Which way to tomorrow?
Into the wind or hard alee?
Do we veer or hold the course
to the Land of What-Will-Be?
Do we clamber up some scaffold
to get a better view
of all the choice and option
our futures might imbue?
But maybe it isn’t there
’til we bungle through today
so we declare the future is now
and cower in cliché.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
LOWER TO HALF-MAST. REPEAT.
Measured anger,
calibrated,
methodically
articulated,
sourced in heart
tempered in mind,
sentence by sentence
clearly defined.
Rage and anguish
penned halberds
change can fly
on wings of words.
We must, dear reader, believe that.
Yesterday I wrote about the Nothings. Old year, new year. What are the lessons? Old camera, new camera. Where are the images? Nothing heard, nothing seen.
Is there a connection? Yes.
I have found that the photograph is what speaks to me. Unchanging, it stares back at me as I stare at it. It’s different from the real thing, which breathes and changes before my eyes and ears. Whatever reality is trying to tell me, its voice is in the photograph. The arrest of time creates the pause in being that allows listening.
Does any of that make sense, dear reader?
I am missing that connection between the photograph and the words. Feeble as they may be, my words often tumble out of the photo rather than my brain. I know I’ve heard something. But now, with no working camera, I am in a mute world because I can’t photograph anything. A few years ago, before my writing mate Tamara taught me about photography and writing, I wouldn’t have understood this connection. But now I depend on it. I am floundering without it.
The icy white beauty outside my window blankets the little world I live in, and I can’t hear it.
LAMENT
My words
machined
are
cold
and plain
none unique
but
allthesame
monotonous
flat
cliche’d
refrain
across my
arid
writer’s brain.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Oddments 