To the Catcher of Salt and Earth

Daily dabbles and works of my poetry, prose, paintings and photos plus goods from others.



(Source: bushbumper)

I don’t like this expression “First World problems.” It is false and it is condescending. Yes, Nigerians struggle with floods or infant mortality. But these same Nigerians also deal with mundane and seemingly luxurious hassles. Connectivity issues on your BlackBerry, cost of car repair, how to sync your iPad, what brand of noodles to buy: Third World problems. All the silly stuff of life doesn’t disappear just because you’re black and live in a poorer country. People in the richer nations need a more robust sense of the lives being lived in the darker nations. Here’s a First World problem: the inability to see that others are as fully complex and as keen on technology and pleasure as you are.

Teju Cole  (via filthyyuckysteveandbucky)

forever reblog

(via mensahthomas)

(Source: yayfeminism, via bobschofield)

(Source: ablacklodge)

Ramblin Jack Elliot and Woody Gutherie

Ramblin Jack Elliot and Woody Gutherie

(Source: mountain-hopper)

Sending out written word and mildly celebrating the blooming of my Tillandsia, she will have but one bloom for her lifecycle, her “pups” growing along her will take over from here. 😌


Photography project entitled Eyes as Big as Plates (Norway and Finland) by © Karoline Hjorth & Riitta Ikonen.

(via wildhobbitjam)

Siphoned banks.
Wet backed in animal grass that grips the edge with lengthy green claws stopping itself.
Limestone bones whitewashed by seasonal nudes when the unhappy tree says again how little life it knew.
Chert arrows, glass flint ringing as it meets another stone body, singing of their estrangement.
Grey clay walking, pompous coils of white snail shelling, little abandonment.
Ignorant and unseasonal fossils. Plaques of previous time, sessile low living embroidered as lithic lace. How marvelous your oration.
Sheds of the annual deer always nervous where it goes, lean ears conducting his symphonic wary.
The quail run, it’s shallow scuttle, it’s quiet fury, that apostrophe bird owning it’s bramble home.
Hedgeapple trees, their curious brain-fruit, citrus green and cerebral textured, ample with bulk they heave a response in a muffled huff when earth calls them nearer.
The land I know. The overburdened prairie. The reed sea. Far away from any of you. How I adore it’s story, how I am made of its tenured histories.

What keeps me is absolution, life and death’s friendly fire.

—To the Catcher

(Source: livalskare)