Murray Robertson (photography & poems)
I make photographs and poems to please myself (and share them to please you).
springtime, in the floral department, looks like this. many times, in a long cold winter, we craved warmth, wanting what we did not have. maybe it's always springtime, in the floral department, i wouldn't know. there are things that i don't need to see or hear or say.. but i fear that i am no wise monkey, and see so much that makes me sad. springtime, in the floral department, looks like this.
they hang on,
looking out
at the same view
always.
so much doesn't
ever change much.
we rest on our
better judgement
.
it's never enough.
we love to see,
from an early age,
it's so important,
for so many of us.
scenery can help
our pointless days,
allowing for an
accurate weather
forecast,
a sense of true
foresight and
a source of mildly
interesting
conversation,
as we watch
the weather
blow our way.
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
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!
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.
Bird Orchid 2 not in my garden, but somewhere else indeed. could have grown in jungle, underneath a giant tree. some things come so easy; some things are so hard. an orchid has its secrets its beauty is not marred. a perfect, perfect beauty is seldom ever seen; when i saw this orchid it was just like a dream not in my garden, but somewhere else indeed. could have grown in jungle, underneath a giant tree.
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 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.
Time Travel Addiction they say she has a small time travel addiction. i probably can say that all of her travelling will be only be one way. it seems a long, long journey, we travel night and day. time won't stand still and wait for us, we have to come along. we sing of desperation, but time won't hear our song. we are all leaves stuck in a stream, with just one way to go, down to time's silent sea, because a time is coming when time will cease to be.
saturn's rings are little things, torn apart by too much gravity perhaps. no levity would help, i fear. sometimes it is like that here. love and laughter sometimes coincide. and when they do, magic may happen. stuff like love and floral bouquets can be storied, stories unto themselves. we dare not ask; we do not really want to know. saturn's rings are little things, torn apart by too much gravity perhaps.
Murray Robertson (photography & poems) 