The mask comes off Compliant to hide Without shame Or justice
In a world That now looks like An old western Stage coach robbery Instigated By the masses
Perhaps We should all Wear black hats
At this stagecoach stop I find fences. Like masks, They let in a little light.
There are spots Of floral beauty. And up above The moon grins wide.
Falling into a trance With camera in hand The transformative flush Rushes through my brain Like waves Crashing on the beach Cleansing out The sticky muck Of stress
Soon The garden The light The moon And I Dance
The camera allows one to dispense of reality, and create new realities. An abomination for many purists. I have never thought for one second that photography can make one pure. Neither does its practice originate from a pure place. That does not make it impure. Seemingly a contradiction, only for those with chains and closed minds. All photos are in-camera multiple exposures.
We have been paralyzed Dismembered from reality From fear of the worst Of things unseen Yet knowable
Our spark Threatened Sends us running Armed with knowledge We police our neighbor’s stupidity
We will save ourselves From this calamity Then fall like leaves in autumn Into a collective sigh Of relief
Until next season.
I am not one to disobey governmental edicts. It has been many months since I have visited my favorite photography spots. Still closed. The span is over thirteen years that I have lingered in its forests and rejoiced by its waters edge. It is a place to decompress and come alive. Well….it was. Soon I hope. It is with simple microscopic knowledge that we have come to know viruses a little. Mixed with our fear of death we go straightaway to our basements and hide like mice and become mob-like. “Experts” are all over the place arguing and changing stories. Acknowledging we know very little, but just enough.
It was your decision to plant the canna Placing them strategically throughout the garden Technically, the root is edible But we will never eat them
So in the harvester’s mind….window dressing Though, Any flower that draws the pollinator Is welcomed here
I sat in the garden While nothing was happening I noticed the dozens of little butterflies Flitting with frenzied effort Looking for mates Looking to lay eggs On our green bean buds
West coast butterflies floated Like reluctant autumn leaves Refusing to drop to the ground They too, searching for pheromones The promise of larva Rummaging our summer squash
Just there Between the orange of the red cape honeysuckle Falls the light blue of plumbago Like the waters from a distant mountain. Within their marriage Dwells the wasp Searching out nectar And the eggs and larva of the butterfly
Yes, nothing was happening In this micro environment
The bottle wasn’t opened slowly It’s head was broken off against the bar And slammed onto the counter Ready for a fight and retribution
All manner of foam came pouring out Curses and laughter, anger and joy Mixed to make the bread of life
Like the sudden release of tension Of the bow’s taut string Pulled and aimed for so many days A thousand messages in one blended voice
Who cares about America’s 4th of July celebration? Well apparently, many people still do. After being instructed not to assemble and restrictions were re-instated, many people made it clear they have had enough “prison” time. Many people in my area had purchased fireworks and displayed their own mini-shows of appreciation (full-on aerial rocket type). Interesting, since fireworks are illegal in any form in my city. The city still did their show, they just asked that everyone watch from home. So we did. That, along with the full moon, the mask-less gatherings, the hoots and ahhhs of delight, all made for an interesting evening.