Somewhere around the bend
My future waits its turn.
I cast my light both far and wide
To see what I can learn.
Out there in the ether
The shadows dance on walls.
The light reveals what I conceal;
All the dark memories I recall.
Sometimes you are with me.
More often I’m alone.
The past is always present
On this journey far from home.
As I slowly make the turn
I face what I most fear;
In this moment of my weakness
I cannot shed a tear.
The words were there
Then they were gone.
Dancing round the
Deep subconscious
Waiting for a
Hand to write them
Down. Perfect pearls
Of lyric verse
With a message
Clear and sublime.
Floating there in
The fluid of
My silky sleep;
Just repeating,
Half suggesting,
So compelling.
Words that no mere
Waking moment
Could produce with
Any dramatic
Effect. And thinking
These words firmly
Recorded to
Be retrieved in
A few short hours,
The images
Faded to black
As my body
Tossed and turned,
But with a sense
Of confidence
Knowing that the
Achievement of
The poet in
My splendid dreams
Was secure. And
Then I woke with
An empty head!
Branches bend under the blanket’s weight.
The world slowly turns to black and white
With sharp contrasts outlined bold and straight.
Nature insulated in the grey daylight.
The world looks unnatural but pure and clean.
What feels dry is wet and burning bright.
The path I followed is no longer seen.
The world is strangely silent to me.
Just the hollow sound of a cool wind stream.
Small flecks of white slowly falling free.
The world grows cold in the vanishing light.
I face the solitude I came to see.
As the snow in the trees illuminates the night.
I often think of the color black,
an unnatural shade that takes me back
to those dark days before the dawn
when my soul withered beneath her scorn.
Where else in nature does it appear,
hidden deep within the heart of fear
or those dark silent moonless nights
where nothing grows in the absence of light?
Is it even a color at all,
to show autumn’s dance every Fall
or catch the spark in a child’s eye
or the shades of blue in the morning sky?
I think not, in the end,
to think of black as colors blend.
It only exists with our passive consent
to color the world with my discontent.
We stand firm against the sun
Leaving our muted dust behind.
A smile for all eternity,
The bedrock lover’s rhyme.
And all there is in life to do,
We search among the shadows fall.
Living not for our dying day
But breathe instead the lighted way.
Down on bended knee,
the evidence of sad neglect
lies before me.
Tufts of green clumps sprout
among the rocks.
Paper, cloth and memories
piled high or boxed away
in dark closets
and the dark recesses of my mind.
Resigned to the task at last,
I begin the work of peeling away
the vast clutter of my life:
All the unread books,
All the unrealized dreams,
All the too tight jeans,
All the sad regrets,
All the friends who
are friends no more,
And the damn weeds!
With a subtle twist of the wrist
and a sharp yank at the roots
(remember to get the roots or
the weeds will return
in numbers larger than before)
…the battle begins.
Once lifted from the soil,
I lay the casualties aside,
turning a blind eye to
what I have done.
I feel both liberated and sad,
but somehow more in control of
my newly fashioned life.
A cleansing of the soul
can only begin with
A cleansing of your space,
inside and out.
Down by the river the boats quickly flee
The old man by the tree is staring at me
Self conscious eyes burn into mine
Two distant souls in need of a sign
To the panorama of the river I turn
As the wind whistles its lamenting concern
Faint music from across the river drifts by
The pulsing sun is warm in the sky
People fishing by the dock talking loud
My thoughts lost in some ephemeral cloud
A young mother sits on a bench in the shade
The currents of my sad regret soon fade
Down by the river in this small river town
The old man by the tree, I realize is me!
I had to go; to see it for myself, as difficult as that experience was going to be. At one point, as we moved among the barracks at Auschwitz, I came to this open window. I was struck immediately by the symbolism of that open window, suggesting to me the hope of escape and freedom. I wondered how many lost souls once stood in that spot gazing out of that same window dreaming of an alternative reality; one that placed them beyond the wire and the tower that were clearly visible within its frames. This poem attempts to tell that story. You will immediately recognize my debt to Ambrose Bierce’s Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. It seemed to me the perfect vehicle for telling this story as well.
Through the open window
and down the spotlight path,
far beyond the darkened tower
and the shrouded sentry’s wrath.
I float above the humming wires
to the copse of trees beyond,
where the air is damp and fresh
with my soul I will abscond.
For so long I’ve contemplated
this final moment of release,
to taste the dew of freedom
from the horrors that never cease.
To rejoin the living world
and leave all fear behind,
with the promise of tomorrow
we will repair our lives in time.
So come at last sweet sanctuary
I reach out and touch your face,
just as the iron doors clang
and they rip me from your grace.
This photograph was taken on a recent tour of Central Europe. This is the Charles Bridge in Prague which is lined with religious iconography including this crucifixion scene. I lost track of the number of cathedrals and shrines we visited, but they all had one common denominator; great displays of wealth and splendor. I have always been struck by the dichotomy of extreme poverty in the shadows of great wealth. Particularly when that wealth is embodied by the Christian faith; a faith based on humility and the grace of the dispossessed. Go inside any of these cathedrals or walk across the Charles Bridge and you will find the faithful, but also the curious, the lost, the poor. Walk a few blocks in any direction and you will see more of the same. I cannot help but think that some of this wealth could better serve the poor I saw on Charles Bridge.
In the far away places of my memory
we saw misty mountains from the ridge.
The cathedral looms above the square
like Jesus on the Bridge.
Dark stone towers mark the crossing
as we work our way through the crowds.
The faceless vendors hype their wares
in the shadows of the clouds.
The homeless man kneels before me
outstretched arms extended wide.
With palms turned up in supplication
a sleeping dog by his side.
A few coins for absolution
and we hurry along our way,
to the next tour attraction
fighting back feelings of dismay.
All this splendor amidst the poor,
the palace shines upon the ridge.
As we look down upon the lost
like Jesus on the Bridge.
Late summer by the river,
I watch the shadows fall.
The kids have left the nest!
Wondering,
Where will they turn up next?
Alone or together,
We are heading for the Fall.
Dispersed,
The seeds to the wind,
The birds in the air,
Continents away but
We are still here.
Where will life take them?
Can the journey be safe?
We are born to fly and born to die,
Forever contemplating why.
We just do and rarely see.
Let the sun rise over the trees
As the clouds drift on by.
Sitting alone in this chair
My hand moves across the page,
Liberating my thoughts from
The haze of a silent dream.
Empty nest, so they say,
Is the start of a brand new day.
The dog and me and Mary too!
Together we will watch the shadows fall
And the breeze ripple across the water.
As the squirrels gather their nuts
And the brown leaves slowly curl,
As the nights grow softly cool,
The endless summer comes to an end.
The birds have flown,
The flowers wilted,
The fruit is ripe on the vine.
Sad to know
They were all once mine!
As my summer comes to a close,
I think of summers gone by.
Summer is for kids
Who are kids no more.
Autumn is for us.
The twilight of the year.
The days grow short
As the years disappear.
But the young birds return
For many summers to come,
And see new flowers grow,
And know where they are from.
I became a grandfather in the summer of 15. It was like a second fatherhood; a second chance to get it right (although I do believe I was a pretty good Dad). But being a grandparent is special for the simple reason that you get all of the delights and very few of the fights! We are here to spoil him, as my son and daughter in law often remind us. Still, the joy is overwhelming. Just to watch him play and then grab me by the hand to come join him. "Pop", he says, with his still limited vocabulary, and I am there! With each visit there is something new to discover; a kind of time-lapse evolution unfolds before us. He is taller, his hair is shorter (we wish his parents would let it grow), his memory better than my own, his curiosity; limitless. I carefully observe the earnest innocence of the very young and I wish I could freeze just that in time. You smile and wonder what life has in store for him, and pray that his problems then are as small as he is now.
In the spring of 18, my second grandson joined our family. It is his picture you see above.
I. On the birth of my grandson!
Oh, what joy you inspire with
your timorous baby's cry.
Yours is a world of form and shadow;
of sounds distant but yet familiar.
Breathe in the soothing sharp air so light.
An innocence as pure and white, like
blossoms of Queen Anne's Lace swayed
in the warm summer breeze tonight.
Reaching and turning to our delight;
eyes still closed but always looking up.
You never stop reaching for the light!
ll. Though you could not see the smiles as
you kicked and jabbed with all your might,
you instinctively knew you were loved.
All swathed in cotton and lace,
you were passed from one to another.
A gift so precious and unique
in all the world, there can be found no other.
Helpless though you may be, you are perfection;
the latest edition of a glorious form.
Always reaching for the light!
lll. Circumstances of birth as provided by providence
and secured without question by all who love you.
My world is not your own; endeavor to make it better.
The time and tide of fate will light your path.
Reach out to your destiny with each passing year.
Always reaching for the light!
lV. Rocking in the sun, delicate as Queen Anne's Lace,
I wonder, as I gaze upon your gentle features,
where we both shall be sixty years hence, and I
pray with all my might, we are both in a better place.
You, in a world far more forgiving, among those you love,
and me among the memories.
Our time together will be brief, but you will know
my story as surely as you write your own.
Soon you will smile and walk and speak,
and see clearly what truths form in the light.
Never stop reaching for the light!
Who can deny the metaphorical power of a wall; from separating borders to symbolizing adversity. They are pervasive in our history and our culture. From the Great Wall of China, to the Berlin Wall, to the very structures in which we live out our compartmentalized lives, to the barriers in our own minds; they permeate our existence. These walls only serve to isolate, imprison and diminish us, but yet we are somehow always willing to build more. The wall in this poem represents that moment in life when a person hits that height of despair and contemplates the most final of all decisions. The images in the poem were inspired by this photograph of a graffiti filled wall in an abandoned factory complex. Writ large in a bold white background, one word stood out!
Wall of graffiti, writ large with despair.
Troubled soul in need of repair.
A moment in life, the moment is now.
Now and then.
Now and then.
To contemplate dreams and see it all fail.
To throw away life in an emotional gale.
And who will judge in the end?
Right or Wrong?
Right or Wrong?
It should admit of first choice,
If you want to choose.
Take the next step, just one life to lose.
Life or Death?
Life or Death?
But contemplate this before you decide:
The wall is not thick, it crumbles inside.
Look beyond now, another day waits.
A life worth living,
I can see!
I can see!
When I took this photograph, I knew I had something special. When I processed it, I thought I had something spiritual. Start with the subject's white dress as she dances between giant hot air balloons as if she is participating in some kind of ritual or ceremony. White, of course, symbolizes purity and innocence. As for the balloons; at some point they will rise into the heavens taking their faithful passengers on a fateful journey. This balloon festival was like a religious experience for the participants. With this in mind, I incorporated a variety of religious allusions into the poem. Consider the purity of the faithful as they ascend into the cloudless blue sky, the redemption of the spirit as it floats in the soft morning light, and the joy that presages the long anticipated journey to another place. I hope you enjoy both the photograph and the poem.
White summer dress in
the soft morning light.
Bold vibrant colors
anxious cries of delight.
She spins through shadows
dancing with balloons.
A transcendent spirit
her faith subsumed.
A cloudless blue sky
and the rush of hot air.
Earthly tethers release
at the county fair.
They slowly ascend in
the waterless sea.
These shiny bright orbs
are finally free.
The cameras click as
the ritual unfolds.
Crowding the sky
with translucent souls.
And the woman in white
feels redemption at hand.
As the risen fade from view
dancing to a new land.
Come Sit for Awhile - We have lived by a lake for over fourteen years now. In our current home the water is just fifty feet from our back door. There is a certain comfort that comes from lakefront living. There are the obvious recreational activities that it can afford; a swim in the early evening after a hot day, the surprising pleasure of landing a fish in the early morning light, or just floating in a tube with a beer in hand. But those are not the things I find most pleasurable. It's the sights and sounds of the lake I most enjoy; the ever changing patterns of the surface as the wind ripples its way across the cove, the long muted reflections of a glorious sunset, the sound of the geese honking their instructions to all who would listen. Yes, this is why we choose to live by the water. The solace to the senses is a form of meditation that allows us to escape, however briefly, those troubles of the soul. So I say, come join us and sit for awhile and lose yourself in the moment.
The mournful train whistle so near,
like contrails in the sky mark time,
remind me of why I am here.
The clock and the calendar chime,
as they count each breath I will take,
I drift through the years of my prime.
So I come to sit by the lake,
in the cool late afternoon shade,
and bathe my senses in its wake.
Golden silence as the sun fades,
soft hollow whisper of the trees,
sinful glow on dancing leaf blades.
Feel the pulse of the wind tease
dark water into dappled light,
hurried along by an unseen breeze.
See the setting sun through eyes shut tight,
whisper to your soul with style,
hear the song birds sing with delight.
So I say, come sit for awhile!
No thoughts to intrude,
No task left unfinished,
No guilt to assume,
No regrets to conceal,
No words to cause pain.
When the geese call,
leave with a smile.
So I say, come sit for awhile.
Stars that dip beneath the trees,
cast a light so I can see,
beyond the shadows near,
but far from my reality.
Moon glow round the trace,
summer breeze upon my face.
Only loneliness do I fear,
I stand alone for the human race.
Then a sliver of pulsing white,
hung in the dark trees so bright,
no glorious fanfare did I hear,
just beauty in a form so slight.
As if God himself heard my call,
with only hope against the fall,
a truth to which I can adhere.
I need to know, once and for all.
Inspired by Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
Running the Payette
on an afternoon in June.
Confined within our raft,
helmets and vests secure.
Water foaming white
above the shoals.
Working together
and sometimes not!
We struggle through the rapids
and glide along the pools.
A guide to help us steer
between the breaks.
Always on the lookout
for the strainers and the rocks.
We paddle hard
to maintain our course.
We hardly notice
the shores on either side.
Or the beauty all around us!
Moving much too fast,
trading risks for thrills.
For it is not the destination
that counts.
We all get there
by and by:
To the flatwater!
It is the ride we make,
the obstacles we avoid,
The danger we dared,
and the teamwork.
The shared sense
of experience,
And the relief when
it is all over.
Life is like running the Payette
on an afternoon in June.
I admire good street photography but I am very cautious when it comes to executing it. Taking candid portraits of people in the street is a delicate matter. Lets face facts; very few people like having their picture taken! Even fewer without their permission. The dilemma, of course, is that the best street photography occurs when the photographer captures his subject unaware. What is the obligation of the photographer: To always ask permission and get a release? To shoot first and ask questions later? Or to operate with a measure of stealth that is, at the very least, a violation of privacy. I have asked permission in the past, but to be honest, most of my street photographs are taken without the subject's knowledge. I try to tell myself that they are in a public place which I have a right to record. However, there is always a level of guilt attached to these stealth photos. I can understand why celebrities hate photographers. Another element is that very often the most compelling photographs capture individuals at a difficult moment in their lives. I do not want to be a voyeur, but I do want the compelling photograph. So I take the risk and take the shot and feel extremely uncomfortable doing it. And yes, from time to time I am confronted. I will try to explain what I am doing and why. Sometimes I walk away with the shot and sometimes I don't. The poem that follows was inspired by a photograph I took in St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City. It was the holiday season. This man seemed...tired. Once again, I try to remind myself that photographs like this raise our level of social awareness and just may lead to some collective attempt at mitigating the circumstances of those in need or at the very least, promote a sense of empathy.
I stop and stare and wonder why!
What brought you to this time and place?
Music from his soul whispers a sigh,
Shelter of stone in this homeless space.
I snap the shutter with silent regret,
An image framed in sad neglect.
His inner light a distant star,
A silent prayer echoes from afar.
The homeless man and the passerby,
There but for the grace of God go I.
And who am I to judge this poor man?
His soul knows more sorrow than others can.
Time is a beach,
only water and sand,
nothing else in between
the wet fingers of my hand.
One ends and the other begins.
The future forever becoming the past,
and the present just an illusion,
to make me think time can last.
I wade into the wake
if just for a short while,
so I can catch a glimpse
of your sweet fading smile.
But the light from your eye
like the light from a star
is light from the past
no matter how far.
Time indeed marches on.
We slip in and out of its wave,
building our sandcastles,
looking for something to save.
The passage of time is no ally.
From minutes to hours the years go by.
From long decades to years,
only hours and minutes lie.
I watch the sun arc across the sky.
I count the lines on my face.
I listen to the clock mark the seconds fly.
And my arrow, its arc almost complete
moves ever closer to the sea,
upon which someday
its tarnished tip will be.
When I decided to go down the poet's walk, I purchased a thick used anthology of poetry. I started with the familiar names. I read Yeats, Wordsworth, Frost and Thomas, and Edgar Allen Poe. I was also inspired by a photograph that I shot on a wet, foggy morning. It's a black and white photo of a neat row of tombstones in a churchyard. One name was clearly visible on the center stone: Alida
She came on a ship
from across the sea.
A chance meeting in church,
Alida and me.
A gaelic ginger
as fair as can be.
A soft freckled face,
I can still see.
So soon after marriage
we moved by the sea.
A cottage on a hill,
where we could be free.
Young love in a hurry
our souls became three.
We had a child,
Alida and me.
A mother's death after birth
Oh, how cruel fate can be.
We now meet in the churchyard,
Alida and me.
And as Poe might have written
in his kingdom by the sea;
I live for our daughter,
My Annabell Lee.
A March wind blows
and the shadows fall.
In the hard sunlight
singing branches call.
Last of the winter snow,
dirt brown upon the ground,
looks somehow out of place,
exposed to long days now found.
Birds in the trees seek shelter,
not beating to an unseen tide,
or soar high above the gusts
with feathered sails spread wide.
And I behind my window,
reflected in a pane of glass,
bask in the warm bright rays
and listen to the wind's echo pass.