Grey days are best spent with favourite poets… And because “you like watching MTV while I like dreaming in an empty bed…”
See more of my daily images and daily reads on my Instagram @InkandLight
The Word Girl
"a word, after a word, after a word is power" -Margret Atwood
My daily photography on my Instagram, find me @InkandLight or Siobhan Rodgers…
Find/ follow me on Instagram, I’m posting there so much more these days… Search for InkandLight or Siobhan Rodgers, hope to see some of you there soon Xx
I wrote to find beauty and purpose, to know that love is possible and lasting and real, to see day lilies and swimming pools, loyalty and devotion, even though my eyes were closed, and all that surrounded me was a darkened room. I wrote because that was who I was at the core, and if I was too damaged to walk around the block, I was lucky all the same. Once I got to my desk, once I started writing, I still believed anything was possible.
Ink and Light: If...
If I was a month, I would be August.
If I was a day of the week I would be Friday.
If I was a time of day; I would be midnight, with every star whirling overhead..
If I was a planet, I would be Venus naturally, or poor demoted Pluto.
If I was a sea animal I would be a mermaid…
If I was…
She could call up a storm with a single thread of her raven hair and draw down the rains with a petal - Witches Thimble. - Siobhan Rodgers
I’m working on my Weather Watcher narrative as we move into summer, more over on my Ink and Light blogs…
She was brought up on a diet of spells and tea, fairy tales and candle light, flowers in her hair and dancing barefoot ‘til dawn; after that there isn’t many ways a girl can go…
(Source: inkandlightarts, via inkandlightarts)
Tea, cold on the counters
Blackbirds and honey bees
Time slowed to a whisper,
flat calm and grey
Raw as morning and pebble smooth.
His sails lie idle,
listless wishes and wasted time
And those moving hands rattle her bones
(Source: the-wordgirl)
Ink and Light
My long term writing and diary type blog… You can leave me notes there too…
Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, ‘whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches,’ by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, ‘Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,’ and he would have meant the same thing.
(via moncabinetdecuriosites)
Cannery Row by John Steinbeck
I’m rereading this at the moment, slowly, savouring the lines like sucking sweets…
(Source: oaksandroses, via pederost)
Forgive me father
for I have sinned
the crumbs from your table
are never enough
And temptation
tastes of milk and honey
Oh give us this day
our daily bread
and a handful of silver
to forgive our trespasses
a salted benediction
to save our souls
before we are just ashes
and dust.
(Source: the-wordgirl)
The stars fell down
like broken glass
like a sprinkling of salt and ash
Hope smashed on a cold floor.
the days bleed into each other
the soil frozen now
brittle
Dead.
the brambles come
fruitless
they wrap around the house
cold house
fairy tale house
and she has forgotten to leave crumbs on the path
(Source: the-wordgirl)
