Murray Robertson (photography & poems)
I make photographs and poems to please myself (and share them to please you).
Something beautiful,
the way she holds her head,
smiling at me,
but there is
something impermanent
about it,
special but yet
we must be reminded
of the inevitable
we hear
that comes
for each of us,
that comes for all.
But now she bows,
dedicated, fading.
Her petals are nearly
ready to fall.
I see some fuzzy bits,
turning to
wind-catching sails,
nature’s little parachutes.
Still there is
something left
and she is
still beautiful,
in her way.
Small Things
We could do better,
if we understood more.
Small things count,
you know.
Sometimes we can’t see
if we have a big issue
or something trivial.
We are only human, at best.
And some are fools
who amuse,
until they step on
our toes.
Their words and acts
seem trivial
and amusing
but can be dangerous.
We could do better,
if we understood more.
Blossoms
Seasonal magic
bringing such change,
reminding us
why life,
in springtime
brings us
so much
unreasonable joy.
Green brilliance bursts out
into lengthening days
as little birds
find reasons to sing,
maybe founding
feathery dynasties,
with nestlings
exciting their
lives in weeks to come.
Lambs we’ve seen,
springing about
on rubbery
infant legs,
in woolly flocks
and wet muddy
fields.
Black and White Edge of Someplace
Here is the black
and white
edge of someplace,
so bleak it is!
So hard to describe.
The snow came
white and
sucked up
all the colour.
Falling in bunches,
as we watched
it come.
There is
the black and white
edge of human,
lies and cheats
and cruelty besides.
Look how
we treat
the poor and weak
ones, those
who need our help.
What are we then?
Red Mum
Ruby is an actress,
acts badly
I should say.
She cannot climb
a mountain,
as tears
might find a way,
and tears might
make a fountain.
They might
cause some distress.
Ruby is an actress,
in such a
bright red dress.
Hidden in
a sunlit corner,
purple isn’t shy.
Combined
red and blue,
it isn’t cold
or hot,
not even warm.
Instead, it is
just and only
purple.
How brightly burn
our flames!
We crawl
through time.
Day after day,
no rushing time.
We get our lives
one moment
at a time.
And then
its over.
Then what?
We cannot know.
Yet we believe
so many stories.
Turn a page,
a page we cannot
turn back.
Memory’s not perfect.
Images of yesterday
are blurred at best.
Strawberry waterfals,
blueberry thunder!
Invisible rainbows
and marshmallow trails.
I look for the answers
but cannot imagine
appropriate questions.
Consider the cost.
I sit by the fire
(cold to the touch),
dreaming of angels,
doing not much.
Blinded by sunlight,
deafened by music,
watching the snow melt,
hear the clock tick.
Clocks measure seconds,
minutes and hours.
Life flows on anyways,
ticking by weeks and days.
Months and years
slide on past.
Time does not
wait for us.
Watch how you go.
Cheer me up,
cheer me up!
Bring me
bright colours
after the snow melts
and spring is here.
Bouquets are cheery gifts,
and they give spirit lifts.
Moods are improved,
before a deep sleep.
Photographing the Iris
Somewhere a man
finds an image
he can believe in,
and
true or false,
it burns
into his brain.
He never varies;
the image remains.
Colors
send a message
which he
can’t receive.
Irises aren’t easy.
They seem
to have
a contrariness,
making photos
not quite beautiful.
Just not right.
He wishes
he knew
how to
make the picture,
the way
he feels
it should be.
Abandoned flowers,
at the grocery store,
make no noise,
display no sign
of alarm.
Unblessed bouquets
wait like
rejected girls
at a dance.
Sad, he knows
they should be
loved.
But there
they sit,
alone.
What can you know,
in this winter show,
is it brilliant
and bright?
(did I, did I
show you this?)
A parade is planned,
so I understand.
(It will
get in our way.)
Tulips always glow
so bright
in their
artificial light.
Somehow it could
turn out right.
(Tulips are a
springfreash sight.)
It seems to show,
I never know,
it’s all about
the bright tomorrows.
Look again,
winter is
so beautiful.
How can we judge
any other thing
so beautiful?
Deep frigid snowdrifts,
when you look!
And really look,
well worth
your while,
such feeble effort!
And then there’s
springtime,
the most exciting days,
when each small seed
attempts to grow,
becoming, maybe
such success in summer.
Then October:
amazing how it comes,
silent and cool;
we cannot quite respond.
We hear no question.
But we hold
our breath
to see the beauty
of the new-dead leaves.
We see October beauty!
Murray Robertson (photography & poems) 