Photographing a Landcape - A Meditation
This is Lucky Peak Reservoir in southern Idaho. I have photographed this location in both the spring and the fall. I was struck by how much of a difference there was in the light and color between the two seasons. This image was from the Fall. It reminds me of why I enjoy landscape photography; the canvas is always changing!
The rolling hills are brown and the water green.
The purple shadows fall in the deep ravine.
As the light retreats beyond the pale blue sky,
A small red fishing boat drifts slowly on by.
I watch the contour of the wind upon the sea,
As a flock of white birds float just beneath me.
A setting sun reflected in the yellow sage,
A dim magenta cast falls on nature’s stage.
A wisp of pink cloud to crown the lonely view,
Now,
Dial in the Aperture,
Set the shutter speed,
Adjust the ISO,
Select the focus point,
Add some exposure compensation,
Click!
And I smile as I record this brilliant hue.
Ghosts of the Interim
An old Alaskan fishing boat, decaying as she sits upon wooden blocks, a few letters of her once proud name visible on the tarnished hull. Add the reflection of some bystanders in the front window of the pilot house and you have the basis for the story told below.
In the interim between
the new and the old,
we cast our nets wide
looking for something to hold.
The days grow short
with each passing tide,
in deep Glacier Bay
along the steep rocky ride.
I crewed on her once
in that interim between
my two troubled lives
as I searched for my dream.
I watched the sun cross
our hard foaming wake,
in need of a fast cure
the sea’s soul to take.
The pilot was the owner,
the first mate was his son.
Cresting waves in the interim,
the work was never done.
I would think of her often,
a few moments of rest when
in between the hard hauls
for those clear moments then.
She sits alone there now
on blocks of dark wood,
forgotten as she fades,
only ghosts where I stood.
Her fishing days long gone,
broken ribs torn away,
the ghosts of the Interim,
all that’s left in the quay.
Gettysburg Dream
As I have stated elsewhere on this site, the Gettysburg battlefield is a mystical place for me. When I walk these fields on one of my many visits, I always try to put myself in the brogans of the foot soldier on both sides. I know the history of each section of the battlefield and many of the anecdotal stories that go with it. I know the names of many of the men that fought here; I’ve read their accounts of the battle. But having never been in combat, all of my insight comes second hand. Therefore, I have to rely on a few lines of poetry to imagine what it may have been like for those men at Gettysburg, or on any other battlefield, in those last few moments before the battle is joined. I elected to write this as a sonnet.
Gettysburg dream from two centuries gone by,
Kicking up dust on the road through the fields,
I see through their tired eyes that hot July sky,
The cause they all wield their only true shield.
I sense the fear that lies swollen deep in the gut,
It’s about a man’s honor they would all proudly say,
So they pray for the chance to make one final cut,
But if truth be told these souls would all slip away.
Slowly they march to the sound of sudden death,
I watch a flock of birds rising up through the dust,
A strange silence descends with each passing breath,
The torn banners a symbol of a cause that is just.
And then, as if in a dream, time begins to stand still,
As I mourn for the young men who are called to kill.
Revelation
I imagine that every age sees within its strife, the slow but inevitable advance of the coming end times. How can we not be fascinated and alarmed by the imagery of an apocalypse? If I were to experience my own revelation about our collective fate, it would be here (or some place like it); the hallowed ground of a battlefield that Joshua Chamberlain once called “a vision place of souls.” The photograph above is the Gettysburg battlefield at last light. Unlike Chamberlain, who fought here, I am drawn to this place for reasons I cannot explain. To create my interpretation of this photo, I incorporated some of the more powerful and enigmatic imagery from the Book of Revelation to supplement my own and, of course, borrowed the title. The end result here is both a poem and a prayer.
Late night ride upon the stallion,
Buffeting through the strong headwinds.
Blind eyes gaze upon the blood red form,
Sad hearts mourn beneath the storm.
As we gather round our mounds to pray,
And the stallions charge against the fray.
The poets walk among the seven stars,
With a black book bound with seven seals.
As four beasts stare full of eyes within,
Our fathers mourn their life of sin.
And if we ride upon this pale horse,
Will the sun and moon stay their course?
Speak thus so our ears can hear,
From each corner of this vast dark earth.
Angels with trumpets standing in the sun,
Spare us now from the fate of Babylon.
Reveal his presence upon the white throne,
From the first to the last, bring us all home.
On the 4th of July
The flag on a bed of roses. Very much the idealized, romantic and preferred image of ourselves. I am writing on the eve of this year’s holiday, when the current occupant of the White House plans to co-opt the traditional celebration of our nation’s independence for political purposes. Just another affront to our national character. I’ve stopped counting how many have preceded it. American Democracy is under siege in 2019. It also occurred to me that we bring flowers to funerals as well.
Stars for the States, stripes for the thirteen
White for purity and for the red and the blue
It’s Independence Day for the patriots
A day off from work
A day of sales for the conspicuous consumer
Fireworks for the little kid in all of US
A day of consumption for most of US
More of a time to forget
Rather than reflect on the true meaning of the day
From Francis Scott Key to Frederick Douglass
The meaning of the 4th of July
As numerous as the fireworks in the sky
Rejoice, Reflect, Regret, Remember
Take your pick on this national holiday
Forget, for now, the tarnished image of
The Other America
Or the proclamations of the charlatans who
Distort its meaning for political ends
Go fishing, take in a parade, drink beer
Watch a baseball game
For now… we can still bask in the ideal of America
It is a day for fun and forgiving
To float in a pool or lay in the shade
To eat burgers and dogs without guilt
In fact, it is our patriotic duty
It is the essence of our American-ness
But at some point during
This day of idealized frivolity
Make an honest assessment
Of where we stand as a nation today
Consider each star an unrealized goal
Each stripe, a wall that separates
US from true national unity
A true measure taken of how far
We have come and how far
We still have to go
Our imperfect Union is still
A work in progress
And this day above all others should
Embrace that simple reality.
The Bather
I understand that this is probably not the interpretation most people would have about this photograph. Let me explain: I have been obsessed with the singer/songwriter Mark Lanegan of late. If you know his music, you know many of his themes are dark. Add his deep sad voice to the music and you have a soulful sound that creates a somber penetrating mood; a look at the dark side if you will. So you have this semi-nude female of stone, large slabs of cold quarry slate, and a dark pool…and the song Bloodline, the inspiration for this poem. The sculpture is actually called The Bather, located at the outdoor sculpture garden, OPUS 40.
Soft touch on the steps of stone,
Feeling her way
Down to the black water brother,
Dark is the day.
Is she waiting
For someone to say
People are cruel to each other,
Live another day.
Slowly she slips from her gown,
Her hair falls away.
She steps in the black water brother,
A look of dismay.
Is she thinking
What others will say?
Tears fall from her eyes mother,
Far from the fray.
Dark water up to her chin,
Closed eyes betray.
The heart has grown numb brother,
Cold is the day.
Will she listen,
A voice starts to pray.
Is there a heaven sister?
Live another day.
Waking Up
As the last of my dreams
Fade into black,
Those movies of the mind
That take you back,
The Mourning Dove calls
in the pre dawn light.
My eyes blink open
In the cool dark night,
To the hum of the fan
So slowly turning,
Familiar thoughts in
My mind still churning,
From that previous life
In another time,
When the man I am now
Was still in his prime.
What I was then
Still a part of me somehow.
I get to choose
Which parts to avow.
And in so doing
I might yet change the past,
So that in my dreams, at least,
Only the good times will last.
What Is It (about the rain)?
What is it about the rain that makes you blue?
Is it the sound of the comfort we once knew?
I listen to the water’s steady drum beat,
Sometimes growing loud, sometimes turning soft.
A tired sadness washes over me while
The puddles form and the water trickles by.
It is dark and grey in the daylight,
Although the sky remains a shade of white.
The yellow lights are on inside the house
Where I sit warm and dry, but still I sigh,
As the water drops slide down the window pane.
I watch as the free fluid world outside,
Wild and wet with the clear rain shine,
Seems lonely in the absence of other life.
Everything slows down waiting for the sun’s
Return and the steady rain no longer falling,
To hear once again the sweet songbirds calling.
The Persistence of Memory
A face stares from beyond the years,
It was a child’s face I thought I knew.
He looked sad to me,
Locked inside with all his fears,
Beyond the space of many years,
Waiting for a friend to set him free.
In the discordant mist of my memory,
He seemed a great deal like me.
I want to tell him now,
In time, all things will be right somehow;
To share with him what I know,
How the closed doors will open as you grow.
When I reflect back on what I felt then,
With no idea as to what I could be,
I see this face, and I know it is me.
Shadow Figures
Run down through the charnel wood,
There beyond the darkened glen.
Where the crystal water once ran free,
Only strange things crawl around the bend.
Hidden deep within this hollow,
The shadow figures come and go.
To hide away vast sums of treasure,
And all the realms of knowledge known.
To plan for the day that’s coming soon,
When a dying planet breathes its last.
The reign of man will come to an end,
When the cities burn under a silent moon.
And what will be the fate of this earth,
When blue and green are no longer seen?
All that we built with our hands and minds,
Settles to dust with the passage of time.
Will the shadow figures cast a new light,
On some cold and distant brave new world?
Can we learn from the past and start again,
Or disappear along the deep shadow’s end?
Paris in the Spring
Young people in the gardens bloom,
Soaking in the fountain’s spray.
Under a cloudless blue sky we sit
Enjoying the spring’s first warm day.
Drinking sweet rose’ along the Seine,
Waiters in white aprons prance.
Watching as the long boats go by
While the street performers dance.
Tourists crowd the narrow streets,
Looking for tables in the sun.
To sip cappuccino in the cafes
As the skateboarders and joggers run.
Then set out upon the Tuileries,
Mona Lisa smiles from her wall.
Winged Victory and Venus de Milo
Stand proud in their stony hall.
We walk among the giant tombstones,
In the city of the famous dead,
Or lay flat upon our backs looking
Up at the long tower rusting red.
Stand inside the speeding metro,
Then touch the spirit of Notre Dame,
When history and culture combine
To create an experience so sublime…
Civilization Sings…
When you come to Paris in the Spring.
In a Sleepy Hollow
In a sleepy hollow not far from the river,
Beside the deep and narrow frozen lake.
By the cold shadows the mountains deliver,
We lie nestled in the warmth we make.
Waiting…for the ice and snow to slowly melt.
Wondering…if the grey mist will ever lift.
Hoping…for a shallow sun to warm the sky.
Anticipating…new sounds of life upon the water.
For the short winter days will soon grow mild
As the embers from the wood stove grow dark.
When green not grey, will be the color of the wild.
Then upon another spring we will soon embark.
Ecuador
A statue of the Virgin Mary in a darkened church square and a poem about unrequited love. I will let the reader decide if the poem is about romantic love or religious faith.
There along the far western shore,
A country at the center of the world.
Green mountains peek from behind the clouds,
Roaring waterfalls thundering loud.
The central highlands form the lofty spine,
Switch-back roads with no rails to guard.
Quiet sounds of exotic birds calling,
Soft soothing rain on the flowers falling.
The old town streets flow with life at night,
People say to me, “Buenas noches, Señor!”
Thin stray dogs with heads hanging low,
In the shadow of the sleeping volcano.
A sad woman in white by the church door,
Brilliant blue butterflies dance in her hair.
Hair as black as a dark Mindo night,
She prayed for me in the warm moonlight.
But with regret to this day, I walked away,
I left her there, alone in the square,
There along the far western shore,
Beneath the cloud forest of Ecuador.
Empty Truth
We now live in a world where truths are no longer absolute. Truth is a commodity to be negotiated like a commercial treaty. In this new reality of “alternative facts” we are confronted with versions of the truth; every company, every nation, every political party offer up their own agenda to a public easily persuaded. In this post-truth world what can we believe, if anything? Today’s truths are packaged according to pre-conceived notions, promulgated through the noise machine that passes for public discourse, and sold to the non-discriminating consumer. It’s an easy con and we fall for it every time!
Words as empty as an old well.
Politicians smile with impossible promises.
Ad-men entertain as they steal you blind.
Faith leaders prey on our deepest fears.
Lovers whisper till death do us part.
Truths as empty as my soul.
And why?
Because I let myself be fooled.
There is comfort in hearing
Only what you want to hear.
How easy to seduce!
How quickly we succumb!
There is more truth, I fear
In a single bark from a dog
Than any pronouncement of man.
Around the Bend
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.
An Empty Head
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!
Snow in the Trees
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
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.
Light in the Trees
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.
The Fine Art of Weeding
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.
