Poetry: Tinder

At midnight, the tree,
it teetered and fell
and it's always assumed
it died from years.
But, maybe it died from
loneliness instead?
Maybe it no longer
had the heart to stand.
Its trunk bears its scars,
like that August
it was struck by a bolt
and almost flamed out.
Or the initials gouged
deeply in its side
by a life with a knife,
to express and confess
a once-burning love
that's long since gone.
Its felling exposes
the secrets it kept,
its abandoned nests,
the confessions
it held onto
from those who sat
under it and wept.
Two hawks scatter around it
in a circular swell;
they say their goodbyes
to the tree where it lies.
At the break of dawn
the hawks are gone and
the sun rises up in the sky.


© Sherri Brannon

It's been awhile. I've been filling my poetry journal with page after page of thoughts, but having a hard time forming them into cohesive poems. The struggle is real! (photo taken with my iphone and edited with various apps).

Music

My poor soul
and her love
for wild things
while always held back
by my human fear
and caution, by
my aging frame and
ever milder disposition.
Music is the thing; it
draws my soul out with
its harmonious tones.
A song I love
enters my ears,
spiraling down
to my heart chamber,
reaching my soul there
where she lives.
The chorus comes in
and she hears the
round, pearly notes;
she strings them together
as a necklace
around her throat.
She grabs my hands
and we move in time
to the beat, we
sway to the rhythm
of her wildness.
And she smiles
and I smile,
or I cry
and she cries.
And her voice
and my voice
both sing along.

Music and souls.
Both are wild,
both are tender,
neither can be seen
in the mirror.
Neither can be touched
with the span
of a human hand;
both transcend
place and race,
age and gender.

© Sherri Brannon


Music has always been one of the joys of my life, from the time I was a little girl (thank you, Dad). With it, I can endure so many things. It empowers me to keep going. It helps me dig down deep and find the roots of things. With music in my ears, birds flying across the blue sky seem ten times more beautiful.

Sometimes I search for a song that will sing in time with my pain, like putting on rain and then listening. Other times, a song will make my heart burst and unfold with gladness. With music, I can dance my way out of the dark, close my eyes and dream, smile through grateful tears...it helps me through so many things.

Many thanks to the music of BTS. Their deep, meaningful lyrics have inspired me in recent months - I’m writing more poetry than I’ve written in a very long time. Great music always does that.

Drape

At the end of a day,
I take off my memories
of the bright noon clouds
and drape them
across the chair
beside my bed.
I hope the joy of them
will hang in the air around me
while I sleep.
I unbutton my thoughts
of the creek rambling by
with its shadows and shine,
how it carried the perfume
it found upstream last week
from that wild gypsy rose
on the mountainside.
I remember
how the scent of it
reached my nose
with a lovely blend
of crushed petals
and tender rain tears.

I slip off that moment
when I couldn't look up
and stare directly
at the sun, but the sun
was so kind; it gazed up at me,
instead, from its mirror
in the pond.
With sleepy eyes, I realize
the vivid memory
of that brilliant sky
has left finger prints,
like wet paint, on
everything I've touched.
Maybe I shouldn't
have undressed these thoughts,
tossed them so carelessly
from my mind?
Perhaps I'll find myself
waking from sleep,
reaching in the dark,
putting them back on.
I'll cradle the fabric of them
against my chest, my
sky-stained fingers folded,
blue and vibrant,
into my palms.


© Sherri Brannon

Bells

I dreamt last night
that every blooming flower
had a bell sound,
and I walked with wonder
across the ringing ground,
ankle deep in chiming blossoms,
with blades of grass swaying
and cricket beats battling
in time with the song.

And deep-heart colors
leaked from every
singing bird's throat,
scarlet flung
from a cardinal's beak,
indigo from a bluebird's notes,
the juice of it dripping,
staining their wings
while they sang.

And sunshine on our human skin
felt like a million kisses,
to help all the lonely people.
It dappled the oaks
with green tints and tones,
and both the trees
and the people
leaned into the wind
to clutch the sunshine's gold.

© Sherri Brannon

[iPhone photo edited with Glaze and iColorama apps.]

Blue My Mind

These days I’m all about
the softness of my soul
her quiet voice
at the bottom of my lungs
her tender voweling
the taste in my mouth
that her poetry brings
and I let her flow
because pooling her words
in my throat
not letting them flow
makes me choke
Words are only breath
floating out of the mouth
on the waves of the soul
I write thoughts like this down
but I don't believe
these words are my own
it's my soul who is speaking
her eyes that are seeing
her words are my breath
this is my strength.

A touch of ancient sorrow
came with me out of the womb
but it hasn’t taken me
it hasn’t won
my brain loves to brood
it loves to blue my mind
but I've realized some things
how, when a linear mind
fills up with the roundness
of soulful things
sharp fears lose their edges
how, even prayers can be
self-delusions
when spoken with the dread
of a human
I lament the fact
that my soul's deepest thoughts
can't be expressed
in earth's language
the pureness of her intentions
gets lost in crude translations
and I know by now
that happiness is rationed
along with pain and passion.

Can I find God
with the burden
of a mind, I wonder,
when fear steps in
with hope and love
and they all
intertwine together?
Three's a crowd,
my soul says with a whisper,
You're not here to learn,
you're here to remember.


"Don't let your mind see through your eyes." ~Mooji

The soul always knows.

One Lung

My soul truly knows me
for who I am
I love her so much
I'd remove one lung
to make a room for her
and there she'd live
up against my ribs
she'd make sure
there was a window
she'd breathe on the glass
till it fogged
and then draw a heart
with her finger
lingering there
till it cleared
to make sure I saw it
from the other side
so I'd know for sure
she was there

If I could guess
what she looks like
I'd bet her pupils
are huge with wonder
and her eyes
must look like questions
I could not foresee to ask
her hands would gently unspin
the cruel things
I've told myself
those lifelong
wasp-gold thoughts
I've stung myself with
the pockets of her flowy dress
would be my safe place to store
those words inside my heart
too raw for me to speak
the ones with that bone-taste
that blood-smell
from cutting too deep
so I don't tell.

She safe-keeps those for me well.


© Sherri Brannon



[Note: I created the art piece on my iPad, using various apps, but mostly the wonderful Procreate app.]

None of My Friends are Poets

In search of serenity, I walk.
My spirit moves to the
rhythm of a song, my
poetic thoughts unlock.
Later, I'll get back home
and my pen will overflow.
I'll write too much,
because the ego needs
too many words
to say so little.
But for now, I walk, and
a pelican flies over me.
We'll never touch,
but I send up my love.
I smile as its shadow
merges with mine
on the ground and,
just for a moment,
our souls intertwine.
I walk by the murky
gray-green of a pond,
the same color as my eyes
but, when I look again
the sun hits its surface
and it suddenly shines
like diamonds.
A beautiful song plays in my ears
in a language I don't speak,
but it doesn't matter
because music is a wonder.
Love. I say that out loud
when the song ends.


Walking, poetry, music...three of the joys of my life. Oh, and also the fourth: taking photos, which I did while taking my walk. Thank you, BTS, for the beautiful music!

One Stone

I walk on this earth
one seeker of billions
and I wonder what it is
the ground has witnessed
what must it think
about the mess of us
as we trample
our way across it

Each sharp pebble
each smooth stone
how does its story change
when a human hand
picks it up and skips it
across the river
taking it
from its home

Can it breathe
when it sinks
to the bottom
does it feel
abandoned and alone
or is it a new path
to freedom
from what it has known

Does it become broken
or does it fall unharmed
to the river's floor
do its colors become richer
beneath the water
does it dig itself in
become undercover
avoiding the others

Did it leave
a small piece of itself
behind on solid ground
are other rocks
waiting there
with broken hearts
keeping its place warm
wanting it back home

I walk on this earth
I'm just like those rocks
I trample across
one stone among billions
and Life
is the random pick
the quick flick
of that human hand.

Poetry: Wings

Flocks of avian beings fly
in rows of breathing ribs
that soar across the sky.
Sometimes a feather falls
as an offering,
down, down to the grass
and I, the lucky soul
who walks by to find it.
A starling whirrs by
in a feathery blur
that smells
of earthworms and rivers.
A heron whooshes above me
and I can almost hear
the babbling creek
inside his beak
as a fish flops
in his mouth,
its scales so luminescent
I swear I can hear those, too,
because shimmer
should have a sound.

I wonder why birds flying
can bring me to tears.
I yearn to be
orioled, finched, wrenned
like they are.
The wings are the thing.
They remind me of angels,
those unseen beings I believe in.
I think these thoughts
as I walk without wings.
Sometimes in my dreams
I am one of them,
willing myself to take flight,
if only for a few moments.
But, on this morning
I walk down a sidewalk
across earth's timeline.
I spy
a delicate, blue egg,
fallen and cracked,
its world shattered
on the gravel of a man-made road.

© Sherri Brannon


I wrote this poem on my walk the other day...discovering the cracked egg gave me the perfect way to end it. Thank goodness for the Notes feature on my iPhone - I was stopping constantly to write down my thoughts. Thanks so much for stopping by.

Wrecked

What if we're living
in the belly of a whale
it gulped us all down
with our pills and Unfollows
and we can't help ourselves
we dared it to swallow
and it's been longer than three days
and longer than three nights, and
our world is taking place
inside this whale's mouth
while the angels lay low
with their grandly folded wings
in the safety of the whales in our souls

And there are other whales, too
like the one inside our guts
caught in the belly of a beast
flooded with our lack of trust
rocking and swinging to the dread of it
and then there's the whale
tossed around inside our heads
filled with our fragile, unspoken things
battered and soaked from the sorrow of it
and that one last whale in our hearts
our loneliness seeping into its mouth
as it thrashes back and forth
to the beat of it

A whale within a whale within a whale
all of them needing
a breath at the surface
a bellowing of their windpipes
from the cruel hum of us within
but they're wrecked at the bottom
with our earth dust and rage
the whales are all drowning
and, we, along with them
in the depths of our fears
the whales, they are calling
and our spirits, they're starving
but our eyes, they can't find the tears.


©Sherri Brannon


Our world needs a healing. I feel the weight of it so strongly that every single poem I write lately is about this.

I created my whale digitally in Procreate, on my iPad Pro - I also used a few apps to create more texture (iColorama, Glaze).

Poetry: Dear Moon

DEAR MOON

Dear Moon, come find me here.
You've been hiding and it's been awhile.
I see you've come full circle again.
What is it about you that I can meet you in the dark
and pour out my heart when I'm struggling?
You make it easy, cratered as you are with your flaws.
Like I am.
It seems I feel safest when I'm loving from a distance,
and I can see it on your face
that you'll keep my secrets.

This world has me weary from the gravity of things,
how it's given itself up to the cutthroat keyboards.
I've stopped letting that into my house.
Hearts here have gone half dark, and
it's so hard to talk to the halfhearted.
I wonder, do you feel invisible when the sun comes up?
Do you feel blue when earth turns its back?
Thank you for hearing me, for your tender reflection,
and can I confess? I've stopped searching for myself
on other people's faces. It leaves such an empty feeling.

One thing I know for certain, my heart has been pulling at me,
moving words inside me like you move the seas,
spitting phrases at me when I'm not prepared to hear them.
It's been awhile
since I wrote my heart down.
Tell me, are you the keeper of the stars? Do you grieve
when they burn out or do you surrender and let them fall?
I ask because my soul stays seventeen, yearning for itself,
but sees another in the mirror. And, this earth tries to tell me
dreams must die with age, just like skin and bones do.

Dear Moon, please don't worry, I'll be fine.
My journey here is a frail and finite thing,
with the anguish of a mind, the reality of time.
I'll keep seeking the secret to this duality of life,
its mystic double entry. And, there's such joy,
such sweet attraction to a thousand recollections:
poems blooming like love flowers in my throat,
teardrops falling from the grace of an inner knowing,
that divine spark of always becoming,
even while headed towards dying.

© Sherri Brannon


Art work created on iPad Pro with Procreate, Glaze, and iColorama apps.

Red, White and Blue

RED, WHITE, AND BLUE

We are
souls in a body
soft spirits
pressed up
against the harshness
of our minds
gentle lambs consumed
by the lion
of our brains
living in a place
where cynicism
is an epidemic
breathing in
the poison
of its blue breath
and we are
thick-lipped
with the sting
of its scorn

We are heart brutes
drowned out by the
clank clank
of our thought chains
finite bodies
all fear and quick
gritting our teeth
while drones loom
reveling in
the mock and hollow
of hate and debate
our rib bones bleached
white with spite
we, in the round,
with our square screens
and our rush of blood
we are ego
bleeding out
like red wine
staining the carpet.

© Sherri Brannon 2017

The state of humanity...stark words that feel clipped and harsh on my tongue.

I created the image with apps - I took a photo of my hand and then overlayed another photo of birds soaring in the sky. In Procreate, I added the heart and tears.

It has been awhile since I've posted a poem...my writing always comes from whatever energy I'm feeling at the time, and lately it's filled with the turmoil and divide of our world.

Poetry: Heart to Heart

HEART TO HEART

Night makes an entrance
saying hello, bowing low
like a cosmic gentleman
listening to my words
as I pour my heart out
in the white-starred silence:
This sad earth of ours
is falling apart
all the people
in our troubled towns
with their angry mouths
have forgotten they're made
from long dead stars
all this mess of life
that strains itself
through cynical hearts
bitter thrones
spirits struck down
choked off, falling hard
and it shows
stardust hearts
have turned themselves off
burned themselves out
it's hard to share
my feathery thoughts
with stony hearts
and it's not in me
to put my fists up and fight
with these bird wrists of mine
this story book mind that
always looks to the skies
that wants to love softly
and fly
I plead with the night:
please help us to
sort it all out in time
and out of the blue
the sky answers in kind
sending me a tender sign
tossing down a falling star
a celestial offering
from its own carbon heart
to mine.

© Sherri Brannon 2017

A falling star is absolutely magical...I saw one recently and my heart overflowed. A split second of a miracle for my eyes only, or maybe not. Did anyone else at that exact moment happen to be looking up at the sky right when it happened? If so, we were supremely lucky to have shared that moment together. Separately, but together.

The state of the world...the ugliness we're showing to each other...the vast separation...it weighs heavily on me these days. Almost all of my poetry is about this subject right now. I like how this poem runs together in a big jumble, just like my stream-of-thought when I'm standing alone looking up at the stars.

My photo started out as a daylight photo I took in Hilton Head a month or so ago - I put it through several apps and it began to look like a night photo. I thought it would be a great photo to support my poem.

Grace is always present. You imagine it as something high in the sky, far away, something that has to descend. It is really inside you, in your heart. When the mind rests in its source, grace rushes forth, sprouting as from a spring within you. ~Ramana Maharshi

Poetry: Wild

WILD

Most people carry the husks
of their wild oats
in their pockets
and every once in awhile
their hand reaches in
to scoop out an old piece of rebellion
turned to sawdust
and it makes them smile

But I was that child
whose only version of wild
was to raise my hand to read out loud in class
in my own quiet way of daring
and it turned into a lifelong thing
this cautious mind, with empty pockets
lost in an inner world
deep within the confines
of my careful cage of a body

It's all okay, though,
I'm coming back around
I was always afraid of my own shadow
but God was just making sure
I was breaking it in
growing me into a better version
of that bookworm child
teaching me to see
beyond the hard edges
of my knowledge

And I have come to love
my own way of the wild
the soul-side kind
curve of spirit, circle of dreams
soft epiphanies and wonders
spiraling behind my eyes
which may have aging lines
but now seek out the light in others
because the eyes
can never tell lies

My wild oats are alive
and they're with me even now
I shake them off my fingers
collecting them
between the pages of my journal
soulful word husks
pressed into the grain of the paper
where I can sit in my wild silence
and read them, and smile.

© Sherri Brannon 2017

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth. ~Anne Sexton

I was never a rebel growing up...I was the quiet, studious one. I was the good girl who was afraid to step out of line or get into trouble. I'm perfectly content with that now. It suits me perfectly. We all have some sort of wild in us...mine was (is) just quieter, and more internal. What kind of wild did (do) you have?

As a creative challenge, I tried to come up with an image to go along with my poem. I don't know if I succeeded, but it sure was fun trying. I blended two of my iPhone images together in Superimpose (one being a shadow photo of my hand). I recently discovered the Slow Shutter Cam app and I'm having fun trying to figure it out. It'll take some practice!

Poetry: Grounded

GROUNDED

I seek out the water
and we breathe together
I look into the
honest eyes
of the dusk flowers
and we see each other
I love these moments
how my soul
takes time to notice
I have long resisted
that my sensitivity
is my strength
we fools of the world
there are days
I'd rather not
have my fragile heart
be my super power
with my soft approach
my love of dead poets
my lofty thoughts of God
all tethered down
by this ball and chain
of a brain

I seek comfort in nature
its wordless wonder
with no malice or sting
there are no greedy stars
with cynical hearts
I think about the sound
the moon must make
when it brushes
against the water
and I'm forever grateful
the herons don't mock
they have no sharp tongues
no sorrows that burn
no eyes filled
with fire and ego
I watch them fly
daring me to follow
and I stand there
earth-grounded
as they depart
for the sky
to their paradise,
their star-God life.

© Sherri Brannon 2017

The jewel is the awaring presence, not the object being seen. That’s why we can be bored and disappointed while gazing at the Swiss Alps and ecstatic and blissed out over a crumpled cigarette package in the gutter. The beauty is in the quality of the seeing, the awareness, the presence, not in the object being seen. ~Joan Tollifson

This is my first poem I've written in well over a year...it's nice to be back. Real life has been very busy. The image was taken with my iPhone and edited with Stackables.

Poetry and Procreate: Thinking

THINKING

My memories lie
Folded within me
In a perfect spiral
Each whorl a sheet
Of fragile thoughts
Delicate letters on
Onionskin paper
Tucked inside
Sheer envelopes

Some memories rest warm
Worn from a loving touch
While others lie cold
Keen along their folds
Glued tightly shut by
My dry tongue
Their sharp edges
Having left a
Bead of blood

Memory coils
In flawless symmetry
Unfolding their contents
Like a deck of cards
Dealing my soul a
Soothing sip of comfort
From a sun’s teacup
All sweetness and honey

Or, with an unlucky draw,
A swift unrolling of
Shadows across my heart
A callous tickle from
The oily wing of gloom
Its feathers fanned grandly
Across my spiraled
memories with aplomb.

© Sherri Brannon


I wrote this poem awhile back, but have never shared it on this blog...I have another poem in the works, but it's coming along slowly.

My girl is the result of more fun with Procreate and other apps - I drew her in Procreate and added one of my painted backgrounds. I then moved her into iColorama and used Distort and Effects to create the patterns and double exposure effect. I thought the pattern might give the effect of "whorls" and memories. That's the wonderful thing about apps - you can take a drawing that's not very good and make it look much more artistic!

Thanks so much for stopping by.

Memory only slumbers—never dies. ~Thomas Paine

Poetry and Procreate: White Flag

WHITE FLAG

It's time, my child, we have lived as one
for far too long...they say nothing ever changes
unless there's some pain. There's a prayer in me I whisper
each day, hoping for a healing, that this fear we've shared,
its pale white jaws, will finally be silent,
become bone dry and burnt down to their sockets.

Safe travels, my child, as I watch the small moon loving you from afar
I'll be the keeper of your secrets, I'll beg the heavens to bear
your burdens as you falter. I'll pray your rib bones
curve with the river as you wander, and I hope you remember
each stone in that river fell from a star
and contains the vastness of God.

Hear this now, I've learned there's belief in things
you can't see, like faith, and angels, and serendipity,
and I've learned little girls should never step on battlefields
armed with only the innocence of a child. I'll be strong now for both of us,
I'll shake my soul till the glory falls out, I'll wave my holy white flag
and be soft inside, and stabilized.

©Sherri Brannon 2015

A loving send-off poem to that scared little child who still resides in me, even though I'm all grown up. I've written more than one poem about this...poetry always reveals my biggest struggles. The poems are coming SLOWLY these days...but at least they're still coming, even if I'm only writing one poem every month or two.

I'm taking an online class right now and trying to learn to draw and paint with Procreate on my iPad. It's fantastic! The name of the class is Paint & Pixels, in case any of you are interested. If you read this and would like to get on the waiting list for the class in the future, click HERE. It is taught by Ivy NewPort and Robin Laws, two wonderfully talented artists - I admire them so much and they are incredibly generous with their knowledge.

I'm just a beginner, so my girl is amateurish...this is my first figure attempt. Is it possible to feel embarrassed and giddy at the same time?? Because that's how this image makes me feel...I'm cringing at the glaring flaws, while I grin from ear to ear about the new possibilities this process brings me! The thought of creating images to go along with my poems makes me really happy. I can't wait to practice and evolve.

On a side note, I want to be sure and mention that for the beautiful woods background above, I used an image from Unsplash. I LOVE their "free to use for anything" photos. (I put the image into Glaze to make it a bit more painterly).

Fear is static that prevents me from hearing myself. ~Samuel Butler

Poets United: My Blog of the Week Interview

I am honored to be the "Blog of the Week" over at Poets United. I was able to answer some questions about my poetry and also share a few of my poems there. My interview can be seen HERE. Thank you, Poets United!

Poetry is one of the biggest joys of my life, and I'm so glad it found me in 2006.

I added some of my own poetry to my iPhone photo above - these flowers are in my front yard. They're so pretty, a gorgeous periwinkle color.

The Air Up There

SWAY

I flee to a field of poppies
knee deep in ruby stalks, and
the breeze swirls their songs
through the soul of me.
Soft, murmuring melodies
float through me to the sky
into breadths of blue and
puffs of billowy clouds.
I want to hide here
forever, I whisper, and
I sway with the rhythm
of the stems, while the bees
suckle harmonies
from rouge petal cups
and velvety stamens.

© Sherri Brannon


Ah, the beauty of nature and the elements. Noticing them in the quiet is as soothing as music. Flowers, wind, sky...and to look at those skies, to really let them soak in, is so peaceful. My lungs open up and my sense of awe kicks in like magic...there's a momentary escape. Soft, murmuring melodies float through me to the sky, into breadths of blue and puffs of billowy clouds.

Yesterday I was standing in my back yard and happened to look up. This was the view that greeted me, and I ran for my camera. There were also tons of starlings swooping all around, and some enormous dragonflies buzzing through and hovering. I tried to capture them with my camera but they were too fast. That's OK - this photo I got showed how amazing the view was.

I wrote this poem several years back - I was revisiting some of my old poetry yesterday and came upon it. I had forgotten all about it - it's a nice feeling to stumble upon an older poem and still feel pretty happy about how it turned out. That isn't always the case. I thought I'd share it today because it goes well with my sky photo (and my current poem is still under construction).

Thanks so much for stopping by. I will be linking this blog post up with Poets United, a wonderful place to visit for some poetry. Please have a look HERE. I'm also honored to have some of my photography featured there this morning!

The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn't it be? — it is the same the angels breathe. ~Mark Twain

Poets United: The Lonely Hours

THE LONELY HOURS

We have purged wonder, sitting alone with the silent furniture
in our dressing gowns
with our firewalls and collecting of Friends
like gold medallions
crafting big words in a Godless code, but saying nothing
spilling our souls from virtual thrones, but no one's listening

There's a loneliness that beats like a second heart
wireless illusions leave us uninspired, so very tired
at the break of dawn, sleeping with the TV on
playing pretend with our stories
exporting our seeming, deleting our being,
queuing up our sticks and stones to throw

The doves with tender eyes have gone blind, and
we don't seem to mind
communion with the stars has gone, and we with
our cyber wiles, our encrypted smiles and faux glories
reveling in this hum on the earth, this
"you show me your ego and I'll trump yours with mine"

The trees still know everything, outside our curtained windows
offering up their holy treasures to ears gone deaf
to their lessons...and their hearts must break, as they wait
in every wood, lonely for us listening souls
with our closed off minds, our tightly closed blinds,
our numbing escape from the sacred flow.

© Sherri Brannon 2015


The only factor becoming scarce in a world of abundance is human attention. ~Kevin Kelly

I've been wanting to write a poem about social media and technology for a long time...let me first say that I love my iPad and iPhone for all the wonderful things it allows me to do. I love the interaction with fellow photographers and poets in the online world. My iPad and iPhone have become the prime source of all my creativity...amazing! That's the positive side of technology, and I'm extremely grateful for it.

This poem is more about the addictive, toxic side of the worldwide web...it's a fine line that's very easy to cross. It's the side that makes us feel rushed and unable to listen or take notice of life beyond the screen. Too much technology can make us feel disconnected. Too much social media interaction can deplete us with its "my life is perfect" presence. It can also be a vast playground for bullies and cruelty. It can be a bit soulless, and big with ego.

For the photo above, I used an Unsplash photo and edited it with apps on my iPad. I used Brushstroke to make it more painterly, DistressedFX to add the birds, and Repix to add the stars. Stackables helped me make it more moody. Even though it was a completely separate project, I was pleasantly surprised to realize it tied in really well with the fourth stanza of my poem. Unsplash.com releases photos each month that are public domain and can be freely used however you'd like - check it out, it's a great site.

Thanks so much for stopping by - this is the first poem I've written since last November. I was sad about it, but several weeks ago I just started writing and it all flooded back...the poems never go away, they just patiently wait for the writer. It feels good to be writing again!

I'm linking up today with Poets United. Click HERE to visit and see some wonderful poetry.