Twilight curtains parted
and in grand purple theater
arose a ponderous butterscotch moon.
“Catch me if you can!”
it stage-whispered to my camera,
which sighed in my hands,
and tried, oh, so many times,
noble machine,
but in the end could only stand with me,
groundlings both,
in awed suspension of disbelief.
You may ask, dear reader, if there is anything
that doesn’t remind me of dessert.
I’ve asked that too.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oddments 