Wildfire haze
Obscures one beauty
Creates another
Obscures one beauty
Creates another
Smokey atmosphere
Acrid in my nose
Stinging my eyes
Clogging my lungs
Tag: writing
Come, it said.
“Come,” it said, gesturing with an upturned palm, the gentleness of the movement belying the rigidity of its fingers, its joints, the stiffness of the steel with which we’d made him.
Him? It.
Hoodoo Sentinel
I have weathered aeons
Storms and
The gentlest breath of air
Stripped me down
To barest essence
Through all that
Have I watched
The comings and goings
Of the living
Mysteries Locked Inside
Three doorways nestled
Among the flame trees
Ornate, proud and beckoning
Mysteries locked inside
The Great Wave
In the floating world
The Great Wave rises, destroys
Subsides. All is still
The Great Wave rises, destroys
Subsides. All is still
My Muses: Ruins
What I love about ruins most is the gestures of grandeur or utility they once were, the stories of their use, of their place in a time and society which no longer exists. I love them for the markers of history they are, here, now — in the present — how they act as transporters to another time, another place.
My Muses: Geology
My Muses: Geology ~ In the best moments, like on the edge of the San Juan River gorge, that is the transformation I take with me, that feeling of personal divinity, as if I had touched the hand that makes perfection.
A million parallel universes
In 1996, standing atop Coit’s Tower, I scanned the city’s skyline, thinking about nearly a million souls living there, working, playing, getting over a cold, making love, fighting, watching Gilligan’s Island re-runs, having pizza and beer with friends, perhaps even taking photos of Coit’s Tower.
The Turquoise River
She looked at the long, thin meandering crack trailing down the foundation wall like a coursing river. She felt compelled to trail her finger over the length of it, feeling the raspy turquoise concrete, cool under her fingertip.
“I’ll have to go get some sealant,” her husband had told her.
“But that will ruin the paint,” she replied, with an emotion that surprised her. “I don’t have any more.”
“You have to fix it before it gets out of hand.”
“But it’s such a small crack!”
He paused.
Harry the Little Hurricane
Harry got his name when he was still a little swirl of wind and rain far out in the Atlantic. But Harry had aspirations. He wanted to become a grand vortex of mighty winds, driving the ocean in front of him far onto land. He wanted his rain to drown the land, far beyond his storm surge, his wind to blow down trees, powerlines, to blow the very walls off the buildings in his path.
Destruction, afterall, is what hurricanes like Harry do!
Pix to Words 