Tag Archives: photographs

Keepsake

I’ve been sorting through old keepsakes,
some photographs I’ve found are faded now,
these echo sounds of places where I didn’t go – faces that I do not know
I can’t decide how to store them all –
The sepia memories of what you saw,
The air your family stories hold
should last as long as when you told them.
And what you did is what you wanted
To do, and nothing worse hindered you.
Scenes of travel – and songs of yore
Some motets in your mind’s reservoir.
Carols sung in a cavernous forum
were more than just some Ipsem Lorem.
Choirs of men and women singing
Relationships brought into being
How, lovely – snaps you strived to make
No different than our own keepsakes.
But yours dwelled firmly in His grace –
and dwelling in your family’s place
Devotion and hymn live with us here
Led with your baton, and your voice as clear
as when you walked into a room.
My minds-eye sees you, feels you too.
How lovely, this reminiscence sounds –
Even if an echo now.
Listening to you in my head
puts my thoughts to this poem’s thread
of places where the music soars
and you’re step-singing an angel chorus.
The keepsakes of your melody in harmony with the little things,
And now they’re ours, for all to sing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Passage

All of my most
compelling photographs
have roads in them:

The lonely stretch of highway
to the left of a bittersweet sunset.
after the leaves have
all blown away.

The S-curve in a raceway,
-empty-
then full of revving vehicles
vying for the sweet spot in the turns,
to accelerate into the straightaway
that continues out of view.

The picturesque motorway,
that aligns directly with
an imposing palisade of rock and ice,
only to veer sharply
and begin mounting the range,
passing through the crags
to some apex.

The city’s avenue at dusk after
a spring shower, streetlights
glow off the pavement,
and tail lights pierce the
somberness
as if to punctuate
my transitory presence
in a moment.

A reminder
that I was there and moved on.

Berlin1.jpg

Her moment

It is in the sounds
the leaves make when the breeze blows,
or in the solo song
of the catbird, after the wind dies.

There is a beginning, middle, and end-

to declare origin,
divine their pivot-

The end is always the absolute.

Recalling what came before-

She takes photographs-
framed with a delicate touch between
her thumb and forefinger
to record a point.

a reference to the during

where her moment breathes.

A discrepancy in the portrait of the poet

I am struck by her smile, in a fashion of
a Rubens painting, with no bared teeth,
her contentedness demonstrated
with the upturned corners of her lips
and the slight pursing of the philtrum.

Her blue eyes, with the intent
of charm, gaze to a lens
focused only on her moment.

Yet, the little wisp of her auburn hair
that she holds aside,
with a barette
– unseen.