I remember the exact day, taking a left getting on 410. I thought damn this can’t be real, now I know what it’s like.

burning the old year

visual-poetry:

letters swallow themselves in seconds.
notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

so much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.

where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
i begin again with the smallest numbers.

quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things i didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.

– naomi shihab nye

(via visual-poetry)

image

As much as technique matters to me, after practicing some less serious illustration, I can admit to the value of less detailed and proportionate work.

Through rose colored glasses red flags just looked like flags.

I can’t figure out if I don’t want to remember, or if it was just that brief

First one was fueled by hope. Second one was fueled by half hope and half grief. Third one was fueled by uncertainty, anger, confusion, sorrow, and necessity.

lucky you being the last in the series gets the most developed technique