Check out my Fine Art America Page

Come one, come all! Come along and see my Fine Art America page, where I am selling photographic prints. My model is exceedingly beautiful and the art we make together would liven up any office space or room!

Check it out here. 

Rose Colored Glasses 2



A Portrait of Sunset


Sunset, February 14, 2017:


A fading tinge of tangerine, splashed across the horizon like a painter’s errant brush stroke, an afterthought of the sunset. A pale, powdery blue, deepening with the fall of night. Bartholomew, on his perch, watching the birds streak across the far horizon, towards places he’s not going.


The stark, lonely branches of a tree, naked now in the depths of winter, and the streetlights flickering on to ward against the coming night.


A faint haze of gold lingering, now, in the twilight, past the chimneys of neighbors we don’t know for all of our closeness, over hill and over dale, fading with every passing minute.


I can’t see the stars from here, but I know they’re there, because they always are, silently eclipsed by the light of our own star, patiently biding their time, waiting for the right moment for the night to be theirs, little time capsules of light from places we’ve never been and aren’t going anytime soon; pick a star – any star, and if I could, I’d take you there.


Heartbreak, acrid and lingering, hanging in the air, a tangible force in the evening light. Another feeling, intangible, lingering just out of reach – it’s the sweetest kind of sadness, succulent and juicy, fresh and full-flavored, tasting of everything I’ve ever lost.

Ode to a Stranger

You – watching me, watching you, our eyes meeting for a split second in the darkened window of the speeding train before I gaze away, blushing, ashamed of having been caught watching. You, with your separate, parallel life, our paths crossing just for one commute, never destined to meet again. You, reminding me in your silence about the improbability of finding love, or peace, or happiness, here in this chaotic world; you, out of everyone I’ve met, and I almost turn to you and say, “You look so familiar,” but that is unacceptable in our world, or at least in the place from which we hail, and besides, once our paths are entangled, snake-shifting and twisting around each other, well, there’s no going back – it’s a small world, after all.


You – with your story, untold, unknown by me, hidden in plain sight behind your eyes, shrouded in some sort of mystery that I will never uncover. You, with your home and your life, your family and your plans, your future, your hopes, your dreams. You, and the feeling I’ve lost something by not asking your story, oh stranger on the train, watching me – watching you.



I’m ready for liftoff,

And there she is – grounded.

I’d keep soaring,

As if no one had ever told me,

“Don’t burn your wings, Icarus,”

But there she is,

Saying she’d never fly too close

To the sun.

I’m ready to take off,

And there she is – earthbound.

Chaos Theory



Snow yielding to rain,

Order bowing to chaos,

A theory of everything spinning

Just out of reach,

In between the miniscule

And the magnificent,

A dance of two black holes,

Caught in a lover’s embrace –

The universe’s perfection,

Broken at its infinite bounds,

Like a circle curving



Are we nothing but shadows cast upon some nameless wall,

Chained here by either our lesser or greater fall?

Is the world so deaf to our call,

That it will not head the warning – do not enter this here hall?

I can say is that I gave it my all,

Especially for some nameless shadow, cast upon this wall…




Crepuscular clouds

And a dawn mist,

Rendered into one, the promise of morning

Against the timeless, ancient values of night,

Eclipsed by the brutal reality of day,

Seen in the sky like distant stars,

Orbiting but separate and never the twain shall meet,

Save for when they do,

For all those times a baby’s cry sounds to ring in

His mother’s last breath,

Or he, stillborn, does not speak at all,

Destined to be silenced in the cosmic noir,

Mute, but not forgotten,

Or when, at our final appointment in Samara,

We hazard to ask,

“O Glorious Death, what is next?”