the Camera Man

Made when the east knew the west…a Voigtländer…

leather-bound, brownie brown.

A gift, an offering to an auspicious, stranger’s eyes.

He had been my Camera Man who disguised aperture with millimeter umbrage and bleached palette in hand.

Fervent in tethering a child’s focus.

falling roof

My present day…

dark rooms notwithstanding…remain.

Atonement’s of vignettes…bland with impressions.

The Camera Man…close up and personable as, kin.

That is when edges infinity…began.

No use in seeing the scenery differently today.

Visions are me

and

I am they.

There is an alcove to what they may to say.

In the dark room…where the Camera Man lives and plays.

Women’s March 2019

It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, to absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

 

Looking In with Outside Eyes

I look at the faces of those I have yet to meet…

and, with their sheltered glance back.

100_1215I wonder what it is they see.

Solitary in this chilled climate.

My greeting of gratitude have loss their appeal.

The slow melt of morning’s snow.

These ‘one size’ fits all deceits…are all mine.

Looking in with outside eyes.

I have no time for a complacent mind.

the Rains of New Hampshire

Bleak is the air that wrestles the sun.

A live virus that beholds no one.new hampshire 2

Had I been placed here by my own accord?

Would I have forgiven the lack of warmth?

The ghost-like trees.

The moistened forever blight.

Frost covered illness and lack of ease.

How temperate wooden, woolly, sprites distract from the sensitive sway?

I watch as, freeze steals away from the morn.

Always winter and her fight.

I have tucked away the colored glasses for more than forty days…

and, forty nights.

new hampshire 1