Soft Rain

James Molloy May 12, 2020

Come spring a soft rain will fall.

Tears from above to cool us all.

Some relief from the hot ash of decay,

And still the silent flower blooms.

A splash of color against the sky.

Under the porch, the Robin eggs are blue.

How can there be so much death, I ask,

If the birds continue to sing so true?

Why did the sickness wait so long,

To catch us up as the days turned warm?

Mother’s creatures roam beyond the fence,

Not knowing or caring where we went.

Penance for the fool in each of us,

For callously losing our way.

Blind to reality, a destiny not our own,

We are told to embrace a brand new day.

Living life on the edge of a blade,

As we quietly bury the dead.

While the soft rain falls upon us all,

So many things left unsaid.

Alone in the Desert

James Molloy March 27, 2020

Alone in the desert,

Beneath the hot blue sky.

I walk the shifting sands,

In search for a reason why.

The sickness seals me in,

I await the judgement call.

Silent dreams soon deferred,

Racing toward the fall.

My memories of the past are gone,

Lost in the desert sand.

Swept away by the dry wind,

I count my blessings on one hand.

I look for the promised message,

Out beyond the flowing dunes.

A prayer for my God,

Under a waxing moon.

Once a haven for my soul,

The empty beauty of this place.

I long for the market voices,

To come and fill my empty space.

And lift me from this haze,

of cloud and sun and sand.

To hear the sound of hope,

I will offer up my hand.

The Setting Sun

James Molloy March 5, 2020

When will we learn to run

Straight away from the setting sun,

To look instead for what is true?

Where do we go when standing still?

How do we grow

When we embrace the old?

Falling fast for what never lasts,

I let my vision go!

A rising sun meets the pre-dawn light,

To reveal the path we know is right.

Though some souls will be left behind,

Change does not come to those who doubt.

So we must grow

To embrace the new.

Rising high to touch the sky,

I let my vision show!

I have always been fascinated by the history of the Oregon Trail. The hope and the courage displayed by these “overlanders”, in search of a better life resonates down through the centuries. This photograph was taken just outside the Treasure Valley … — I have always been fascinated by the history of the Oregon Trail. The hope and the courage displayed by these “overlanders” in search of a better life resonates down through the centuries. This photograph was taken just outside the Treasure Valley not far from where the Oregon Trail passed through these foothills around Boise, Idaho.

Mountain Pass

James Molloy February 4, 2020

A light shines from beyond the hills,

a beacon for us all.

The snow lies deep upon the ridge

One must pass to reach the bridge

to cross before nightfall.

Through the mountain pass we labored,

bundled against the cold.

Silent footfalls in the blowing snow,

Wagon wheels creaking as we go,

to carry a hope so bold.

The pines were dark against the sky,

with secrets no one knew.

Dark shapes moved among the trees

With yellow eyes we could see,

never stepping into view.

Memories of the dry Plains recede,

we dream of fertile fields.

Remembering those we left behind,

With thoughts of those yet to find,

our future soon revealed.

The mountain pass opens before us,

a trail to the valley below.

So far to come to seek a home,

So many miles have we roamed,

of life and loss we know.

The United States is about to conduct an impeachment trial of the president; the third in the nation’s history. Somehow I knew, three years ago, that this is where we would end up. The social and cultural divisions in the country have hardened the p… — The United States is about to conduct an impeachment trial of the president; the third in the nation’s history. Somehow I knew, three years ago, that this is where we would end up. The social and cultural divisions in the country have hardened the political camps and the spirit of compromise, the essence of our democratic system, is all but impossible to achieve. A cloud has settled across the land as Americans retreat to their respective sides and await their collective fate.

Clouds in the Corn

James Molloy January 19, 2020

There are clouds in the corn.

The sunlight begins to fade.

The crop is ripe for harvesting.

Shadows climb between the stalks

As leaves of grace begin to bend,

Bowing to the will of the weight

Of an oppression cloaked in white,

Rather than embrace the fresh wind

That brings growth to the fertile field.

Row upon row marching to the sound

Of cold fear in the dreadful silence.

And all the voices we once heard,

Uplifting cries carried on the breeze,

From one corner of the field to the next,

Resounding in a united chorus of

Common purpose and common cause,

Now silent in the shadows of the clouds

As they await the reaping they have sown.

Red Wings

James Molloy December 16, 2019

With red wings I could fly

through the blue colored sky.

Without a care in the world

for what I might find.

Buoyed up by rolling waves

of warm pure air.

I would flutter about with

no time to spare.

Constantly searching for

a soft place to land.

A flower that would have me play

my part as SHE planned.

And together we can bring joy

to those who are sad.

Finding truth and meaning

in the few hours we had.

To leave a memory

one could admire,

From all the joyful tears

the angels inspire.

And knowing when it came time

for me to die,

They could still look for my red wings

as I fly high,

Somewhere up in the blue colored sky.

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 re… — 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!

Photographing a Landcape - A Meditation

James Molloy November 27, 2019

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.

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 sto… — 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.

Ghosts of the Interim

James Molloy October 22, 2019

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.

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 eac… — 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

James Molloy August 9, 2019

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.

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, … — 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.

Revelation

James Molloy July 25, 2019

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.

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 … — 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.

On the 4th of July

James Molloy July 2, 2019

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.

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… — 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.

The Bather

James Molloy June 27, 2019

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

James Molloy June 2, 2019

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)?

James Molloy May 26, 2019

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

James Molloy May 6, 2019

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

James Molloy May 2, 2019

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

James Molloy April 9, 2019

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

James Molloy March 7, 2019

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.

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.

Ecuador

James Molloy March 5, 2019

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.

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 p… — 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!

Empty Truth

James Molloy February 6, 2019

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.