nomad. sometimes poet.

There was a time

when I believed mermaids lived beneath the tide,

their silver tails stitching moonlight through the sea,

and fairies slept inside old tree trunks,

breathing softly beneath bark and moss.

I never wanted to outgrow those stories.

The world felt kinder with magic in it.

More beautiful, knowing we shared the earth

with creatures gentle and glowing,

because not all humans know how to be beautiful.

Some people stare too long at the different,

point fingers at wonder,

teach us to shrink ourselves

just to be accepted.

They build a world where fitting in

matters more than feeling alive.

But why can’t we believe in hidden worlds?

Why can’t there be kingdoms beneath the waves,

or forests humming with ancient beings

who still remember how to love without judgement?

Why must reality be limited

to only what tired eyes can see?

Sometimes I think the sea understands better than land.

The ocean does not ask you to change.

It does not laugh at softness

or punish strange hearts.

It simply opens its arms

and lets you sink into another world.

I imagine diving deep enough

for the noise of humanity to disappear,

my fishtail swaying with the current,

passing glowing creatures with pearl-white eyes,

watching castles bloom from coral and light.

Down there, nobody asks you to fit in.

Nobody measures your worth

by how well you hide your differences.

The sea keeps no cruel opinions.

Only wonder.

Only freedom.

And maybe that is why

I still choose to believe in mythical things —

because this world can be heavy,

and magic gives the soul somewhere beautiful to breathe.

i have seen the fog turn to a greasy film on glass and the men in shirt-sleeves have all gone inside leaving the windows only to watch the rain meet the cobblestones

it would not have been worth it...after all to split the day open like a ripe peach then to find the black stone at its center

or: “Brine Blood”

I called you from the deep,

with a voice that drips honey and salt,

under a moon half-drunk and washed-out,

like dreams you forget by morning.

The sea

a lover with a thousand faces,

a mother who never held you.

Beneath the waves, mermaids whisper

ancient vows

and songs of self-destruction.

I wore seashells for earrings

and blood-red coral for lipstick.

The ocean wanted me as his bride,

and I surrendered,

mouth half-open,

like in a prayer.

I was once a girl of the shore,

but now I braid silences with seaweed

and swear upon shipwrecked moons

that I’ll never return.

The world down here is quiet,

and the only sound

is your heart

breaking slowly.

Like a wave on rocks

that never bleed

I traded my voice for an eternity of pain and ever since, I’ve become sea foam drifting in the turbulent waves.

I cut, slice, and scoop pieces of myself out, desperately expelling the load, but all I’ve done is drop anchors into the sea, a sitting duck ready for canons to blow.

Saltwater sting in each axe I lodge, and flesh decayed to something I can’t recognize, snaps me back to reality that I cannot dodge.

my arms like salt, but I cannot be stopped, and melting to brine, when I reach for land, Because once my eyes opened and I muzzled my thoughts, the tides changed to bring me to sand.

now that I’m human I want to tell you everything. I wish you could be the prince to handle the wreckage I’ve left deep in the sea, and that true love’s kiss return the voice stolen from me.

my scars that were once my reminder, to always open the jar before it overflows, became ones that the ocean cleaned and atoned.

aching to sing

a new lullaby,

hears only

the ocean's

last goodbye.

The first time she saw him

She immediately knew that 

She was done for

The fisher was the most 

Beautiful creature, she’d laid her

Eyes on

She was always fascinated by the 

Mortal way

They had met at the dock near the 

Summer houses

To him in that darkness

She was an ordinary girl 

Nothing too special about her

She had never met anyone who 

Intrigued her the way he had

Her mother told her to stay away from

Life above shore, and that they 

Would never think the way

That they did

But he was different 

They talked every night 

Hopes and fears

Love and loss

Past and future

He was everything she wanted 

But he’d never love her

She tried to use what she had

To get him to see what 

Was waiting for him

Tried charming him with her song and

Beauty, but he’d never come

To terms with the treasure below

He was too afraid of what

People would think

Afraid that if he got too close, he would 

Lose her

Although he’d sail the sea for her 

They’d never 

Be on the same current

Her mother had been right 

And she’d been disappointed

He’d disappear,

But her thoughts 

Of him would

Come back in waves

Still wet—an old t-shirt

keeping the wind off my chest

Feet bare, carefully navigating

this abandoned stretch of the old coast road

Dodging pebbles—

sand rubbed and brushed away

except between my toes

Sycamore leaves hanging like laundry

drying from the storm

And the smell of sagebrush

warming in the morning sun

I’m reminded in this moment

of how we met:

    You, carrying a journal of words

    both arms wrapped around

    and tucked under your chin

Guarded by your almond eyes

that still drop me to my knees

When I walk north along the sand

at midnight, or unleash

and dive deep into the underwater world

it’s you I see

I’ve heard you as well, on the shore

beckoning my return one more time

My merrow—

bringing me back each and every fucking time

You alone understand my words

of muffled surf and heavy foggy air

Bless the Wind that gave you flight

and the Sea that gave me her eyes

Washington Post is paywalling the article but it looks like Taylor Farms — a consumer bagged salad brand that also supplies produce to grocers and fast food chains like Taco Bell, Walmart, McDonald's, Chipotle, Burger King, KFC, and Meijer —may be at least one of the sources of the current cyclosporiasis outbreak.

Long-tongued, termite-munching numbats are no longer endangered due to decades of successful conservation efforts, the global authority on the status of the natural world says.

Also known as banded anteaters, the status of the pint-sized marsupial has improved to near-threatened on the International Union for Conservation of Nature Red List. ''Today's assessments show that long-term, strategic and collaborative conservation effort works,'' conservation biologistJohn Woinarski said on Friday. ''Without it, invasive cats and foxes will continue to drive Australia's small marsupials and native rodents to extinction.''

Read more: Numbats no longer endangered but threat far from over - The Australian Museum Blog

What if I don't write a sad poem today? What if I talk about the good things instead? What if I'm just happy I got out of bed? What if I didn't obsess over what others have to say? My body rejects it, being happy, at peace but what if? But what if I just cried without overthinking it? What if I let all of the heaviness go? What if I accept the things I don't know? & Stopped clinging to those who make me feel like shit?

Fake it 'til you make it is what people say, so what if?

The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple (1854–1860) by William Holman Hunt.

The garlic came in a little too well this year, but the neighbors are more than happy to take some - and send you off with their own extras. Someone brings up the zucchini incident and you all laugh a little, knowing you’re still trying to get rid of the damn things.

There’s a group of kids that come by every afternoon to see your goats. You swear the goats know, because they’ll all shift closer to the front and not five minutes later you’ll hear them running down the path. They always ask before they pet, and you’ve never yet said no. You were the same when you first saw them, so you’ve no place to judge; not that you would, really. They soak up the attention like dogs, stubby tails wiggling until the last kid begrudgingly heads home.

The rusting car in the field is their favorite climbing toy. It’s been years since you’ve heard the rumble of an engine. Summer is still, well, summer, but the three-degree days are limited and fall really feels like fall, not just a slight respite from the blistering heat. There hasn’t been a shooting in almost a decade now. When you head out holding your partner’s hand, the only response you get is smiles and fond greetings. You’ve started sketching again, just for the hell of it.

Your roomates are attempting to make dinner and so far haven’t set anything on fire, though they seem a little less focused on the stove and a little more absorbed in tormenting each other with terrible dish ideas. You let them banter for a bit before jumping in with spaghetti and marshmallows. Horrified stares quickly turn into hysterical laughter, and someone wisely comments that they might want to keep their appetites a bit longer. It’s nowhere close to perfect, and certainly not professional, but it tastes like home, and that’s all you need.

It’s not a perfect life, but it’s a good one. The world hasn’t ended yet. With any luck, you’ll make sure it stays that way; the harvest festival is coming, and those zucchinis are getting handed out to anyone in range.