It powders all the wood…

spindly

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil.

Emily Dickinson

dirty-window-shot

 

wintry-scene-almonte

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Please welcome the stranger…

No image today. Imagine instead your own home. Your safe place. Now imagine that it is not so safe…

Home

by Warsan Shire

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.

no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back….

Read the rest here.

 

 

Now that I have been opened…

cropped-by-the-river-in-winter.jpg

…Now that I have been opened
I can never be closed again.
The reflection of the sun on the waves
is a shining path to the horizon
a dazzling lucent shuttle
of unknowable complexity.
A cloud over the sun
momentary camera obscura.
And as I move towards resolution
the world abandons its detail
in a theatre at once dark & light
where life is a kind of joyous shade
a shadow over the sun
a dark radiance.

From A Radiant Inventory by Christopher Dewdney

 

Leaves are falling…

october-is-here

Autumn

Leaves are falling, falling as if from afar,
as if, far off in the heavens, gardens were wilting.
And as they fall, their gestures say “it’s over.”

In the night the heavy earth is falling
from out of all the stars into loneliness.

We are all falling. This hand here is falling.
Just look: it is in all of us.

Yet there is one who holds this falling
with infinite tenderness in her hands.

 Rainer Maria Rilke
from On Being

A life of their own…

pink-stripes-blurredlr

 

For years upon years upon years,

I dreamed the days away.

As I stared out the window of my speeding train,

the images of my life rushed by in a bright stream,

pulsing, flowing, exploding with colour and light

never stopping really,

ever.

 

There were always words there too, in my mind,

but they fluttered in and out,

trying so hard to make me believe them.

I couldn’t love them enough, though,

to give them a life of their own.

Until now.

How to eat a poem…

heirloom tomatoes

Don’t be polite.
Bite in.

 

Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that
may run down your chin.

 

It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.
You do not need a knife or fork or spoon or plate or napkin or tablecloth.

 

For there is no core

or stem

or rind

or pit

or seed

or skin

to throw away.

 

 

Eve Merriam

 

window sill lr

I listen between the words…

sept poem pic2

I listen between the words

you speak.
As you mouth the story,
a flutter of fear
a glimmer of gladness
a shiver of sorrow
all hover like hummingbirds in the air.
This is really the truth of your life right now, isn’t it?

Ever-changing, illusive, elusive.

Mine too.

 

I wrote this after thinking about how often we utter words to each other that have little to do with what we’re experiencing at a deeper level — in our guts, our hearts, our souls.

As Gibran observed: The reality of the other person lies not in what he reveals to you, but what he cannot reveal to you. Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says, but rather to what he does not say. 

To do this, we have to slow right down, and become very curious about the quick small signals that flash on and off in conversation — signals we so easily miss when we are caught up with our own image and persona. Recognizing that our stories are just that — stories — can break down barriers and reveal what is common to us all.

Poetry is my language…

 

Water play 6

Poetry is my language.

I do not care for beginnings and endings —

it is the present of the present I cherish,

and your truth buried in a picture of the still moment

that makes me thrill as if on a ride

ever deeper into the fathomless.

I said I was taking a blogging break, and I am…But I did not expect that a poem would come to me in these last days of summer that captures how I feel about photography and poetry. So, in the spirit of spontaneity and inconsistency, I offer it to you…

It needs repeating over and over…

still poem for bloglr

This is a poem for someone who is juggling her life.

Be still sometimes. Be still sometimes.

It needs repeating over and over to catch her attention over and over because someone juggling her life finds it difficult to hear.

Be still sometimes. Be still sometimes.

Let it all fall sometimes.

 

Rose Cook

The language of cranes…

sandhill cranehr

Sandhill cranes nest in the wetlands of the Northwest Territories before beginning their trek south for the winter. 

tow craneshr

Mated pairs of sandhill cranes stay together year round, and migrate south as a group with their offspring. Both males and females incubate the eggs. Their calls are unique — they give loud, rattling bugle calls, each lasting a couple of seconds and often strung together — and can be heard up to 2.5 miles away. 

cranes flying-edited

These cranes have a large wingspan, typically 1.65 to 2.29 m (5 ft 5 in to 7 ft 6 in), which make them very skilled soaring birds, similar in style to hawks and eagles.

Listen to their unique calls here… 

The Sandhills 

The language of cranes

we once were told

is the wind. The wind

is their method,

their current, the translated story

of life they write across the sky…

Linda Hogan

Images are from my August trip to Canada’s North, (above the 60th parallel) — the spectacular Northwest Territories…