7.8b Stories….

….and mine is just one

Flying in the dark
acting the part
“I know where I’m going”

It’s much easier
Now that most if it
Is behind me

But when I watch the movie
So many scenes
Lay on the cutting floor

I look for regret
Even he has flown away
Once kept in my coat pocket

All that work
Should mean something
More than countless struggles

She kisses my cheek
Says “good night”
Reminder of my gems

So many stories
Unfolding at once
Mine is just one

Metamorphosis 2

The decision
To fly to the sun
Seemed easy enough at the time.

We just wanted nice.
Not prone to violent swings.

But staying aloft
The thermals failed
And pushed us to extremes
We watched each other die
Many times.

Each corpse
Each empty shell of our former selves,
Fell to earth.
We flew against the cold
Wings stronger than previous

Where were those children
Looking for false dreams
Perpetuated by fools?
Through sheer will
With one lifting the other
While the skies folded in on itself
Did we find ourselves
On the other side.

Love is an odyssey whose only guarantee is that no one in it or practicing it will or ever should, stay the same. It is terrifying and painful, and wonderful.


To be specific
It’s the Pacific
That’s terrific

All photographs require “pre-visualization”.

Polar Coordinates is an action performed in Photoshop to create “tiny worlds”. In this case, I use the inexpensive Elements version. It requires a little clean up and manipulation….but is a bunch of fun, and mind bending results sometimes.

Metamorphosis 1

Love has no meaning
In the hands
Of selfish children

It is a word
Without foundation
Free falling
To inevitable doom

When the atomic bomb fell
We said our goodbyes
Full of holes
And lies

Watching everything burn
The flames
Ripped breath and lung

We were free diving deep
Into the abyss
Then in mid ascent
There’s not enough
To make it
To the top
There’s simply
Not enough

Freedom, identity, self-worth


This is where I go
When the world goes mad
Everyone telling me
I must choose a side now
I must pass judgment now

Every man
Is my brother
Good, or not good

I mourn my brothers
Whose lives are so broken
That they find themselves
Forcefully subdued

I mourn my brothers
That find themselves
Bestowed with power
Beyond their control

I find mourning much more pragmatic than picking, or making a side, which will ultimately yield nothing of value. It requires circumspection, introspection, and a willingness to suffer at the hand of all truths.
However, as long as I have lived, and from what I’ve witnessed, mankind simply lacks the wherewithal to make this the standard.
Seemingly, we just want vengeance, dressed up in all sorts packages. That approach will never address the core problems. When will we learn?