black and white defines an old, old building. once administrators worked to keep things running as they should. a hospital of sorts, nestled in farmland, at the end of a once smoother road, now i see a black and white creation, possible when you remove all colour, shading remains, some subtle nuance, and little more. because i see colour, i appreciate more information, details that become possible. and yet the monochrome has a certain majesty, making possible some powerful moods, sometimes a little spooky, sometimes an invitation to reflection, often a good thing.
many tiny petals help to make a vibrant show. i would sing high; my voice is far too low choirs need voices in each range and in each tone we cannot sing so well when we sing alone. each petal too has its part to play. to make a flower first then a bouquet. many tiny petals help to make a vibrant show. i would sing high; my voice is far too low choirs need voices in each range and in each tone we cannot sing so well when we sing alone.
it feels like shelter, nestled there, under the mountain. no ashes in the picture, the land is sunburnt short of ashes. here we see what seems to be a farmyard, nestled under the mountain. birds in their nests, wolves in their dens, lhey seem so safe, cosy and secure. cattle and horses seem oblivious to unseen dangers, under the mountain. nothing and nobody seems to see it coming, if it ever comes at all, a distant future or unreachable past, never threatens us if we are not looking, unless maybe, things are not exactly what we expect. under the mountain.
Lilies of the Field fancy costumes we don't really need, we'll never look as beautiful as lilies. the man said. so how much should we care about impressing anyone? he said: not much at all. if he's right about that, then what should i be so concerned about? one thing only, and it doesn't show. not beautiful suits of highest fashion. not how good we look, it doesn't count. fancy costumes we don't really need, we'll never look as beautiful as lilies. the man said.
Not Gone Nor Forgotten those days were not as easy as the days that we have known. artifacts of a past our grandparents may have lived: the house beside a dirty pond, (filled daily by nesting geese). it stands, decaying slowly, on the edge of the pond they built (whoever it was, who also built the house) he thought he had it made when he built it all here. in those days, he had to work: build some buildings, fall some trees. it seemed no one, that he knew, cared who claimed this land. for those who knew tree-covered hills, he was a puzzle. not far away, a creek splashed by. when he passed on, it was expedient to give this land back, to those who loved tree-covered hills. how could i say what were the names of all the players? i doubt i knew any; but there were artifacts, artifacts of the past.
photographing intimate parts of flowers, i see it as exotic; some say it is erotic. she says it is weird; but i don't understand. i see interesting shapes and colours, meant to attract bees, or indeed any anxious pollinators. (nothing to do with us) all i see here is beauty, and i see no reason to attach meaning to it. beauty is meaning enough. if you say it is erotic, i think of your amorous dog, who seems to like my leg. photographing intimate parts of flowers, i see it as exotic; some say it is erotic. she says it is weird; but i don't understand.
a small house is home for small creatures we envy so much they can fly, after all; we are gravity-bound creatures of the earth. when we see them swoop and soar, we wish for wings. when we learn to fly, we find it's not easy. there's things to learn; we have no reference. we can't easily adjust our speed, to land in treetops. smart as monkeys sometimes can be, we are a bit unsuitable for bird-like flight. sometimes we see them looking out their doors, as if they were windows from somwhere. we dream as gods, not able or willing to understand our limits.
Mom Bouquet only a few days ago, i passed by a bouquet with a message. mom, it said, and made me think of my own long-gone mother. my brother sent a photograph of her on skis, from eighty years ago. no doubt, she was a fabulous beauty, with a wonderful smile. the mom bouquet is loaded with pink colour and bright pink text. it is a celebration i look and wish all mothers could feel celebrated. it saddens me to know it is not always so. i have heard some sad stories, and wonder now about my sister her friends, and their friends. i think about the women i have loved, hoping i was not the best part of their lives!
flooding silt loaded, river, rising, rising, sometimes we see flotsam, after amazing rain in hills above. riverbanks may be eaten away by those unpredictable currents. i am a floating leaf, and aware than i do not control my own currents. some choices exist; so do unpredictable things and events. what kind of a metaphor is a river? time? what exactly is time? some things won't fall into a line. some can't. still we believe time flows like water, downhill. but what about those interesting eddies, that seem to run backwards? and i know i can't always be certain. .
flower covered bush, it brightens her yard. how can he presume to tell her anything, there are so many stories, lies to tell, things to be said, true or false. creative colouration, no match for nature's purple pallette. all day long i sit, watching for a sign: a hummingbird laps at the nectar of our imagination. we fantasize its lively presence in the scene we wish to see great questions remain unanswered: is it time for a nap? will we see a rainbow today or even tomorrow? (things we want to know) keep your fingers on the right keys. unlock subtle meanings. afternoon comes and a nap becomes possible. some day we may learn to be human, just a small part of nature's purple pallette.