Layered, with poetry, weekly photo challenge

Catskill Mountains, outdoors, Photo of the Week, photography, poetry, upstate new york

Layered is the theme for this week’s Weekly Photo Challenge  that I have decided to participate in for the rest of the year.  How appropriate, as today at 4:02 pm is the time of the Autumnal Equinox, when day and night are about the same length.

Result: I will be forced to blog at least once a week. I will be forced to take a new photo (i.e. take a walk) or at least re-edit an existing one. If I decided to follow this week’s template, I will be forced to write new or re-examine previous poetry.

Today, I decided on the waiting woodpile as my subject. Stacked in late July, I have been waiting patiently to enjoy the fruits of my labor via a warm and comforting fire in my cabin’s wood stove. Still waiting…

Waiting wood pile on first day of fall

Waiting wood pile on first day of fall

COVER ME IN ORANGE | rebecca andre

Surround me

with an abundance of citrus-coloured coals

that promise a winter-long fire, an amiable warmth,

that seeps into the logs and into my soul.

Allow me

to lay down and nap on a fragrant fabric of leaves,

leaves like crunchy clouds, that take on cookie-cutter shapes

of hearts and stars and diamonds.

Carve me

a smirking pumpkin, a face eerily lit in the evening,

turning to a crooked grin in the morn,

as a layer of shimmering frost smoothes its sinister edges.

Let me

pass time at my stove, instead of my desk,

whipping up spiced cakes and all sorts of gourd-inspired dishes,

finished with nutmeg and cloves and mace.

Layer me

in scarves of crochet, in flannels and corduroys.

Camouflage my abundant curves in sweatshirts and woolen jackets,

as I dream of knee-high leather boots.

Cover me

in the handsome hue of autumn.

Dust me with its cinnamon scent…

Cover me in orange.

 

 

Kindred Spirts – a poem

outdoors, photography, poetry, Travel

Young caribou | Newfoundland

I got so close to her

I could see the glint in her eye.

With every step,

both our hearts pounded.

Exposed, but not in danger.

Alone, but still safe

as a swaddled baby.

Oh, sweet caribou,

don’t run away.

All that is pointed at you

is my lens.

becca andre | twenty sixteen

What is Poetography?

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What is Poetography?

These days, there is a proliferation of catchy text over images used to grab our attention on social media. Then there is…grrrr…Instagram, that takes a lot of creativity away from the photography and editing process.
ENTER: POET-OGRAPHER, def: one that marries creative images along side meaningful poetry/prose as an expression of art.
I would like to believe I coined this word, as it came to me at 3 a.m. one night, but alas, its already out there..google it. But thats ok. Spellcheck still doesn’t recognize it, which indicates it is a relatively new concept. It doesn’t change how I feel about the process, which is this: Poetography is my new Prozac. Capturing photos of places and people I love, then adding even more expression to the piece with words, is a form of art that I intend to promote and engage in for the rest of my life. Recently I’ve even been able to combine my love of music into my art, photographing local musicians, promoting them how ever I can, and this concoction of music, photos and poetry is a salve to the soul. Check out our Facebook page for some of the amazing talent I’ve been able to capture.

Poem from above:

In the loop

there is peace

cast after cast

waiting for the trout

to reluctantly rise

in anticipation

of the dancing flies

as we surrender

to serenity.

Poetry & Photography

Uncategorized

Snowy Hollow

waiting-for-winter-logo

WAITING FOR WINTER It seems so un-natural, this in-between time.  I raise my head and force a smile. I wait for the winter to come. To really arrive. Not with a fleeting flurry, but with a full on snow globe blizzard. I want to feel the weight of snow, as it pushes away  the November grey. With it’s blanket of clean, clinging to the bark, clinging to my insides. I long to see the snow stacked against the fence. A promising wall, a frozen defense, a gleaming reflection almost blinding, that heats up my face. And as the sickles form on the roofs edge, the sharp ice begins to melt in my heart. And as I sit by the flames I stare at the art that is these hills. It’s in this trance like state that I think I see you, honest as freshly fallen snow, walking my way. ©2014 Becca #105