Poetry by Patrick JenningsApr 22, 20157:00 am

On the outside, looking in

Sometimes I feel left out,
On the outside, looking in.

It’s not because I’ve been put there.
Outside is a place I have chosen.

And yet, I peer inside,
Longing to be in there.

Poetry by Patrick JenningsApr 21, 201511:00 am

I linger in places of power

I linger
In places of power

Quell my ego
Quell my mind

They both fear
Whatever is greater than they

Abstract by Patrick JenningsApr 20, 20157:00 am

Deliriously Happy

Yep, that’s a deliriously happy face graffiti’d onto the side of a dumpster.

Now, you can call that irony, or juxtaposition, and maybe the person who painted it there was thinking that way too.

But…

Poetry by Patrick JenningsApr 19, 20157:00 am

Be made of iron

Steel
Be made of steel

Or iron
Yes, even better
Be made of iron

Iron ages
Rusts
Like the lines etched
In an old man’s face

Abstract by Patrick JenningsApr 17, 20157:46 am

Post no ills

It wasn’t a completely conscious process, but the world and everything in it has grown increasingly beautiful since April Fool’s Day, 1994 — the last day of my Microsoft tenure and the first day of… I’m still not sure what. Amazing what happens when you stop seeking the ugliness, stop cleverly attacking it and the people it attracts, stop praising yourself for your cleverness.

Poetry by Patrick JenningsApr 16, 20159:29 am

Point Imperial

We measure time in movement

A trickle of water
Becomes a rivulet
Becomes a stream
Becomes a river

All the while eating the rock
Over which it travels
Cutting a cleft
A channel
A chasm
A canyon

Olympus OM-2 by Patrick JenningsApr 15, 20157:00 am

Shadow in the Singing Sands

Dragging my feet along the dune’s crest I notice the shadow falling away in the sand. Stopped, I am a willowy figure, impossibly tall, in a cloudless, windless expanse of sand beyond my cinematic imagination. A lone — lonely — silhouette for whom the Mountains of Singing Sands do not offer a whisper. Isolation. Solitude.

Framing the picture is easy, but the figure… the figure lacks form. A couple of poses make no improvement, until I hold my left arm out and the camera strap falls from my shoulder.

Poetry by Patrick JenningsApr 13, 20153:22 pm

Love Stays Sill ~ Dead Horse Creek, Cardwell, Queensland, Australia

Love stays still

We measure time in movement

The trickle of water
Becomes a torrent
Becomes a stream
Becomes a river

All the while eating the rock
Over which it travels
Cleaving a rivulet
A channel
A chasm
A canyon

Poetry by Patrick JenningsApr 10, 20151:43 pm

Paper/Cut

Words
Cutting

Not like a knife
But like the paper
From which I read

Abstract by Patrick JenningsApr 10, 20157:00 am

Can I Function Without It?

Sometimes I wonder, which parts are me and which have been bestowed upon me by some arbitrary process or event, parts which are momentarily useful but, in the long term, become a distraction, or potentially lethal, like the appendix surgeons removed when I was five, moments before it killed me.