To the Mediterranean Sea,


There is nowhere I feel more myself then in your glassy folds, reflecting sunlight on a bright June morning.

I am your daughter.

There in the middle of the planet, in between two worlds, I feel your strength and your ease. Like the comfort a child feels when they hear their mother’s call, I feel at home when I hear your waves crashing around me.

You are majestic, but we wouldn’t know by how peaceful you look from atop. It’s funny how I always seem to come back to you at the end of the season. Your inviting waters provide the freedom from everything I’ve left. I could lay on your shores and listen to your roar hour after hour, day after day into eternity. This is my ode to you, oh sea.

Like the bee who collects nectar from the honeysuckle flowers, you sweeten my mind with words to write and rhythms to play. It’s not curious at all that such a force could make me feel so alive. If could I would sail your waves forever in that little sailboat of mine.

There’s something about going back to you that makes me feel like I’m coming into my own. Maybe it’s something that has to do with my skin bronzing to it’s natural olive underneath your scintillating sun. Maybe it’s the blue in your waters that light my eyes into icy green flames. Probably, it’s your salty mist that tangles my hair into uncontrollable waves.

I think it’s your magic. I always comment as I cross your waters near dusk that I hear voices in the distance and something calling from the water. I joke that it must be the Odysseus’s sirens calling from the little alcoves, but I know I shouldn’t joke. There is definitely music, and if you listen close enough, it will spontaneously begin to play underneath your waves.

Yearning for you,

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Series of Short Poems


Wintery Summer

everything green,

everything serene,

here in this land where we convene,

near the marine, oh how sweet is the scent of evergreens

in between this deep ravine.


The Writer

Black as night,

the writer sits staring into coffee grounds that help her write those stories of fright,

in the blight of spring,

when most unexpectedly the stars gleaned an azurite,

but now she heads into the floodlights,

to a new road,

taking off in flight.


Perpetual Spring

And now comes a time,

the girl sits back and rhymes,

at the end of the night

there’s the squeezed limes next to empty glasses,

and though it’s just March,

summertime is on her mind.


Pike Place

The people come and go,

flooding sidewalks like cargo,

they walk in front of her camera,

but they don’t know,

they make the perfect photo.



And on the radio are snippets of Jack Kerouac,

his deep voice resounds in the car front and back,

these girls screaming almost like they’re on prozac,

but no its just good ol’ jack and their eagerness to get out the car

and hike with their knapsacks down the ocean floor into more,

talking and talking of the world as if they were living breathing almanacs.


City Coffee

Yeah, early morning drives into the city of many street lights

for a good ol’ cup of joe in the pacific heights,

breaking bread,

literally toast,

and ultimately skipping class instead.

What blokes.

I cook to discover.

I think it was Flannery O’Connor who wrote “I write to discover what I know.” As a writer, that rings true. But more often this summer, I’ve found a great appreciation for the art of food.

An idealist some of the time, I try to construct histories and narratives of objects, faces, and places to bring me to my present state. All this is too complicated for a college girl wanting rest her brain over the summer months. Well, I’ve decided to ground my self in something as simple: cooking.

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It did not take me long to realize how much of a mistake that statement is. “Simple” and “cooking” should not be in the same sentence. All the more “simple” and “baking.”

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After sunken soufflés and popped profiteroles I opted for no lesser a difficult feat: la galette.IMG_7816

Fold, fold, fold. Pleat, pleat, pleat. And suddenly it had been three hours. Three hours filled with French Cafe music and twirling around the kitchen while knocking over flour and teaspoons.


I wouldn’t call myself a master baker. But I’m damn well proud of myself for making this piece of provincial yumminess. In any case, I had a blast. I tuned out from the world for a good three hours and rocked out to accordions. Sure I am the ultimate nerd, but hey I can make a damn good galette. Here’s to many more floury failures and tiny culinary victories.

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Bon Apétit