Thursday, April 10, 2014


I Want to Write Something So Simply

by Mary Oliver, from Evidence

I want to write something
so simply
about love
or about pain
that even
as you are reading
you feel it
and as you read
you keep feeling it
and though it be my story
it will be common,
though it be singular
it will be known to you
so that by the end
you will think—
no, you will realize—
that it was all the while
yourself arranging the words,
that it was all the time
words that you yourself
out of your own heart
had been saying.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Sad, but also kind of awesome...

Learning to Read
Franz Wright

If I had to look up every fifth or sixth word
so what. I looked them up.
I had nowhere important to be.

My father was unavailable, and my mother
looked like she was about to break,
and not into blossom, each time I spoke.

My favorite was The Iliad. True,
I had trouble pronouncing the names;
but when was I going to pronounce them, and

to whom?
My stepfather maybe?
Number one, he could barely speak English -

two, he had sufficient cause
to smirk or attack
without prompting from me.

Loneliness boredom and fear
my motivation
fiercely fueled.

I get down on my knees and thank God for them.

Du Fu, the Psalms, Whitman, Rilke.
Life has taught me
to understand books.

A window onto the childhood of Franz Wright, who turned sixty last year and won the Pulitzer Prize in 2005 for Walking to Martha's Vineyard. This poem appears in F, his newest collection.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Scott's is celebrating Spring!

Welcome Spring by taking advantage of my limited-run Print Sale! “A Warm Spring Rain” is on sale this week – offering 25 signed prints at $75.00 each, sized 12x18. Email me at to order by Sunday, April 6. Feel free to share this post if you like. ~Scott Snyder

Thursday, March 27, 2014


by Scott Snyder,

If the ocean had a mouth

by Marie-Elizabeth Mali

I'd lean close, my ear
to her whisper and roar,
her tongue scattered
with stars.

She'd belt her brassy voice
over the waves' backbeat.
No one sings better than her.

Would she ever bite
the inside of her cheek?

Would she yell at the moon
to quit tugging at her hem,
or would she whistle, drop
her blue dress and shimmy
through space to cleave
to that shimmer?

What did she mean to say
that morning she spit out
the emaciated whale
wearing a net for a corset?

All this emptying
on the sand. Eyeless
shrimp. Oiled pelicans.

Within her jaws the coral forests,
glittering fish, waves like teeth,
her hungry mortal brine.
Copyright © 2014 by Marie-Elizabeth Mali. Used with permission of the author.

About This Poem 

"As an underwater photographer one of the things I love most about being in the ocean is interacting with a world that has nothing to do with me, a world with its own passions, social structures, dangers. The awareness that we humans are harming that world is always with me so I wondered what the ocean might say if given a chance."

--Marie-Elizabeth Mali

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Oh Marie, you get me...

Auld Lang Syne is one of the songs I sing to Jack at night to help him sleep. Such a beautiful tune.

Auld Lang Syne
by Jennifer L. Knox
Dad couldn't stop crying after Kathy moved him into the facility. When she came to visit, he'd cry and say he wanted to die. He said the same thing to the nurses. This went on for about a month until the doctor put him on an antidepressant especially for Parkinson's patients. The next time Kathy came to visit, she found him in the cafeteria, talking to some of the other residents and not crying at all--just enjoying his lunch. When it was time for her to go, he didn't cry, but rather calmly escorted her to the car. "Do you like this car? My wife and I were thinking about getting one," he told her. "That's very interesting," Kathy smiled, "because I am your wife." Dad chuckled, "Is that right?" He squinted over the palm trees towards the freeway. So many cars. Busy busy busy. "Well, we'll see you later, then," he said, and shook her hand firmly, the way he'd learned to do at Rotary. What funny new friends he was making. 
Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer L. Knox. Used with permission of the author.
About This Poem 
"Near the end of his life, my father proved to be, at his core, a very polite, chivalrous man. He walked the halls of the facility where he lived, introducing himself and shaking people's hands as he had done at Rotary meetings. He complimented the nurses, 'You have a lovely figure.' He could also eat an entire two-pound box of See's Candies in an afternoon, which requires considerable effort with stage five Parkinson's disease."

--Jennifer L. Knox 

Friday, December 6, 2013

for Friday

 (photo by Scott Snyder)

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.