Imaginary
Lines crossed in the car’s back seat
Dad arm from the front
Tag: Memoir
Temporal Gateway
I was here some long lifetime ago
Stood on the spot just down there
To photograph the crimson golden gate
Under a crystalline sapphire sky
Stood on the spot just down there
To photograph the crimson golden gate
Under a crystalline sapphire sky
Here with a love soon to be parted
Here with a secret about myself
As yet undiscovered by me
It strikes me as an odd marker of time
That a place so grand as this is most remarkable
For the reminder that I am not who I was then
Golden Mist
Golden Gate Bridge
From Marin Headlands
San Francisco
California, United States of America
Golden Gate Bridge
From Marin Headlands
San Francisco
California, United States of America
Taken during travels, 2020
The Gas Bar
We always stopped
At the same gas bar
On the long drive up
To Grandma’s house
At the same gas bar
On the long drive up
To Grandma’s house
Ice cream, or a popsicle
An orange soda and a danish
While Gary tanked up the car
And made the windshield gleam
Houston, we have a problem
When I was a kid we had one of those huge station wagons with the fake wood side trim and a jump seat that faced backwards. My dad loved to drive, so every weekend we’d pile into the car, all six of us, and go for drives through the central New Jersey countryside.
Forward Viewing
The ferry cuts through the ocean wind
Funneling it up over the rail
Into my chest, my face, through my hair
Rippling it like a flag in a storm
Funneling it up over the rail
Into my chest, my face, through my hair
Rippling it like a flag in a storm
I hold the camera
Steady as I can, buffeted
Enjoying the sound of rushing air
The very brush of existence
We are the lucky ones
She came into my life
Throwing a lifeline
In a turbulent time
She will never know
Nor can I explain
To her or anyone
The many ways
Her words touched me
Her songs sang to my spirit
On time as a healer of precious love
When I look back at that breakup
That first one
The one that was almost
But not quite
I feel the cut again
That first one
The one that was almost
But not quite
I feel the cut again
Like paper
Cutting flesh
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.
Pix to Words 