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Location: Blade Runner Sim
(SNM) Sadly No More
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
moon, you
-Gregory Richard Barden-
you ...
are my moon
(whisper me, coolly)
wan and pale as porcelain
milky moll - `china doll ...
dancing the sky like a Ginza geisha
stars tickling your toes
prettily petulant, and perfectly ...
imperfect
my moon ...
(whisper me, wondrous)
warm ... lemon drop on my tongue
teasing me to your fire
feral fool ...
I, the unwary prey - the Mandarin moth
charmed by your glisten
listen - do my wings flutter ...
or my heart?
moon ...
(whisper my name)
round and radiant - red as a cranberry
tart, sweet, luscious-lipped
dipped fruit, forbidden ...
peek-a-boo clouds of mixing emotions
stormy weather sighs
soft flesh pressed to softer ...
your kiss
my moon ...
(whispering madness)
beryl blue sadness and distant as dreams
obscured by brume and illusion
erotic suffusion ...
you pull on my blood like tidal bore
gibbous or gone
your glow is my utter apogee ...
affectation, pure
you ...
are my moon
(whisper your wishes)
I am magic, bathed in your pearly enchantments
face turned, or commanding my heavens
you are ever true ...
hues and moods in multitudes
all meant to melt me
to drip like honeyed passion ...
when you ...
whisper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anxiously awaiting the upload of Camera Obscure 3rd edition from Imperium Publishing. Hoping this is the week. The new addition includes the original and new poems plus 55 images in monochrome.
"CAMERA OBSCURA is a collection of poetry and images that draw on Melinda’s experience as an artist and photographer—translating her keen sense of visual awareness into works that engage us. But her poems dig deeper than merely presenting an image. They bring insight to her world, and ours."
SNEAK PEEK! The cover of the upcoming new edition of "CAMERA OBSCURA." The book has been out in paperback with poems only, but the work has always been about translating the visual. This new hardcover edition will include 55 monochrome photographs as well. Perfect for your coffee table. STAY TUNED!
=======================================
Click on the image to see it against a black background! Certified eye-grabber! :)
-----------------------
© pinoyphotog 2011
all rights reserved
Camera Obscura third edition just received its first review:
“It’s a softly beautiful book visually. The words, though, carry the strength of a mountain range.”
– Debbie Carden, singer/songwriter
At the top of a hill
close to the county line
i found her falling...
A house
that once held
laughter and tears...
so silently she seemed
to be dying..
surround by fencelines
and weeds...
the old barn
stronger than her
faithfully stood
at her side...
His memories too
have been many.....
the rust on the silos
spoke of time
standing still
against blue skies...........
and the reaping of
seeds once sowed
on furtile land.
.
I call this picture accidental mistake.
There is comfort in the blur a sweet reminder to focus On the step in front of me and not the whole stairway.
There is comfort in the blur that blurry pictures are raw, beautiful and chaotic.
I find comfort in that blur.
San Juan tambien es conocido por la variedad de vendedores que ofrecen su mercancia. Este por ejemplo vende sus mantacados de distintos sabores como podemos ver en su carrito. Justo en el momento que yo iba a oprimir el obuturador de mi camara, el se voltea y me observa como queriendo decir, " te regalo uno de mis mantecados si quedo bonito en la foto", amigos flickeros, tuve que irme con las ganas de saborear uno de esos, ya que no pude cumplir con sus exigencias!!!! jejejejeje, son bromas mias, creo que quedo muy bien.
The Ride to the Falls is actually downhill here at the last...thought it would look a little funny flat as in reality it slopes down and to the right. Should I leave it real or level it out? Comments welcome. This is looking toward the Canadian Falls. It is behind Goat Island there in the foreground with the mist of the Canadian Falls rising in the back around the sun. Those are buildings from Niagra Falls, Ontario nearby. NOT HDR
THE OBSERVER (JHWatkins)
(Thanks to that great photographer and preacher Albert Einstein)
Standing…point in time…the observer changes what he sees.
Nothing is observed without changing it.
What do you see?
Beauty observed is beauty changed…
Observers see answers.
No answer is given without a question.
What do you change?
Observing, the observer is changed.
The observed changes the observer.
What do you change?
What do you see?
Observing is not limited by time…Time is a river…
Observers ride the river.
Eventually, what we observe becomes a part of us.
Observing…I have seen the Observer…
And truly…He has seen me.
James Watkins 11-13-2008
The third edition of my poetry book Camera Obscura is now available! Additional poems and 55 monochrome photos added to this addition. The images are referential, not illustrative.
[Edit: there has been a printing issue that needs to be resolved. I'll keep you updated.]
My first chance back to Niagra Falls this year..I am always amazed and overwhelmed by its power and beauty! This is the true color of the river there for those that haven't been...Just a very dramatic place for those who have eyes to see. The natives seen here seem to like it, too.
A poem of myself (So far) (James Watkins) NOT HDR
I was shot from a gun,
chased by time
past pig, pain portals-
beyond blood battered walls,
whetted, washed, and wondering.
My stars burning,
growing in love’s lucid light,
nursed and nutured in stone-
flooded and flowering
in bare…
Bright dreams.
Childhood
floated down driveways,
fell sweet from scented,
hidden lookout trees-
bicycles for breakfast-
mothers, brothers,
and families for free.
Secured by father,
knee deep in friends,
i ran -hair on fire-
blazed in brightness-
weekend wild-
bludgeoned by desires-
and tendered by traps
and crimes.
In storms i slew myself-
jumped solid ship into timeless sea,
filled the ancient heart longing,
healed the word wounded warrior
of the soul.
Made peace with time,
sucked fullness of day and night,
walked in smoldering suns,
swam clear deep streams-
and sang the song of songs!
Torched by bridges,
burning face first
into new dawn,
came full round the sun circle-
armed with nuclear wings-
violently flighted,
fast falling forward-
to fathom beginning and ending
of all things.
And ride the flood waters
of opening plains-
with multiplied words
of tortured kings-
resting, completed, tempered, and full-
in fallen disguise of my destiny.
James watkins 4-2007
no hdr.shot over Goat Island..toward Canada from New York.....this is the director's cut of a previous shot...highlighting details and not so saturated..this is very close to the colors that were present...The water of Niagra Falls is a shade I haven't seen anywhere else in a fresh water falls. For me, one way to tell if the white balance is correct is to look at the different shades of green in the tree leaves and see if they are realistic and here they are. The evergreens are bluer while the deciduous trees have more yellow in the leaves that haven't turned. And truly this is the color of that beautiful water!
A poem of myself (So far) (James Watkins)
I was shot from a gun,
chased by time
past pig, pain portals-
beyond blood battered walls,
whetted, washed, and wondering.
My stars burning,
growing in love’s lucid light,
nursed and nutured in stone-
flooded and flowing
in bare…
Bright dreams.
Childhood
floated down driveways,
fell sweet from scented,
hidden lookout trees-
bicycles for breakfast-
mothers, brothers,
and families for free.
Secured by father,
knee deep in friends,
i ran -hair on fire-
blazed in brightness-
weekend wild-
bludgeoned by desires-
and tendered by traps
and crimes.
In storms i slew myself-
jumped solid ship into timeless sea,
filled the ancient heart longing,
healed the word wounded warrior
of the soul.
Made peace with time,
sucked fullness of day and night,
walked in smoldering suns,
swam clear deep streams-
and sang the song of songs!
Torched by bridges,
burning face first
into new dawn,
came full round the sun circle-
armed with nuclear wings-
violently flighted,
fast falling forward-
to fathom beginning and ending
of all things.
And ride the flood waters
of opening plains-
with multiplied words
of tortured kings-
resting, completed, tempered, and full-
in fallen disguise of my destiny.
James watkins 4-2007
There are times to use discretion when saturating colors...autumn is not it :}
Every Season Has Its Own Glory (James Watkins) not hdr
Every season has its own glory,
Every purpose has its own time,
Every moment has its own story,
Every story has its own line.
I have walked deep into cities,
Shining brightly never to fail,
Listened to heart cries,
Lost in the morning,
Standing on corners
Stagnant and stale.
Where is the hope
That brought forth the laughter?
Where is the song?
The music unveiled?
Why are the choices so
Wasted and bitter?
Gathered in hatred,
Broken and pale.
I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,
Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-
Fired by the framework
Of perfect perspective,
Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.
Come now and sing of mists in the forest,
Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-
Come and behold the delicate balance
Of seasons and reasons and rhythms
And birth.
There are the voices lost in confusion,
Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-
Calloused and cold the circling convenience,
Crippled commotion emotions prevail.
Beacons in quiet of last true performance,
Heralded nature in singular cause-
Perfect and pure
Though wasted and slandered.
Washed by confession
In smoldering awe.
Severed connections, squandered projections-
Revered reflections by stammering tongues-
Coined by controlling contriving convections,
In different directions now written in stone.
Now is the time to look to the heavens,
Now is the moment to take up the cause,
Now is the voice of blazing amazement,
Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.
Listen to stream, listen to forest,
Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-
Listen to voices rolling like thunder,
Come drink of the waters
And dance with the dawn.
Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,
Facing the force of the burgeoning call-
Strong in the seasons of life and creation,
Firm on foundations that never will fall.
James Watkins 09-01-08
This is just before the falls drops off over to the right. The mist cloud in the middle back is the mist rising from the Canadian Falls. You are looking from the American Side through Goat Island to the Canadian Falls..
A Generation on Eve of Election
or
A Generation Headed Down the River-Politics Never Were the Answer
(James Watkins) no hdr here
This generation is stuck on the bulwark,
Frozen in headlights gathering stones-
Indiscriminate sons of the morning,
Actual assets with merits unknown.
This is the light of internal combustion,
Self deprivation, contiguous bones-
Crushed in the conflict
Of rising occasion,
Lost in the moment
The monument grows.
Dancing with moonlight,
Moonbeams in starlight,
Ridiculed remnants that rattle and roll-
Quixotically quoted in
Careless collusion,
National parlance
Of future payrolls.
Pay for the privilege,
Pose for the prattle,
Pause for refreshment,
That causes the cure.
Simple deliverance in
Smokescreen obedience,
Rationale railways
That run on the ruins.
Come to the purpose in patriot persuasion,
Stand in the gap with righteous reward,
Fly in the face of cupcake convention,
Pulses of power that pull
At the thorns.
Hold fast in fear; don’t fall at the junction,
Waste away weather maps
Conjugal forms-
Flailing at formats with frogs in the foyer,
Padded with passive, political porn.
Packed into parlors with pigs of persuasion,
Multiplied monsters still fixed to the floor-
Pass on to poundings of crux congregations,
Critical mass for the petrified poor.
Crept in concealment configured in catacombs,
Built on the fragments of families forlorn-
Terrified teamsters with tales of their talisman,
Tickled and tortured, then swamped by the storm.
Fancy faced forecasts with fabricate filters,
Lies at the bottom where captives are shorn-
Files of the caveat castaway cheviots,
Horns of the altar now cut to the stone.
Sanctified delegates step to floor-
Out on the borders, go right for the snore.
Sniping at mystical magical merchandise,
Mopping up munchkins with heroes galore.
Gift of gab purposeful prophets in paradise,
Parabolic poetry prose-
Deft and defiant in damaged conclusion,
Filled up with ideas but stuck in the door.
Pamplified pollsters perched on the pedestal,
Pale prognosticates barren and bored-
Doubters and doers and leaders and lovers,
Catch me the top of the hour has flown.
Dudley dead do-rights don’t come down a crashin’
Cackling crackers conducive to scorn,
Capped out and crapped out
In Wall Street enduros,
Boiled down to futures and factual whores.
Just enough knowledge to keep them from happiness,
Just enough money to keep them enthroned,
Just enough polish to keep each one sparkling,
Just enough selfishness keeps them alone.
James Watkins 09-02-08
These gulls like to live dangerously. They are 100 yards from going over Niagara Falls, but feel perfectly safe here in the rocks and rushing water. For sure no one is going to bother them, and they look quite peaceful and happy. Some seem to be observing the beautiful fall leaves while others just listen to the water RUSHING by them. It is the fastest moving water I have ever seen in person, but it looks like it is feathering the photograph in honor of the gulls.
A poem of myself (So far) (James Watkins) NOT HDR
I was shot from a gun,
chased by time
past pig, pain portals-
beyond blood battered walls,
whetted, washed, and wondering.
My stars burning,
growing in love’s lucid light,
nursed and nutured in stone-
flooded and flowering
in bare…
Bright dreams.
Childhood
floated down driveways,
fell sweet from scented,
hidden lookout trees-
bicycles for breakfast-
mothers, brothers,
and families for free.
Secured by father,
knee deep in friends,
i ran -hair on fire-
blazed in brightness-
weekend wild-
bludgeoned by desires-
and tendered by traps
and crimes.
In storms i slew myself-
jumped solid ship into timeless sea,
filled the ancient heart longing,
healed the word wounded warrior
of the soul.
Made peace with time,
sucked fullness of day and night,
walked in smoldering suns,
swam clear deep streams-
and sang the song of songs!
Torched by bridges,
burning face first
into new dawn,
came full round the sun circle-
armed with nuclear wings-
violently flighted,
fast falling forward-
to fathom beginning and ending
of all things.
And ride the flood waters
of opening plains-
with multiplied words
of tortured kings-
resting, completed, tempered, and full-
in fallen disguise of my destiny.
James watkins 4-2007
at the top of the hill
above daisys blooming..
is a tiny graveyard..
surrounded by
a rusty fence..
the gate has no road....
one must walk the path.
from the meadow below
it seems
to touch the clouds...
There a poet sleeps
on pillows of words
100 years
of buried time...
I go there
hoping to hear
the words
lingering
in the wind..
that speak only
to those
who hear
such things...
where the wind
whispers thoughts.....
long forgotten.
Beginning a new art journal. Pen, watercolor markers and watercolor. Doodles and free writing. Partial words read: A vision of passion...a vision of lasting paint...a vision of open languages...a vision of expressing light...a vision of sacred be(longing)/being...
#artbyshantadevi #art #artjournal #artjournaling #artjournaleveryday #artisfreedom #freewriting #thoughts #doodles #pen #watercolor #sketchbook #blackartist #paint #thirdeye #faces #abstract #freeverse #blackgirlswhodoodle #blackgirlswhopaint #blackgirlswhoartjournal #moleskine #streamofconsciousness #colorful @primamarketinginc @prima_watercolor @moleskine_arts @moleskine_world
These people are of all ages...16 to 96. This photo is in a blurred state, so as to accentuate the attached poem mostly. I used a monotone look and then hand brushed colors to resemble the photos of the 1930s - 1950s!
I am doing a book review on Create a Poem by Chartwell Books, to be published March 2021. I took one exercise from the book and wrote the following. The title was to be about life and I had to use ten specific words, given in the book: state, spirit, body, destiny, memory, time, sacrifice, purpose, existence, death. I ended up with some pretty heavy stuff, I guess.
The Cycle of Life
The Child
As children, we eat, play, sleep, and grow.
We learn to read and count.
We explore the boundaries in which we live.
What do we want to be when we grow up?
What will be our destiny?
They say…
Let the spirit of childhood blossom.
Nurture creativity! Encourage critical thinking skills.
Mold good character in the child.
Encourage sensory play and learning.
Teach respect for the elements of our world,
so the Earth will be beautiful and healthy for generations to come.
But, when will I grow up?
I just want to be a teenager.
The Teen
Can we, uh, please just have some freedom?
We need to be with our friends. Can we have a few dollars?
Maybe we can borrow the car? Maybe get a part-time job?
What? We must pay for our own gas in the car?
They advise us…
Focus on getting a good education for the next 8 or 10 years.
High School Graduation
What do we want to do with our lives?
What kind of a job will we have in the near future?
What will be the next chapter in our lives?
The Child is a Grown-up Now
We are stepping out into the world.
Got a real job and a paycheck.
Got our own place. But got bills.
Maybe got married. And now got a family!
Got responsibilities – that’s for sure.
Oh, will these parent teacher conferences ever end?
Yet, there’s so much joy in raising a family.
Traditions to start or continue from our childhood.
Maybe what they said and advised us was right after all.
They knew, and now, I know they were right!
Our Nest is Empty
Where has time gone?
We have an empty nest.
Look at the state of things around us? Look at the state we are in?
We recall the memories of our successes and failures along the way raising our family.
The Retirement Years
Retirement. Life is slowing down a little. Fewer schedules.
Time to reflect on life.
Certain smells, sounds, pictures, tastes, and sights will take us back to the memories of earlier days.
Often we wish we could rewind the clock and be young again.
Would we live our lives differently?
Maybe, we will explore new hobbies.
We notice new aches and pains! Flexibility is fading quickly.
It seems we sacrificed our bodies for the business of life’s everyday demands in our younger years.
We felt that we could change bad habits later in life.
Can we turn things around and make up for lost time with our health?
Aging Speeds Up
The first 70 years seemed to fly by!
Looking back, what was our purpose in life?
How about the next 30?
Where does life go from here?
So the frail years are coming.
Why can’t we do things like we once could?
Sometimes, we cannot remember what, when, where, or why? And maybe, who or how.
Are we a little too quick to speak our mind?
Are we still wanted?
What value do we have to others?
Or are we just in a limbo form of existence between life and death?
Death
Did we leave the world a better place?
What impact did we have on the lives of others?
The cycle of life repeats itself over and over again.
The Children's Hour
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
Taken for TRP and Free Verse
***EXPLORED**** :-D
Love, love, LOVE today's TRP theme - Free Verse.
This is from a poem by Maya Angelou called "Still I Rise."
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
I was introduced to this poem during my freshman year of high school, and I instantly adored it. In a world where so many people dislike themselves for so many different reasons, this is nothing short of a breath of fresh air. Ahhhh... :-)
Oh, and can't forget - Happy HNF!
And happy birthday to my daddy...he would have been 66 today.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=2w1LkfgE0qA
Loud Thoughts at the Prince Albert Memorial
It’s always an awkward moment:
some enthusiast at a game
I cannot fathom waves
a Union Jack. I think of
Amritsar, the Irish Famine,
concentration camps filled
with twenty-seven-thousand
Boers, and English boys
lining up for bayonets
and the Somme.
And there you are, plinthed
and magnificent, surmounted
by pinnacles of gold, as camels
– symbolising Africa –
endure the English weather,
Asian elephants prostrate
themselves under nubile
topless wenches, a bison
bows his head beside
the Noble Savage, as though
Buffalo Bill was never born,
and Europa does her best
although it’s all a load of bull.
And still you gaze across the fug
of London, your eyes ablaze
with zeal for British industry,
British religion, British disease,
bearing dutifully the White Man’s
Burden, and doing it all
so beautifully. Times haven’t
changed. They’re still doing
a roaring trade in
Union Jacks. Look:
can you see the Crystal
Palace burning
down?
Poem by Giles Watson, 2012.
More pictures below.
In Ireland they have boats, you know, boats,
Ships I must say, yes Ireland. Not Holland.
The old man was telling his friend, and gesturing
With his hands, and smile, and eyes
He embodied the boats, in Ireland.
You could see, in his hands, and smile, and eyes
His youth, on the sea, and the shipbuilding
He witnessed in Ireland, not Holland
And this all is sailing away, over the years.
He could not tell his friend of the sun, and the rain
On the sea, of the days. He could not tell but smile
And gesture, with his hands and eyes
About the beautiful boats, in Ireland.
(SiRiChandra, free verse)
“You write your first draft with your heart and you re-write with your head. The first key to writing is to write, not to think.”
- Sean Connery
must view in shadow box or large view on large
www.flickr.com/photos/miniaturethoughtsideasandblackouts/...
San Juan, Puerto Rico. Esta bella ceramica la tome atraves de una vitrina en una tienda en nuestra capital. Repito lo antes dicho, en las vitrinas hay un caudal de tesoros fotograficos esperando por nosotros, que esperamos!!!!
A young married woman
That did not laugh easily,
Chubby, dark brown hair
And a fair complexion.
“I will bake a cake”, she said
And her three bangles
Chimed,
Wiry snakes on a tender wrist.
“He kissed my feet”, she said.
Her baby son, huge eyes, worshipped her:
“He kissed my feet as I mopped the floor”.
That means that she used
To mop the floor
On all four, as they did once,
Barefoot.
(Free verse by SiRiChandra)
Ned Cobb was a good man who hid his name for no good reason when a white college kid paid a visit in the middle of his busy season and said
"I'm recording the voices of poor ol' boys and maybe you'd like to be heard."
"Yes, sir, the voice of the blowin' wind is too soft for Tallapoosa."
He'd been bewildered and confused by three hundred years of abuse. Cursed into the womb by his worn out father, Ned was taught to go no farther than the plow at his shoes. So he pushed the dirt, but also plucked the feathers from the absurd Jim Crow bird.
"I'm not afraid of Alabama! Hear the howlin' train that carries my new bosses home! Walk in the sullen field they gave me in the corner! In the corner turn around and listen—my masters' tongues whip and moan.
"My cotton was stolen for a fistful of nickels by those foul, fickle bastards. The Union helped us weave ourselves some dignity from the tatters of our dusty, brown souls. So we did, and my loyalty to anything else ain't never comin' back.
"And now I'm old. By the same rail track, in the rusty arms of this wooden barn, I remember. The white men said, 'That nigger ain't a thing more than his daddy was, but a displaced slave too bold.'
"But I came up. I don't hold anything against those who treated me ill, though they might hate me still. I was the man I wanted to be. The man my masters didn't want to say was real. I became the man I needed."
.Written by me, alcohol and all, in 2007.
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Ned Cobb (1885-1973) was a black man in Alabama during the first seven decades of the 20th century. He is also known as Nate Shaw. Ned succeeded in life despite mistreatment and the horrible racism of the American South during the Jim Crow years. He fought constantly against the blackguards who hated his skin. The man is an inspiration.
The college kid I mention in my above free verse is Theodore Rosengarten, who wrote a most interesting biography of Ned. All God's Dangers: The Life of Nate Shaw is about 600 pages, but I wrote a much shorter summary of Nate's struggle, which can be read here.
© 2007, words and photo by Brian Hathcock. Leave it be unless you talk with me first.
THE SOUND OF PINS FALLING:
Give me a quiet moment away from this delicate disaster at sea.
High tide is beyond being breakers and I am Crashing.
Spreading out over these miniature wars I'm fighting on the inside,
This battlefield is RAGING!!!
We are reaching out in waves we never wanted, Searching for secrets behind the pictures.
I tossed a handful of pins to see what would happen and it was beautiful and amazing.
Silent soft explosions and my world spread out past their straight and narrow.
I collected a handful of sentences to bring back across the borders.
Found inspiration in this ear piercing pain and gave it a name.
I have served in the armies of the FALLEn and waded through worlds to get here.
Standing on the shores of this illusion I can see the ghosts of lighthouses and they are calling us home.
but its a dangerous raod to recover, these pins are everywhere.
We couldnt hold them when they were together and now we cant see them when they are apart.
Your in the canyons living in glass towers and i am spitting stones while no one is looking.
My pages are frozen, stuck in these surroundings and seperated.
I want to look at this world with my eyes closed and listen for the trumpets when their blown.
Once I wanted to believe that there was something more then this all the while looking over my most.
Someday I might take a break from this breakdown, But for now it is my sea.
And one by one I will give you these pins hoping you'll make them into something more beautiful then lighthouse ghosts and veils of night.
See because I am on the edges of a town called BECOMING.
And though I have never been I know that I am welcome there.
I will tell the tale of tossing pins into the ocean with YOu.
I will lay these words in the spaces that fall between us.
ANd I'll Look Up into the canyons, And Know that YOu are there.
we have embarked on a verse and visual collaboration
dark creative and evocative
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