AMY R. BIDDLE - AUTHOR
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Poetry along the Journey

8/6/2016

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Hello beautiful,
it only takes one set of footprints
for thousands to follow.
Yes, you may.
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Drydock

2/14/2016

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we exposed our inner imperfections
defaced our bulkheads
emptied our ballast to crawl in the rust

some days it seemed like we would never be
whole again
but we reassembled stronger
piece by piece

​now it's time to sail again

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Time Floats On

1/5/2016

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time out here
moves like hot molasses
like melted ice
like race-winning tortoises
and if time is memory
then memory slips away
like a ferret through a crack
like a worm on a hook
and if my thoughts make me who I am
then I'm the Milky Way in Boston
phosphorescence at noon
the new moon

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and yet
despite
all that
every
​moment
here
or
there
is just as
poignant
as the
last
every
second
is
all
that
I will
ever
have
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David Biddle's Woodworking

10/8/2015

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Ever since I can remember, my dad's been doing woodworking projects. When I was a kid, this meant plywood cabinets and funky co-karts, but now he produces awesome beds and tables, bookshelves and cabinets, all in hard wood and hand-planed to perfection. For his birthday (OK for two birthdays) I helped him start to document his projects. Well, now he's got a website! Check it out - ​www.davidpbiddle.com.

Picture
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A Reflection on Salt Water

9/14/2015

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Picture
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Language Barrier

9/14/2015

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Ethical, graphical
Stereotypical
Doesn't it just tickle your tongue
We splurge on senseless smacking clacking
All the while minds are racking
Talking, joking, fibbing, passing
Rhythmic spasms
Open chasms
Delicate, intricate interactions
Split this world into factions
You can call it fact or fiction
Contradictions overridden
Exquisite space which we all live in:
Wayward world of tactless diction

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The Beauty of Imperfection

9/5/2015

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Picture
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In Appreciation

8/14/2015

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Picture
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Turbulence

8/7/2015

2 Comments

 
Picture
hovering just above normal
                                       just below sane
                               we imagine
                      a line but the edges are blurred like rain
           approaching 
infinity but never reaching
                                     the expectation
                            and we imagine 
                  perfection but the results are varied not stained
         encroaching 
 into our bliss
                    a constructed ideal
              which we imagine
        exists but reality is lost without pain
   exfoliating
our souls

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Talking to Myself

8/3/2015

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