Cedar Chips and All It Delights

Moist the air that brings to light…cedar chips and all it delights

While cantankerous fowl sweet-talk to be gods of the sky

imageedit_1_3165514651Eyes open wide while I release the shutters of months left behind

This passage of rites, fool hardy?

Nudged, I arise to this transformation of movement

So, when it stirs, I stir

When it darkens I lament

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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.

Smile Visions

When people smile to themselves in the street, when I see the face of an ugly man or uninteresting woman light up…

I wonder from what visions within those smiles are reflected; from what footlights, what gay and incredible scenes they gleam of glory and triumph.

Girl in Swimming Cap by Diane Arbus

Logan Pearsall Smith

 

February in the Spring

 

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Spring day in February

Hurt, ache, dispersed…and, now whisked away for just one day.

A particular release that no written word can negate.

The aroma of hope absorbed in cedar turns from scent to sound.

Magic in enjoying languid moments…

relishing in standing still with no chill, no longer a myth.

There is music in loving winter when it decides to go.

 

In the dark months, I attempt to realize not ‘everything is in my mind.’

In the light of now…when wind turns to breeze, my feet dare not touch the ground.

A fleeting thought as the sun goes down,

‘when the weather changes…never be the last to know.’

Not the Good Word

I ask, ‘what good is a word…wrapped in barbwire?

It is expression squeezed dry of color.

Cross-words lacking landscape…deprivation in an isolated world.

An imperfect storm in which memory is unfurled.imageedit_6_2229196388

All this language bantered about with the hue of integrity bleeding out.

When will childhood become a Polaroid from the past?

Words, words, words, ugly…looking to get further down the road.

Not knowing where they were first planted.

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