Red tide of fire
Flash floods every morning
With the sun’s first rays
Author: Patrick Jennings
I travel, when I can. Write, when inspired. Photograph, where there's beauty. Make films, for a living.
Oh, and I play a decent didjiridu.
Tnorala Dreaming
In the time of world-dawn
When the ancestors dreamed
The world into being, raised
colour from the grey, formed
being from nullity
The women danced as stars
In the heavens
When the ancestors dreamed
The world into being, raised
colour from the grey, formed
being from nullity
The women danced as stars
In the heavens
The flood
They come trickling in
By ones
By twos
By threes
By fives
By ones
By twos
By threes
By fives
For him
Like a rising tide
They come
In ripples
In the ebony hills, an ivory city.
This is no tourist destination. It is a small, busy, virile town of subtle charm like so many other small, busy, virile towns. You will never discover the charms if you arrive on the train and depart on the next bus.
The Dragon is China
“The Dragon is China,” she told me.
I nodded an assent, then shook my head… paused. “What does that mean?”
She told me. I must still not have understood, because I’ve forgotten. Only the phrase is left. I couldn’t focus, and the image in my mind drifted away.
Like this photo of a dragon-handled brazier at Kong Miao, the Confucius Temple in Beijing. Ever so slightly, focussed too deep. And like a photograph, there is no way, hard as I’ve tried, to bring China fully into focus.
Remember Me
In the dusky hour, the shops and stalls closed up for the night. The day’s crowds still dwindling as I wander the streets.
I am in Kashgar’s thrall. Its people, its buildings, its colours, its smells. Its efficient simplicity, driven by foot and hoof on these back alleys and lanes. The smiles; the furrowed brows; the twinkling eyes, the hard glares: of shopkeepers and shoppers.
Magic is a child
Magic is a child
All the better
In bunches
On being grateful in a shroud of dust
I awaken to a shroud of dust
A sun hangs low and wan
Weakly luminous
Shadowless
Its light dispersed
By an atmosphere
Still, unmoving
Thick with particles
The Road of Flight
66 is the mother road, the road of flight.
~ John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 12
~ John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 12
Steinbeck dedicated chapter twelve of Grapes to Route 66, the road of flight for dust bowl refugees seeking the promise of something better in California. The chapter traces Route 66, its terrain, its places, its challenges, the experiences of its desperate travellers, from the Joad family home in Oklahoma all the way to Los Angeles.
Grey is Fine for Me
Some prefer the sunshine
The beauty of blue skies
I prefer the subtle
Of atmospheric sighs
The beauty of blue skies
I prefer the subtle
Of atmospheric sighs
Pix to Words 