wake up in the morning; walk a mile on the road. i used to run; but now i walk time changes things, sometimes we wish it was for better but fear it will be worse. breakfast is a bun and egg; a treat in many ways. a coffee helps to start the day; we're trapped by pestilence and fire. tomorrow we expect more smoke. stay safe (as we know how) look for joyous miracles, (seldom ever found) search for wonder; in a mundane existence; stop looking when it's right under our noses. spectacular purple spectacular
these sandstone hills, i never wandered, in my dreams or even in my sleep. but long ago, far before my time and yours, something made huge footprints in sand, beaches were always so beautiful, a place for wading, puddling in shallows, finding shellfish maybe and small crustaceans, scurrying to feed, hoping to escape all dangers from above. but bones were buried in the seaside sand. we are like that still, but now the predators don't fly above, they are among us: wolves now look just like sheep.
tiny white flowers lighten a mood in a garden. almost as fine as a baby's breath. helping brighten our sometimes drab world. white is all colours; as black is none. white brings brightness, while black accentuates existing colours. so i want both, and more. there are those times i want only black and white because a picture can look better that way. today my world is the colours of smoke visibility is reduced. my landscapes look alien, unearthly
Too Much Smoke went down to the river, inspected the scene, foul smoke spoiled the amazing view. flooding has eased water's going down. chances are good a drought is coming (soon) and we must wait for the other shoe to drop. smoke obscures the scene in foulness. ash falls everywhere. driven inside, we wait for better air; we'd like to breathe again before we forget how.
another fine example of something i don't know: it sits quietly in a corner of their garden. i can't tell you if it's called a flower or weed. some definitions escape me easily. i'm no cheetah, outspeeding a doomed antelope. not at all fast! fast enough to understand how important vaccines are. that doesn't take much speed.
black and white, or even blue, how much does it matter? colour can be so beautiful that we forget what black and white can look like. this one's blue, but with colour details are lost. monochrome makes visible what we can't see because we're overwhelmed by heat colours invoke we call it black and white or greytones. before colour, there were silvertoned pictures that told our stories. light fades into dark.
imagine faces in the needles. no faces there (in this world) for me to see. look for faces in the needles, faces there (i cannot see) faces there, ought to be there is a puzzle, i do not understand tell each other: you are growing senile, too old to know anything no one will listen. a thousand books a poet has no time to write it as novels or wisdom filled argument, ideas carved in stones ancient thoughts i see no faces there.
lost among blades of freshly watered lawn, a clover holds a bit of water (even in dry season) a dry wind wafts down from a hill, recently ravaged by wildfire. secrets from an unforgiving universe unable to forgive or even understand humans and their inconsequential works. things we can not understand or know. it sends roots down and about, reaching for water and food. a tiny white flower among the blades. solitary blades grow in a cool back yard. the clover is vastly outnnumberd by green blades, i won't step there and crush a life frail and outnumbered by so very many green blades we too are frail and outnumbered. look at the stars.
White Plastered Walls white plastered walls contain a doorway, an entrance, perhaps, into times and places we have never seen, people we don't know, we barely know time we've lived through, remember to our cringeing horror things we wish we never said or did. (a little whitewash might help here) a doorway reminds us of a cave entrance, deep in mountainsides painted bodies dancing around primeval fires! sweat rivulets running down dancing bodies, ancient psychoactives bridged between worlds, (the land of spirits) deep in the caves, white plastered walls contain a doorway, an entrance, perhaps, into times and places we have never seen, people we don't know
White Hill climbing the white hill isn't easy by day's end. as time goes on it gets higher and steeper at least it seems higher, stone walls were once plastered smoothness cracked and broken when the earth quaked, plastered again painted white, all the rainbow colours. looking at all the white, i begin to wonder does paint help strengthen plaster, does it help hold the whole thing up? weak foundations make weak walls. consider what is it holds our walls up yours and mine.