Share the Road

tiny trucks deliver
to tiny shops,

as if there was
room on roads.


pedestrians
learn quickly.

out of the way!


(no suitable
translation
springs to mind.)

everyone moves
aside, quickly.

tiny trucks
go slowly by.


white-painted 
roads in a 
beautiful place.

tiny trucks leave
no dirty tracks
on the streets.


shops sell a few
amazing things:
exquisite art,

a bowl: carved
of ancient olive,
grown thousands
of years ago.

cool shade is
an under-rated
blessing.

just stay cool!

Ruins and Palms

ruins and palms
have little value
      in my daily life.

   in my memories 
they are magical.


stories of ruins,
      of the things
   that happened 
there and there,

well I know that 
      i ought to say:

   something's 
      very special 
   about the stories 
i don't want to hear.

like the palms,
   they are not
related to my
  own stories,

or my life.

   they have a very
different mesage,
      maybe, while i
might have none.

my own stories or my life

nothing important,
because i must be
about as important
   as an ant in a hill.

   would i like to be
more important?

      what kind of 
   responsibility
comes with that?


maybe to be an ant 
      is enough.

   and what about
   the palm and its
      importance?

   and the wall?

Spring Seawall

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.
 

Grand Canal

that morning the 
north end of 
the adriatic sea,

looked like a
scene from a 
monster movie, 
after the crowd 
ran away.

venice started 
out that way, 
a barbarian army 
at the edge 
of a swamp. 

nothing much 
has changed


an awful mist 
hung over
the grand canal,

as we looked 
toward a modern 
art museum.

maybe it excited
her to support men
who might some 
day be known 
as greats.

you never know.

a carpenter 
might become 
a fisherman;

a slave might 
become a 
famous sculptor,
a plowman, a poet.


and we had faith
that sunshine
would come back.

Coldstream Creekside

somewhere near,
a road-building
project destroyed

a historic wonder,
i made a photograph:
a very old log house.

sunburned from
probably a century
of summer sun.

logs turned rich
brown and black,

cracks filled with 
old white plaster.
whitewash, maybe.

i don't know the 
stories i can't see.

i can always
believe nonsense;
it's a very human 
thing to do.


the creek flowed
silently past the
old log house.

maybe it was
drinking water,
though today it
looks murky,
a bit dangerous.


old stories are
impossible to
prove, a bit murky,

digging for
truth a little quirky

we turn over stones,
looking to see clues
to untold stories,
stories we can't see.

Looking Up

Looking Up

insignificant 
beside the hill,
i begin to
understand
my importance
in the scheme 
of things.

if i were to think
about my time
and the scale
of time these hills
represent,

i'd have to be 
impressed by my
time as much as
by my stature.

how important 
i am not!

i think and 
words come out, 
not always exactly
appropriate;

it can be a struggle.

layers of sand, 
turned to stone, 
containing all 
the stories 
of so many ages.

i seee it all, 
amazing, 
i am amazed.

humbling, but
i am not humiliated.
loving the chaotic beauty
of this wild place!













Vivid Sky

Vivid Sky

why do i think it's
the edge of night?

      just before 
   the darkness
smothers colour

then darkness 
comes,
      and 
sticky eyelids
   stick shut
until morning.

why do i think it's
the edge of night?

      why not:
the edge of day?

or something
   else
   unusual?

      maybe we
should consider 
      mid-day 
and midnight.

      but nothing 
seems unusual 
   about either.

   maybe we can 
forget middles 
      and edges 
   and make it 
all about the sky.

      seahorses
in the clouds!

A Tree To Make Me Happy

here is a tree to
make me happy:

branches that 
do not meet my
expectations;

they all go their
own puzzling ways.

a pleasing chaos
reigns as branches
grow unpredictably,

following no known
patterns, growing
always beautiful.

shape and shade
encourage my
easy admiration.

(hot summer days
teach many meanings 
of oppression)

we should never
learn them all.


Kal Lake

Kal Lake

merging photos, 
makes panorama
visions like we never
saw before,

i look out at this view
i have seen every day,
and always it's seemed 
something new.

time closes in quickly,
as time seems 
to do at the end
of a long tiring day.

my time's coming soon, 
this view will be gone,
a time to just walk away
.
life brings us such views,
then makes us choose;
we turn to go 
forward each day.

Sky at Night

and when we see 
the sky as night 
comes down,

we see such light,
amazing in 
 our skies.

how can we sleep,
with colours
such as these?

then comes 
the dark,
and weary eyes
will rest.

we sleep and wake,
because we hear
small birds sing,

and then it's
daylight, ready
to enjoy
another day.

and we will wait
until the day
is gone, and we can 
see the sky again, 
amazing 
in our minds.