Murray Robertson (photography & poems)
I make photographs and poems to please myself (and share them to please you).
some things look so good in colour, and sometimes greytones make music forever in our thirsty souls. this land rose up, millions of years ago. a glacial lake transformed from solid to cold water, and burst its banks making a sudden river, rushing roaring torrent nightmare all day long, maybe a thousand years eroding this sculpted river valley. now we are witness to the aftermath, this sculpted landscape.
the tired old man lived there long years, while the paint faded and the roof rotted. then he moved on, he needed help, and tried a realtor, but gave up after a wretched while, who took his sign, because there was no longer anyone to deal with. and the old shack began its return to mother earth.
from here
it looks
so different,
and it seems
like another
world, a wonder.
someone thought
its name might
frighten tourists.
so they put a
different name
on the map.
local people
laugh about it.
they know that
rattlesnakes are
native too.
they are not
overly sensitive
about it.
and if tourists
are too scarey,
a good bite might
set things right!
i heard it said
tree heliotrope
is throughout
much of oceana.
so many places
i have not been!
toxic, they say,
in large amounts.
nobody would
eat that much.
crooked branches.
who could build
with such tangled
wood as that?
but trees like this
are fine, so fine,
for creating shade
beneath a south
pacific sun.
white coral sand,
wet black lava,
tropical seas,
the summery sky!
every day seems
a wonderful dream.
we eat shave ice
but not much
ice cream.
a secret beach
seems such an idea!
down a private road,
(we asked the young
guard for access,
quickly granted)
we were on our way.
a narrow road on
white coral sand,
a gift from the bowels
of many parrotfish,
and we are grateful.
a wonderful
uncrowded beach.
we carried on,
to welcome shade
beneath hot
sunny skies.
in black and white,
feeling, no surprise.
black is white,
they want
to tell me.
i won't make
that mistake
really soon.
but they count
on me and you,
to believe
the nonsense
that they spew.
angry at us
when we won't
swallow all
the muck,
in which
they wallow.
i might like
a soapbox too,
to stand on
and shout out
what's true.
black is black
and white
is white,
may they
always meet!
wrong is wrong;
right is right,
we must be careful.
darkness may
swallow
up the light.
when we see
the shadows
coming close,
shout danger,
danger, danger!
push those
shadows back
to dusty corners
in evil minds.
Black and White #27
some things
need to be
black and white,
not skin colour,
everyone, you
are my brother (sister)
and i know you
you are another me.
this black and
white i mean
is good and evil.
the politics of
selfishness oppose
kindness and
fair play.
horrible old men
want to be dictators,
to invalidate
elections, and
attack democracy,
and seize power.
evil is as evil does.
i may be blunt,
stating an opinion.
dictators are
badly behaved
sewer rats. in
other words:
our brothers...
heading for oblivion,
we race along
a lonely highway.
why do we smile?
fools have no wings,
reaching for the sun,
an old broken chariot,
swinging across
a summer sky.
we look for safety,
and it still eludes us;
we are so reckless.
colours fade
in our eyes
just before
darkness comes.
we are left with
black and white
and shadows.
i look south
along the lake
remembering
my little dog,
enthusiastic
hiking friend
when i see this
photograph.
i guess he
saw no colour.
his foolishness
was limited
to trusting me.
we have no limit.
memory loses
bright colours,
before they fade
away to nothing
as they will...
vivid tones
and hues create
questionable
drama.
memory loses
bright colours,
before they fade
away to nothing
as they will...
we wonder if
false drama is
required to
satisfy fools.
memory loses
bright colours,
before they fade
away to nothing
as they will...
i met a man who
could not see
any colour.
though i love
to see colour,
i didn't pity;
the man with
no colour
was good as any.
he lived his way,
making this
world his own.
he wasn't disabled
in any way.
nobody knows
what other senses
he may have had.
he wasn't talking
about such things.
perhaps there is
no way to speak of
unshared visions.
we all walk alone.
