Melinda Foshat

Poetry, Prose, Photography

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The Power of a Photo

In a few short weeks I will be moving to Florida to work as a photographer. This new chapter of my life has inspired me to reflect on my love of photography. As an artist, I always search for the deeper meaning in everything. I always believe there are two sides to every angle: one that is well known and one which is often hidden from the world. In the past, when taking photographs, I would often move a rock or leaf to give my picture an edge or a certain look. However, recently, I have enjoyed the challenge of changing nothing and instead working with exactly what I am given.  Since adopting this approach, I have yet to move any object in my photographs because doing so would only manipulate the truth and undermine my attempt to reveal such obvious truths which remain invisible to the conventional eye.

It is my mission to share my photographs while developing my own unique perspective of the world and myself.  I have always believed the real beauty of the photograph lies not in the final product or what the photo depicts, but rather in the act of taking the photo. The photograph itself will always be a piece of paper but the process of looking through the lens of the camera and capturing a small glimpse of life is somewhat miraculous and divine.  Photos have the power to move and make change in other peoples’ lives but when you take a photograph you are making change in your own vision and empowering yourself.

© Copyright – All rights reserved – – April 29, 2013


Where do Orphans go to Burn?

Where do Orphans go to burn?

The children, awake as they shake stillness from their wooden cots,
Hide remnants of their ignorance, beneath the tangled threads of a shagged sheet.
Through the holes of what once a stranger’s robe,
Unfamiliar, yet the only family they’ve ever known,
Their eyes fixate on the twinkling sky; the only time their heads held high.
And the stars in splendor catch their disillusioned gaze,
As they reminisce a light that once was.

The children, who never sleep, would watch, watch the scarlet streamers
Dance, leap across the crooked cracks as the fiery pit awaits its cue.
The roof, heavy with miseries, stretches its arms to embrace them,
Falling into the blackness of their eyes, it falls forever.

In their beds, warm for the first time, a warmth they never knew existed,
They burn––quietly, content, alone––
Their only comfort; teddy bears with broken arms.

And for once the pain of internal wounds cease their pounding.

© Copyright – All rights reserved – – April 21, 2013