Murray Robertson (photography & poems)
I make photographs and poems to please myself (and share them to please you).
now the sun rides higher in the skies, days get longer and warmer. leaves sprout on bare branches. grass begins to green and grow, flower departments, have summer flowers, as if to show us what to expect. we attended a two-year old's birthday party. ice cream all over his face, loving it! then his first bicycle. legs too short to reach the ground, so his dad had to push the bike. a tired dad stopped pushing, and a young voice chirped "again!" signs of springtime!
near Venice is this island (i'm pleased that we could go) glass masters sell small treasures in busy storefronts. an alert salesman invited us to a hidden gallery. murano's secret wonders, which we loved, and something about our appreciation of these treasures fed something in him, and made him happy. this sidestreet seemed to welcome and i had to stop and look. and i saw nothing that was beautiful, unless i tilted my head a certain way. do as i did, and tilt your head. it was so worth it. just tilt your head.
seen from a different angle, things will not look the same. differences grow on you, they are interesting. you might not recognise the place, though it has been here for hundreds of years, just like this. if we don't learn to see things as if they are fresh, we'll just feel stale, like the world is a boring place. but it isn't a boring place. if we have our eyes open, moving forward, uncertain what that means or where we'll get to. someplace might be famous or infamous, we might never know especially if we don't recognize somebody else's point of view.
Something Bright i think i would not try to eat something so unfamiliar, maybe toxic, maybe lethal, unless i saw something else (preferably someone) eat it first, and walk away unharmed. but don't they look so good? maybe you'd like to try some and maybe i could watch you not die. we could rethink and have a second thought. how would i know what you died from? probably not from milk and cookies. some days, it seems, we have a little too much excitement. if that's not enough, we can make something up.
everywhere we go there are surprises, if we are watchful, ready and able to see our world, beauty in places where we walk. beauty of things we see a wind mill on a caribbean island, towering over everything around, windmill tower's made of stone, standing on high ground. a wonder in its way, wonders all day long. always sights to see, always words to say, the sun is going to shine for her, every single day!
More Yellow Roses yellow roses are all about friendship, and that there's nothing more to say. some people feel a slap in the face. yellow roses may be a disgrace, friendship is fine leave your ego behind. an offer of friendship: no trivial thing, in times of pandemic, it's so easy to say it with flowers yellow roses are all about friendship, and that there's nothing more to say.
mansions rising out of murky waters, ocean and not ocean, foul smelling evil swamp, barrier to barbarians, imperfect refuge, historical home, where little comfort exists, narrow canals slice through each neighborhood, navigated by small boats, some powered by solitary men, gliding over the brown waters, very beautiful in it's way, a refuge for desperate people, in a desperate day. beauty is in our eyes, our minds create a vision and so it is beautiful. old architecture is interesting, details from bygone mansions, changed in our foolish minds, until we see a beautiful place, a beautiful sewer and we ignore the memories of those evil odors. we should be grateful for our imperfect memories.
Bright Yellow after dark icy winter, crocuses appear, pushing silently up through wet mud. promising warmth, long summer days. so many promises, if we believe the signs! we often do, we like signs, things to help us with vague futures, a feeling of surety, though surety is only an illusion, another foolish thing for us to believe in. we are only, after all is said, merely human.
a contrast in costume, they walk in shadow. shade is all around on such a sunny day. its hard to decide, where the edges are, with the sun so bright, and the shadows not quite midnight dark. white plastered buildings rise up from unimaginably clean mikonos streets, as tourists stroll purposelessly by. the sky is always so important; there must be a little detail there, if possible. people in shadow, so hard to see, with pure whitewalls, the sky about right. but they are incidental, in a place with ancient stories, long forgotten. carve your stories in stone, then you'll be all alone, and nobody will believe you anyways. but those white city walls, before they all fall, suggest sweet stories we can't understand. a contrast in costume, they walk in shadow. shade is all around on such a sunny day. its hard to decide, where the edges are, with the sun so bright, and the shadows not quite midnight dark.
drifting along a beautiful seawall on an island, they have no agenda, nor purpose. nothing's important on a day like this. quarried stone holds back waves, waves breaking unnaturally on hard stone. make no mistake; any rock weathers on these edges. some last longer than others. these stones last longer than we do. for us the people are always the story. and here, the story is that the people do not seem so very important. not much going on, no real dramas are unfolding. the drama here is all unseen, and unseeable, or maybe the drama is the landscape.
