Tarmac ribbons criss-crossing the landscape, dusty back roads twisting between the cool shadows of ancient pines, and less traveled pathways connecting present to past, all I wander, seeking, seeing, with my keyboard and camera capturing scenes and stories to share with you.

Now in its seventh year, this venue has become an important part of my life, a place where I can express my thoughts and feelings about the things I see and do, hoping the process brings me a bit closer to friends and family who enjoy sharing my sometimes chaotic and often nonlinear observations and ideas. A journal, I suppose, but one with which I find pleasure in thinking others are alongside me on my journey.

Comments, thoughts, or just a friendly chat, use the response box below or email me at patrickgroleau@gmail.com.

February 25, 2015


it’s not that he had a plan,
not he,
as he ran along the edge of the land,
“catch me if you can, catch me if you can”
laughing at the sea,
“oh no, not me,
before you wet my feet i flee,”
teased he,
“catch me if you can, catch me if you can”
until from a darkened main her voice, 
“supper, my boy, come home to me,”
made his choice
to turn from the shore, the sea,
“catch me if you can, catch me if you can”
said she,
“catch him if you can”