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Desolate yet beautiful, Molokai mourns a past while simultaneously acting on a daring dream for tomorrow.
While on a short trip to Molokai, I was enchanted by the sparse landscape, its history, and expecially its people.
Ties that bind too strongly / are often ties that strangle / like a kiss indulged far too long / can oft become a kiss of death / ...
The death of a son or daughter is hard to bear; even more so when you feel you could have done something to prevent it. Many teenagers die of drug overdoses, shocking parents into realizing that they were blind-sided by a lack of communication with their offspring.
As we speed past, the shredded desolation becomes starkly apparent. There are bodies everywhere, piled one on top of the other like refus…
This piece was written quickly whilst in the shadow of sorrow. The moment I write about, I experienced recently when I drove past a patch of eucalypt forest that had been cleared. In the shredded bodies of the trees I saw wasted life and disrespect. I saw death. I felt something I had not felt to that extent before and it made me question the price of progress and whether in an objective sense it is worth paying.
Desolate is The Lonely Place / Yet it is so filled with grace / As if it were just set aside / For those who want to hide / No one real…
Thank you Angela for the beautiful photo The Lonely Place Please check out my friend Angela Harburn’s other awesome photos on RB /
All alone, sick and hungry / No way to live we’d all agree / Without a friend no one to care / She doesn’t live here she doesn’t live there ...
Melodious, Thank you so much for HOMELESS picture..it was my inspiration.. / Please check out my friend Melodious’ other awesome artwork and writings on / the RB. /
the seeds of the desolate / to sow doubt in their’s mind / to sow confusion / sow in ourselves blood / sow in our thoughts / *the s…
I am done writing pieces of endless desolation.
Here’s what’s weird to me about my own existence on RedBubble: All my life, I’ve been a writer, not a photographer. I remember being too young to read and being incredibly annoyed by it; I wrote my first fiction at age 7. I got my first paid writing gig at age 17 and have had one or ‘nother ever since. Photography was something I picked up briefly in high school, because my mom did it, and because we had an extra camera, but mostly because I needed an easy “elective” credit. ;-) Now, somehow - because of parenthood, perhaps? because I can’t think of anything worth saying? because I’ve come to prefer the fluff of my photos to the darkness in my writing? - I am a photographer first. Nonetheless, an old friend - the most awe-inspiring MsTrace of RB repute - recently asked me, “Why don’t you write anymore?” Entered in the Two Word Challenge “broken” and “barrier”
I’m an inner shadow of an aberration I’ve come to abhor / As others shed their light of admiration for me in the outer facade they adore.
It is / these lessons / of longing / and humility / that abide / in the dark reaches / of nothingness / where we learn desire… the de…
Was it words unsaid? Or deeds not done? / Answers flood in, where no answers can fathom.
About grieving a special relationship.
Panic is gone, and in his absence and wake Havoc spreads bat-wings under the invisible moon
2008. / I’m not sure what this is—short story or prose poem? Maybe it’s a monologue. I’ve been thinking about what life is like for the worst-off. The title is Latin; it’s from a tradition of classical and early mediaeval poetry in which the narrator reflects on the ruin of a former magnificence, and I wondered if anyone will be left wondering where we all went, when we’re gone.
At least not here / In this desolate place
The winter blahs…
Roiling clouds of black disgust, / Slowly / Lurge their way across the desolate ground / Devoid of life
I wrote this whilst in a major bout of anger and stress, Id appreciate what meaning people find in it.
You listened for awhile… / And then turned to look away, searching for something / to make you happy.
Most of the time, there was enough / desire to live and render me / numb to the painful desolation that followed.
Seasons passed one by one / as I turned to say hello / to yesterday.
My arms became lithe again / I felt no urge to write / strange symbols in the sand / cryptic poetry that only the wind would read it felt…
Comment and critique encouraged.
I always struggle to believe; / I feel like a literal insanity, / I am cursed in my reality.
The Muse song Hate this and I’ll love you is a 1999 classic from Showbiz Oh I am growing tired / Of allowing you to steal / Everything I have / You’re making me feel / Like I was born to service you / But I am growing by the hour You left us far behind / So we all discard our souls / And blaze through your skies / So unafraid to die ‘Cause I was born to destroy you / And I am growing by the hour / And I’m getting strong in every way / Yeah, Yeah You led me on / You led me on / You / Oh, and I’m getting strong in every way / Yeah, Yeah This poem also has a bit of the desolate Tom Waits ballad Everything goes to hell in it too methinks
The Devil’s storm rages, despair churns, past action’s remiss, whipping my soul. / Losing t this battle, falling upon desperate knees, loo…
Now, the representation of my spiritual photograph, Desolation’s Parable my journey> / “The frozen lake, the windblown winter grass, represent my desolation and powerlessness against substance abuse, succumbing to it’s throes of my death, after being on it’s lake of Hell’s wrong doings for 32 years. The lighthouse represents sanctity, the one place I could go for help,and guidance (Alcoholic’s Anonymous). The beacon of light is our Lord, granting me spiritual hope and salvation, a chance to recover from my addictions, and start anew. Lastly, God hearing my cries over the deafening howl of Satan’s offer of alcohol to numb my pain and senses, never returning to my loved ones…..
My veins push my blood / to keep my body alive
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