Photographic Impressionistic Illusionistic
Photography Without Rules
Mud on my shoes
In my blood
Smell the dirt
Forgotten memories
The warmth
Of my mother’s placenta
Rivers surge
Make smooth the hardest of rock
Constant rhythmic pounding
Pushed by a forceful heart
Driven to the sea
The big stew
How foolish
To wake up
Thinking
For one nano-second
This is a place to visit
When…
I am the mud
I am the river, the rock
A speck
In the big stew
“Hiking Notes”
The sounds of clamoring birds and coyote.
Trees struggle against the wind.
What little heat that has been absorbed
Flies away, creating an uneasy updraft.
I love this little spot of water.
It used to be a seasonal river.
Utilized by natives and nature’s children.
Progress found it a good site.
For money making.
Sand pits. Dredged by machines.
Concrete mix, trucks and bulldozers.
And when it was time to leave it.
Someone said, “we’ll leave the lake intact”.
Dress it up with liquid amber and oak.
Eventually, it became a reserve.
Where humans are considered the intruder.
Stay on the trails.
Leave the coyote and cougar alone.
I hear those machines.
Like songs from above.
The silent sound of warriors hunting game.
Girls crushing seeds in rock depressions
They speak to me
These spirits of former days
I try my best
To listen
Water’s edge beckons
Its cool calling
Irresistible
Attracted
To the song
Falling so easily
To the promise
No thrashing
Of life and limb
Drifting peaceably
Friends
With the clouds
And the moon
Long walks on the beach
Are safe
If you avoid
Vertical sandstone
Sandstone is unstable
Can fall apart
At any time
And smother you
So much better
To walk on it
After is has weakened
And fallen apart
Tread underfoot
All the little
Broken pieces
‘Til properly in place
Never mind
The singularity
Of intent or will
N’er a thought to that
All things in its place
The surface smooth
Flat as glass
Flat, perfect glass
Waiting to break
To explode
Revealing the chasm
Under self-exiled steps
Photographic Impressionistic Illusionistic 