O’ Scotland

GLASGOW GREEN: 1967 John Hume

GLASGOW GREEN: 1967 John Hume

Thistle o’ Scotland

Ye heed !

Scots isle mires,
Mount rumble slopes & horn rolling greens.
Ole –
Silver lined canvas,
Casting shadow plumes & aerial Clyde seagulls.

“A’m away.”

Echo Glens edge & perches Victoria groves.
Glasgow dawn emerges,

Aye –
Merry Gaelic bagpipes & kilt belted plaid.
Burd sings mornin’

Ye ken ?

Thistle o’ Scotland



I’m headed on a week-long vacation to Scotland on the 12th! Looking forward to sharing some amazing photographs and new adventures in the UK!

Times Up

Levere Winery

Levere’s Winery in Amador County

My age ticks to a clock I wish would unwind…..slow time. Stop.

I’d rather share my time with the world & sea reflections of my strength rippling like unpredictable waves.


These hands are Biological. (And)

My age tocks my time I wish would stop….preserve time. Unwind.


This body dials to hardware. (And)

I’d rather cohabit & seek roots under the hands of earths dirt and emerge a womb time passes on.





(Any misuse or use of my photos without my consented permission or writing statements that are publicly defamatory, false, or disparaging statements offers me no other choice but to pursue legal action. Thank you.)


Flowers pulled from the dirt alike flames seeding carnage with suffocating pain….



Standing in Ivy’s hallway, winding wild on alabaster fossil columns.Hiding foyer. Stalks of molded oak are uninviting, yet you feel welcomed by lingering scent of Victorian musk and hints of rose. Leading you through this uprooted house, slowly stepping the petrified staircase, you’re careful of its rotted trunk but you climb. Climbing.

Only a room encased in glass, ring water stained with a green residue. More murky than muddy in a soggy corner with nothing to absorb. Poor, poor pungent puddle without a window to find a root to feed. You! Alone, dare not in your youth and neglect what you see. May I remind you! When carcass buds curl and crippled cold leaves…. soft with soil.

The (glass) room fills with water.

Staring helplessly at the wilted floras as they float in their bedrooms vase for days. No door to drain. Nothing to crack the glass of prison and only drowning their blooms silhouettes before submerging to their rest. Tears stream like a serenade under the rain, beating about the heart once, twice the beauty of every bouquet. Their blossom is my strength, every petal encouraging and reaching stems, again and again but yet I am in a glass room. A vase.

What nature can bring into a home, a home can never bring nature the same.