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W.

Nicknacks telling tales
Stronger than their makers
Louder than the thunder
Hanging in my ears
Hanging from doorways
Hanging from windchimes
Hanging from trees

Breeze bringing tassles alive
Creating a thoroughfare
For colors to dance
Like native new moon on the hill
Howling at wolves
Howling at tanned children
Howling at smiling raindrops
Howling with joy.

On the Town

The pair of us freshly met,
talking through the vibrant swirls
of heavy summer and classicism,
(a tinge of art) we cut like a feather that
I know little about, but sustain
somehow by chatting about…
whatever. Phobias of bugs or the
real world, neither can really do any harm.
But that’s what fear is, harmless existence
misunderstood. We know that
somewhere deep in our hearts, but still
we identify with make believe.

View Separately

nprradiopictures:

(Courtesy of Ellen Silverman)

What Our Kitchens Might Say About Us

[Ellen] Silverman’s images show the kitchens as she finds them. Well-used pots sit on stoves or burners, utensils hang from plaster walls with faded paint, and mismatched plates are piled haphazardly. At first glance, Silverman says, she wants viewers to see the photos as “kind of anthropological … in how people arrange things.” But the second thought, she hopes, will be: “Wow, they’re beautiful. … This is somebody’s reality.”

Source: NPR

Benedick, Ever the Oyster

“And I cannot seem to find my socks, which hold my heart. Soft! Hearest thou that? ‘Tis the rhythm, gentle congas in the breeze. Shall I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. For if I shall be translated into an oyster, I shall no longer have a heart, and my one foot have no use for a sock.”

-YesImSardonic, LoB