August 29.20: Coping

Who knows our curves and swerves,

angles, arcs,

down to our nerves?

The shadow knows.

Who knows our stride, each slip and slide,

but must keep up

tight by our side?

The shadow knows.

Who knows our pounds and rounds,

but vowed to silence

makes no sounds?

The shadow knows.

Who knows to blear, to interfere,

to block the light

its whole career?

The shadow knows.

 

Once upon a time, dear reader, there was a member of the family known as “the radio.” Look it up. One of its programs was called “The Shadow.” Now even I am not old enough to remember “The Shadow” (though I do remember the radio), but I am indebted to it for its immortal words: “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.” How awesomely ominous.

(An edit here: after I read Judy’s comment below, I realized that I am more than old enough to remember “The Shadow.” I just don’t. But in the interests of honest blogging I must clarify.)

As you know, dear reader, I have often thanked S.W. Berg, aka Bill, for his wonderful photography. This is Bill. His camera went off without him, in cahoots with his shadow. A nice conspiracy.

 

 

Connections: February 4.18

Yesterday with camera

moodily peripatetic

I thought I’d document

how gardeners are pathetic:

In dead of winter freeze

we have to check the earth,

we cannot help ourselves

we look for year’s rebirth;

there is no sign of life,

we really don’t expect it,

but still we search the ground

for signs of resurrexit.

So I was set to laugh

at the whole absurdity

when I spied this undeniable

non-morbidity —

the tiniest sprouts of green

amid the lifeless black! —

They’re there! Hoorar for hope!

I take my scoffings back!

 

 

Connections 

 

Connections: March 31.17

If my camera could

I would

make a picture of the sound

this yawning day —

busy pattering soft

rain

mud-muffled,

tire splash

as people trespass

into worms’ world,

robin flutes

through the dripping dark,

splats

syncopated

on the roof.

Connections

Connections: February 5.17

Sometimes you have to ask

feeling constrained and constricted

 “Who’s the guy with the camera?

Do you think we can get him evicted?”

Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.

Connections

Connections: September 28.16

A camera on a train

must be put to good use

like snapping a fly-by photo

of a quirky old caboose

rushing importantly past

its faded blue grandeur

today and yesterday

each to the other a blur.

Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.

Connections

Connections: July 13

Yesterday was sticky hot

the air was thick as mush

but I had to grab my camera

and get out there in a rush.

This visitor, this summer sprite,

this unabashed  flirt,

demanded my

attentive eye

and mud upon my skirt.

But would he alight, becalm his wings?

Sit still for just a

mo?

No!

He just kept whirring

blurring

flitting to and fro.

I chased that Casanova

’round marigold and bee

and wondered if my neighbors

had a butterfly net for me.

Connections

Connections: November 18

I asked the wind to still

so I could its portrait make.

It scoffed a tympani trill

beating a leviathan ache.

Rushing, blind, indifferent,

it bayed and, passion-fed,

crushing, unkind, belligerent,

tossed my camera on its head.

Connections

Connections: September 22

I blinked

looked again

but it was real

at the tippy-top of the branch

the promise!

the wink!

the come-hither of autumn!

O, blessed rouge!

Did the neighbors think it strange that the weird old lady with the camera

(that would be me)

danced in a circle, druid-like, around the puny maple in her back yard?

Not any more.

And, no, I never over-react.

Connections

The old lady who asked WHY

One day an old lady started a blog. She was nervous but very proud. She was bravely entering an alien world.

Then one day she learned how to put photos in her posts! She was euphoric! Slowly she became less terrified. Not comfortable, mind you, just less terrified.

Then one day her camera changed: the photos were blurry and the colors were not true. She scratched her head. “Why?” she asked.

Then one day she was typing on her keyboard when something clattered on her left. She looked over at her printer — which, by the way, she was not using — and saw a large piece of blue plastic which had not been there a moment before. Again she scratched her head. “Why?” she asked. Immediately there was another clatter, and there lay a cartridge. This time the old lady asked nothing at all, but just sat staring at her fractured printer.

Then one day she tried to insert a photo into a blog post. She’d done it before with no problem. Not this time. “Why?” she asked, with maybe one small tear. She tried again and again. She clicked on everything, learned nothing. Eventually she found her way to theoretical places called Support and Forum, where people spoke in tongues, none of which she understood.

It was hopeless. The blog world — and everything related to it — was obviously incomprehensible.

She knew she was whupped, so she grabbed her pencil and climbed into a time machine. She can be found in 1956 with her Kodak Brownie and steno pad.