The harbor was quiet except for the distant hum of the barge and the occasional lapping of water against the pilings. Our small group from the Olympic Photo Club stood in scattered silence, cameras poised, each of us drawn into our own frame of the night.

I focused on the old dock, its weathered beams stretching over the water, bathed in the soft glow of the nearby barge. The reflections rippled gently, bending light into golden threads that shimmered and faded with each passing wave. It felt like standing in a place caught between time—silent and still, yet alive with movement in the dark.

I pressed the shutter, capturing the moment as it was: fleeting, quiet, full of stories whispered on the water.

This poem is really personal to me because it captures how it feels when you’re constantly stretched too thin, trying to do everything for everyone else and hiding how much it’s costing you. I wrote it for anyone who knows what it’s like to push themselves past their limits, not because they have to, but because they don’t want to let anyone down.

I’ve always struggled with setting boundaries. I take on too much, and even when I know I’m running on empty, I still say, “It’s fine, I’ve got this.” But it’s not fine. It’s exhausting. You tell yourself, “Next time, I’ll take care of me first,” but then next time comes, and it’s the same all over again. You just keep going because you feel like you have to.

For me, it’s not about being seen or appreciated—it’s about holding everything together, even at my own expense. And I don’t want anyone to see how hard it gets sometimes. It’s easier to hide it than admit that you’re struggling. But I think a lot of people can relate to that feeling of giving too much and forgetting to take care of yourself.

This poem is for people like that—for people like me. It’s a way of saying, “I see you, I get it, and you’re not alone.”

“The Ghosts We Grew Up With” dives into childhood imagination and fear inspired by family ghost stories. From the eerie tales of a grandmother’s haunted hotel to the chilling shadows of a basement pantry, this is a nostalgic look at how ordinary spaces become extraordinary through the lens of youthful wonder and terror.

I took this photo during Sequim’s Tractor Parade of Lights, and it inspired me to write the poem. The glowing lights, Santa riding along, and the festive spirit of the night were too magical not to capture in words. I hope both the image and the poem bring a bit of that holiday magic to life for you!

No One But You came from a quiet moment I had on Thanksgiving Day out on Ediz Hook. I remember standing there, watching a lone sea lion stretched out on a weathered dock under this deep cobalt sky. The harbor was faintly buzzing in the distance, but right there, everything felt still and timeless.

The scene really stayed with me—the dock, worn but steady against the tide, and the sea lion, so calm and at ease, just gazing out toward the hills like it had all the time in the world. It felt so personal, like the moment was just for me.

That peacefulness inspired the poem. It’s a reminder to find those small, grounding moments of stillness—even on a busy day like Thanksgiving—and to appreciate the beauty in just being present.

When the Crowds Drift Away came from my own experience of watching Port Angeles change with the seasons. In the summer, the town feels so alive—there’s energy everywhere, with busy streets, laughter, and the harbor full of life as visitors come and go. But when fall arrives and winter settles in, everything slows down. The crowds leave, the docks grow quiet, and the town almost feels like it’s taking a deep breath, resting for what’s ahead.

I wanted the poem to reflect that shift—the calm and stillness of the off-season, when the town feels different but no less beautiful. It’s a quiet time, almost like hibernation, as we wait for spring to bring it all back to life again. It’s something I’ve always loved about Port Angeles, how the seasons shape its rhythm and its spirit.

This is the photo that inspired Watcher of the Veil. Seeing the raven perched there, surrounded by the clouds and mountains of Hurricane Ridge, felt like stumbling onto something timeless. The way it looked out over the misty expanse wasn’t just passive—it felt like it was quietly guarding the boundary between what we understand and what lies beyond.

I was completely alone on the Ridge that early morning, and the whole moment had this quiet, mysterious energy that I couldn’t shake. That feeling stayed with me, and over time, it turned into the poem. The raven became a sort of watchful guardian, holding secrets it would never reveal.

I came across this mossy old picnic table during a hike on the Olympic Peninsula, and it immediately sparked my imagination. That’s how I came up with this fictional story about a family who vanished there on a foggy October night. In the story, people claim to hear whispers, see shadows, and feel like the table is watching them. It’s completely made up, but it’s fun to think about how a simple, overgrown table could hold such a chilling mystery!

One foggy fall evening at Lake Crescent, I came across a worn Carhartt shirt, half-buried by the shore. At first, it seemed like just a forgotten relic, maybe left by a hiker or fisherman. But with the mist curling around the lake, my imagination ran wild—what if it belonged to someone who wandered too far?

Lake Crescent has this way of feeling mysterious, like it’s holding onto secrets, and that shirt felt like part of its story. It’s amazing how something so simple can spark so many questions.

While hiking in the Olympic Peninsula, I came across this tree with a face carved into it by woodpeckers or maybe some other wildlife. The “eyes” and “mouth” looked so distinct that it gave me chills, almost like the tree was watching me.

That moment set my imagination spinning, and I came up with The Watcher, a fictional story about a vengeful forest spirit trapped inside an ancient tree. In the story, the tree becomes a sinister presence, waiting for anyone foolish enough to get too close. It’s all made up, of course, but the eerie “face” on that tree was all it took to inspire this dark legend!

Whispers in the Fog came from a quiet morning when I took this photo at the harbor in Port Angeles. The stillness of the scene completely pulled me in—the fishing boat gliding silently through the mist, the weathered dock holding steady, and the soft reflections on the water. It felt so calm yet filled with mystery.

It got me thinking about moments like this, where the fog seems to soften everything, wrapping the world in a kind of peaceful pause. That feeling stuck with me, and I tried to bring it to life in the poem. It’s about finding the quiet magic in the unknown and appreciating the stillness these moments offer.

This is the Sol Duc Ranger Station, but I love to reimagine it as something more. There’s a timeless quality to it, nestled in the forest like a quiet observer of history. When I took this photo years ago, I couldn’t help but feel like it was more than just a ranger station—it became the inspiration for my poem The House Time Forgot. In my mind, it’s a mysterious cottage, holding untold stories and surrounded by whispers of the forest. It’s fun to let my imagination wander and see this place in a completely different light!

"The Quiet Path" reflects a longing for a slower, more intentional life—one where meaning is found in the small, everyday moments. Choosing this path means stepping away from the rush and noise of the world and instead making space for what truly matters. It’s about tending a garden, savoring a sunrise, or enjoying the comfort of a quiet day.

Pursuing a slower life isn’t about giving up; it’s about choosing depth over speed and embracing a pace that allows life’s beauty to unfold. In these small, deliberate choices, we find peace, contentment, and a richer appreciation for the world around us.

Whiskey Bend Trail feels like a place between worlds, where the forest leads and the earth hums with life. This post reflects on that experience, paired with my poem capturing nature’s quiet music.

This photo and poem, The Quiet Test, capture a special moment I noticed right on my back deck. This dark-eyed junco was perched in the branches of my Japanese maple, quietly going about its search. It wasn’t singing or calling, just gently tapping and moving as if it was testing for signs that winter might be loosening its grip.

The poem reflects that careful, hopeful energy as the bird checks the buds for hints of life, feeling for the subtle promise of spring. Even though frost still lingers, there’s this sense of anticipation—like nature knows the change is coming long before we do.

For me, this moment was a quiet reminder of the patience and hope that comes with each season, especially when you stop to really see what’s happening in the world around you.