Through the inlet

seasaltspray from frosty swells

on aching wood

lines whine tearing

as thumper breaks free

and vanishes in the wavescape

good luck, little guy, good luck!

see you ashore

Thoughts of a writer that hasn't started writing yet

I have to find my own voice. I have to find my own voice. I have to find my own voice. SHUT THE FUCK UP! Oh great, there it is.

Ha! Ha! Ha!

They are jumping. They are right there. I know it. I've seen them! They even jump right onto the dock sometimes. But they don't bite. I guess they are just too busy laughing and pointing at me.

Widow's walk

It's been seven years now that he has gone out on his little fishing boat in that stormy night, and still she is gazing out to sea watching for her spouse's return every afternoon. Before she steps out onto the rooftop platform overlooking the lush marshes, she puts on the blue working dress she had worn when they had first met. She keeps telling people her hair has turned white over the years, but in fact it has changed color over night, in that terrible night, the longest, loneliest night of her young life, when she woke up in the dark hours and knew she had lost him. And still she steps out on her walk, searches the horizon for a sign, a sail, a cloud, something, anything, and what ever it is that appears in the distance, she tries to hold it with her gaze and drag it into the bay, afraid to even blink, as if her stare was a rope she is tossing to a boat returning to the harbor. She doesn't cry. Not anymore. But when the wind blows from the east it is heavy with salt spray that gently settles on her cheek. Let the sea do the crying. She smiles. Let the sea do the crying.

Mustard and ketchup on canvas

The latest work by artist Stephanie Voelzow. 

Upsetting, poetic and convincingly contemporary. 550 USD OBO. Please inquire inside.