Tomorrow I hope the clocks all stop, 
and as the hands slowly tick-tock their way to a halt,
the rest of the world follows their lead.
And it's like the first snow of the year, 
instead of the 10,000th rain.
Everything just pauses, 
and the earth feels comfortable in its silence,
at home in its magnitude.
I hope everyone freezes except me, a poet, and a ballerina.
For once, my short strides don't keep me straggling behind anyone else 
as I pad through the resting world on slippered feet
side-stepping parents waving to a stationary school bus, 
dodging careening bicyclists mid-signal with outstretched arms. 
I walk until I reach a theatre where a ballerina pirouettes, 
floating under the stage lights as she jumps and lands, 
her pointy shoes scuffing silently on the stage, 
trampolining illuminated dust particles which amble through the air,
awkwardly dancing with her.

Some more digital art.
Was playing around, trying to draw faces- these are my favorites.
 

Pick a card, any card.
Cheap tricks are your 
specialty, anyway. 
I'd like a disappearing act-
maybe this time 
I'll know not to 
wait for you to come back. 
Maybe this time I 
won't search for you like a key-
the only lock you have is
somewhere down in 
Hades' land. 
Show me your best poker face-
I'll see the lies
creasing near your nose, 
and maybe this time 
I'll know not to chase after
you on the pavement. 
Pull a rabbit from your hat-
better yet, pull 
an apology from your mouth.
Sealed. 
Possibly containing a typo. 
Maybe this time 
I'll see that the worst thing 
I can say is, 
"Okay."
So go on now, 
do your tricks. 
Find whatever you need 
in the applause. Filter
out the boo's. 
Laugh, maybe. Smile to 
yourself. Above all, 
do whatever you do 
that makes you 
forget I was ever more 

I wish to eat the moon
To feel it's smooth, cold-pudding like taste on my tongue.
It would slip around my mouth like a cool cheesecake,
Like milk chocolate.
It would quench my hunger with the easiness and softness of a spoon of oatmeal,
Washed down with a glass of milk.

I wish to drink the stars
To taste them dripping down my throat
Warm and foggy as hot chocolate
On a cold winter's evening.
Each sticky-smooth drop would ease through my body,
Relaxing me,
Soothing me.

I wish to eat the grandest meal ever eaten,
Sitting upon Venus's rings,
Watching the world spin around
And around. 
Watching a shooting star zip through the sky.
I'd catch it in my fingers
And gulp it down
Bright and spicy as a piece of shrimp,
Then close my eyes and float down along the Milky Way, in a bed as smooth as a snowdrift. 

I wish to spread my hands through the galaxies,

 

I have always had a huge passion for wildlife, but when I first got my camera, my world brightened. Photography is an art that can be so moving and inspirational for me. This past year I went on a trip with my family to the Grand Canyon. The sites were so captivating and beautiful. The photo with the man in it was actually by chance. I saw this man on the edge of a cliff looking out to the canyon below and had to take a picture. Now, when I look at the picture I find deeper meanings behind it. I now see someone looking out into their future and seeing beauty. The picture of the crow was taken when a swarm of crows kept creeping towards my family's table while we tried to eat. I got many pictures of different crows, but this one stuck with me. 
 

 

I can’t remember the last time I felt safe traveling down Webster Avenue. There was just such an eerie, cold feeling when I would drive by. In most neighborhoods one sees children riding bikes, dogs being walked, and old ladies tending to their gardens. None of this ever happened on “Wacky Webster” as the locals call it. You’d never see anyone outside, which made it look abandoned. The only thing that signified that anyone still lived there was when the lights were turned on at night. I swear the people that live on Webster Avenue must be nocturnal or something. If you dare to drive by at night, almost every single light in the neighborhood is turned on. I made the mistake of doing exactly that one crisp October night. The wind was howling and so was my dog, riding shotgun in my Chevy Silverado. He knew he had to go to the vet, so he was trying to make me feel guilty. It didn’t work though.