“Catastrophic and immobile. Delicate and nomadic. Impaled in blue hue. Red distended light. Black shafts that invade plight. White shards that lay pictured in radiance. Reflections grazing in the slide show of my mind. Elemental homage to photos of time.”
MAY God be praised for woman That gives up all her mind, A man may find in no man A friendship of her kind That covers all he has brought As with her flesh and bone, Nor quarrels with a thought Because it is not her own. Though pedantry denies, It’s plain the Bible means That Solomon grew wise While talking with his queens. Yet never could, although They say he counted grass, Count all the praises due When Sheba was his lass, When she the iron wrought, or When from the smithy fire It shuddered in the water: Harshness of their desire That made them stretch and yawn, pleasure that comes with sleep, Shudder that made them one. What else He give or keep God grant me — no, not here, For I am not so bold To hope a thing so dear Now I am growing old, But when, if the tale’s true, The Pestle of the moon That pounds up all anew Brings me to birth again — To find what once I had And know what once I have known, Until I am driven mad, Sleep driven from my bed. By tenderness and care. pity, an aching head, Gnashing of teeth, despair; And all because of some one perverse creature of chance, And live like Solomon That Sheba led a dance
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
A great photograph is full of expression of what one feels about what is being photographed in the deepest sense, and is thereby, a true expression of what one feels about life in its entirety. – Ansel Adams