Oddments

In search of story


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March 19.19

The photographer intent

(it’s all about the focus),

unheedful of precarious

line-of-vision locus,

cries impulsive HALT

oblivious to drawbacks

with his hapless two assistants

athwart the railroad tracks.

 

 

Thanks to S.W. Berg, the Indiana Jones of photographers.

And this, dear reader, should you not recognize it,

is the old Purina factory in Fortville, IN,

a re-purposed, grittily imposing

monument to another time.

 

 


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March 13.19

If all the world’s a stage

give mine the glint of gold

scarlet plush and curtains

in towering thespian fold.

Give me a kindly audience

who patiently endure

through epilogue’s last echo

from brassy overture.

Give me jeweled soliloquy

sparkling in its wit

not too long but long enough

for annals of World Lit.

Give me blue-white spotlight

commanding and intense

before that sky-high curtain

begins its last descent.

After final curtain

when there isn’t any more

may there be one ovation

which resounds with loud “Encore!”

 

 

I never know where Bill’s photos — or any photos, for that matter — will lead me. This one brought back one of my favorite memories of my father, a brilliant man who developed dementia. Before the dementia claimed him, he wrote his own obituary and declared to me that he wanted people to read it and say, “Let’s bring this guy back!” I laughed, but I felt his longing not to be forgotten. How human.

 

 

Many thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.


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March 7.19

 

When words die

and lie

lightly in brown piles,

and slatted benches

hold no one

in their arms,

will the stones remember

warmth

of blood and bone,

do they

hearth-like

hold the meaning?

Or does meaning lie too

in the dry brown

awaiting its ride on the scattering wind

leaving the stones to their empty cold?

 

 

Thanks more to photographer S.W. Berg.

 


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March 5.19

Of all the rites of spring

as sure as tulip spear

the forty days of Lent

anchored budding year.

Forsaking sweets (so saintly!)

with purpled liturgies

we plodded ash-benighted

with callouses on knees.

Fish and macaroni

— with a ho, for purgatory! —

we loved and gobbled up

in pleasure gustatory,

and through the season’s sackcloth

on temptation’s slippery brink

cinnamony hot cross buns,

penitential wink.

I laugh at memories ancient

and admonishments infernal

but I don’t laugh at the lesson

that spring can be internal.

 

 Whatever your traditions, dear reader,

may Shrove Tuesday bring you spring!

 

With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.