Hello, dear readers. Please enjoy this fresh round of pictures. Spring is here!
Did you think I forgot to post more pictures? If so, you were wrong! Here is yet another rather large installment to my continuing 2015 photo journey. Enjoy!
I want to see what you see, old man.
A white like milk through frosted glass.
Where does God lead you?
There’s no fear in your eyes,
But wounded sadness.
You were born wounded, old man.
You set foot into the wound, lightly over vapor,
With your walking stick,
Searching tops of mountains
For your healer.
Snow melts in giant gunpowder mountains,
Unevenly arrayed trumpets of—
A locket from which summer will—
I’ll swear not
To drop it.
But I will.
And it’ll fall
And I’ll try
To catch it.
But the golden locks of summer
Will pass between my fingers
And I’ll be left holding
A past half-lived
Well, this is catch-up time. I set a rule for myself for this challenge that I would not use images from past shoots previous to those that I’ve already posted. However, I decided to break that rule because I’m quite behind. Hopefully, I won’t have to do that very often. These are images that didn’t make the cut the first time around. Nevertheless, you may find them interesting. Enjoy!
Well, another week has past, and the weather remains miserable. The upcoming weekend should be quite nice by comparision. I’m hoping to catch up then. In the meantime, he are a few random images …
God the Man watches his children.
“She is alone.”
“He is alone.”
“That one, too, is alone.”
“There is no comfort for my children,”
It is the time of no time
For God the Man.
He is the city and its people.
Its elders, ruddy young men,
And budding women. Kiss, smile,
And play, his children.
All that is good is God the Man.
Well, the weather has been horrible, so I haven’t had the chance to get out much for picture taking. However, I have culled a few photos from the past week or so from my camera. Enjoy!
There is something like death in it.
… and the gift of new birth wrapped in ribbons of a waking sun.
There is sadness.
There is redness.
When the heart grasps at empty air
Like a forlorn babe.
Finality was a face once like ice.
It will melt into grace.
It, too, sheds cold tears.
I cup my hands like a bowl for its water.
And wash my eyes with it.
(He wrote so carelessly)
You are the parched breath of my lonely desert
And the sand that cuts like broken crystal
And the blinding empyrean.
The denizens of the village deride my wandering.
I bear no witness to their pale mockery
Filled to bursting as I am with your emptiness.
Your mute song fills my ears
With flute and tambourine.
Only when I thirst
Will thirst become my compass
And your oasis will I chance upon
And suckle on your nothingness.