
Just let me see your hands.

I know
That there’s a lot
That I won’t understand,
That you don’t have all
Of the answers.

I haven’t forgotten
That I have to grow up
And someday live without
Your voice, your opinion–
Making my own decisions.

I know that I don’t know
All that I think I know.
I know that I may not see all
Of the places I want to someday go.
I know I’m not ready for everything
That I won’t always understand
You don’t have to always hold me
But sometimes. . .
Just let me touch your

by Jherine N. Saine from Family Friend Poems


by Emily Dickinson

There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are –

None may teach it – Any –
‘Tis the Seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air –

When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –

The Factory

we recycle cardboard
newsprint & dreams
here on the threshhold
of oblivion

fog drifts across the highway
the dark river mutters
dark heron laughs symbolically

we are the faces of canada
in disrepair
we are the missing pieces
of the puzzle

floracarbons in our lungs
a sour wind telling tales we disregard
dark heron conversing with the dour river

we are the remnants of hope
all in a tangle
not even bohemian
in our struggles

frost on the wind
steam swirling from rusting metalic vents
dark heron disappears in to icey fog

by Kenn Mitchell


I am not going to put a nice poem with this
eeeeevil picture that has kept me up all night
trying to make it look good…
either i don’t have the skills,
bad photo, bad!!!

Back Massage

Oh man, we have the best massage guy!! My brother discovered him at a night market giving 15 minutes of massage for $15. what a deal! This is hubby getting his back healed the hard way. believe me it’s a deep tissue massage.. you are very bruised and battered for a couple days afterward… but it’s so worth it! hubby’s back was taking sharp right turns before a massage put him back in place. the last time we were there i gave him some extra money and asked him for more, and he lit some incense and burned my back repeatedly with the tip, shockingly enuff this helped..


Billy Collins,
Waiting – in the Doctor’s office

I turn around on the gravel
and go back to the house for a book,
something to read at the doctor’s office,
and while I am inside, running the finger
of inquisition along a shelf,
another me that did not bother
to go back to the house for a book

heads out on his own,
rolls down the driveway,
and swings left toward town,
a ghost in his ghost car,
another knot in the string of time,
a good three minutes ahead of me —
a spacing that will now continue
for the rest of my life.

He is out there always before me,
blazing my trail, invisible scout,
hound that pulls me along,
shade I am doomed to follow,
my perfect double,
only bumped an inch into the future,
and not nearly as well-versed as I
in the love poems of Ovid —
I who went back to the house
that fateful winter morning and got the book.

in the Elevator

Remember that scene from Eraserhead where he’s waiting
for the elevator doors to close


Back Pain

My back today is killing me, I need an x-ray.
Seems I requested of you folks down south,
To keep this cold away, I should have used my loud-mouth…

I got on a pain patch,
To my lower back it is attached,
I took two of my pain pills,
I cannot seem to with them in my system, focus…
Is an x-ray just more hocus pocus?

I felt this pain yesterday,
many yesterdays, of bleak hopelessness
oh how i wish it would go away
and leave me in wholeness.
Oh me.

Snow Blindness

This cold blanketed silence
when last flakes land,
settles into my conformity
as puzzle piece, leaves hand.

This picture’s complete
a reflection in my mind,
I’m lost in barren thought
sun glares me, snow blind.

No direction, this puzzle
boarders end in white,
numb of all emotions
no colors in my night.

Snowfields forever lost
sanity too high a cost.


You can’t buy loyalty, they say
I bought it though, the other day;
You can’t buy friendship, tried and true,
But just the same, I bought that too.

I made my bid, and on the spot
Bought love and faith and a whole job lot
Of happiness, so all in all
The purchase price was pretty small

I bought a single trusting heart,
That gave devotion from the start
If you think these things are not for sale,
Buy a brown-eyed puppy with a wagging tail.


Somewhere over the rainbow,
angels are waiting
for us to speak the Word of God


The Driveway

Deena Linett

The Tiger in the Driveway
is trying to escape the carousel and stands chained
to the trunk of a dogwood in the suburbs

fourteen miles from Vancouver. Bright
in his new coat of paint, his racing stripes

blend with the mix of light and shade,
his likeness, and only slightly less dangerous.

The Rail

Night train noises, muffled and low,
nights when the Northern Limited left.
Midnights, we’d hear its strange chord blow, a distant dissonance, treble-cleft.
Languid in summer, dulled in snow,
it spoke to me calmly: Trust and rest.

The Scream

Miracles come out screaming, screaming, screaming,
Oceans in which all in earshot drown.
To love is to uncomplicate the meaning,
Having heard the song beneath the sound.
Each livid angel recent ripped from heaven,
Raging at the tyranny of need,
‘Twixt ecstasy and terror seeks reunion,
Still homeward yearning, though but lately freed.
Destined to yearn ever, eventually
Astonished less and less, the child concedes,
Yielding to the mother’s silent plea.


The world’s greatest tricycle rider
is in my heart, riding like a wildchild,
no hands, almost upside down, along
the walls and over the high curbs
and stoops, her bell rapid-firing,
the sun spinning in her spokes like a flame.

On the Boardwalk

Bike the drive.
It is fun.
Bike the drive
Like when you were a little kid
and you stuck your hand out
and said to your friend
give me five!

Bike the drive.
It is fun like running around in a playground,
swinging from swings,
flying a kite,
like when you were young
it helped make the whole world go round
bike the drive!

Bike the drive.
Just for the simple fact that you can.
Bike the drive.
Match or surpass the feeling you had when your parents took away the
training wheels from your first bike when you were five!
Bike the drive.
Rejoice you are alive!

On the Bridge

I’m climbing
one foot after the other
wind whips past me
howling in my ears
pushing me further
my toes curl over the edge
I throw my head back
open my arms
spread my wings
up and over

I was careening over a bridge and shot this pic out the window, I think it’s cool how everything afar off is in focus

Go Bump

From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!

Instead of keeping you guessing, I’ll just tell you that this is a speed bump in front of my house, washed in partial sunlight

Vacant Lot

The bulldozer ticks in the sun, Yellow elephant that leaned against a house, Groaned when the timbers groaned: Two by fours, joists and beams, Cornered joints, floor and paneled walls, Yawning nails that had not held light in forty years.

What we threw down is raised up by others. Ants march with feathery grains, With timbers of twig, seed, torn blossoms, The white of what they eat, The black of what they bed down in.

I happen to like this picture, with it’s vacant lot look.. but nobody on flickr ever clicked on it

The Man with the Beard

As I was walking down the stair
I passed a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh how I wish he’d go away

I walked past this man in the park and he was so striking with da beard, that I had to ask for a picture!


A stand of cattails, brown heads
erupting seed,
silk tufts unfolding
from coarse velvet. I stopped
and studied them while all my friends walked on
for one who lingered, agitated,
and watched me watching, her palms locked on her elbows,
her body bent.
“You can’t write about them,”
she said.
“I saw them first.”
But who am I
to tell this story, who am I
when I remember
stopping in mid-kiss, half our buttons
and telling another poet,
“I don’t want to read about this …

Velveteen Rabbits

THERE was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy”s stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming.

For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him. He was naturally shy, and being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon every one else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real. The model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint, caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to his rigging in technical terms. The Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn’t know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was quite out-of-date and should never be mentioned in modern circles. Even Timothy, the jointed wooden lion, who was made by the disabled soldiers, and should have had broader views, put on airs and pretended he was connected with Government. Between them all the poor little Rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse.