Murray Robertson (photography & poems)
I make photographs and poems to please myself (and share them to please you).
it's someplace
exotic where
i'd like to be
again.
winds bring us
clouds then it
starts to rain.
green stuff
is wonderful,
so appealing,
i don't know why.
it seems a
green voice calls
seductively
and i know
that not too
many steps,
into the green,
i'd disappear.
smiling.
Blown Peony 2 it looks like this when the petals fall off. each day brings a new surprise. this morning i had to shovel snow. and shout hello to my neighbor. his new puppy came to visit. a puppy's full off play. fuzzy bundle of bounces. i made a friend. new friends are always so full of promise; you never know.
a little of this and a bit of that, all in a bouquet... colour can be so beautiful, she bends and sniffs a flower while i watch, pleased to have seen her. i could never have looked as wonderful or smelled so well the sweet perfume. i can imagine her as a child, delighting her parents, as she smelled the perfume of wild roses
into the unknown, we venture, each day. some things are discoveries, pleasing in every way flowers in tropical gardens, brighten memories, of a time before today's plague descended on us.. whatever disaster, things can be much better than we want to admit. our thirst for knowledge is like orange juice. we can only take so much after all. so there we sit, feeling a little bit foolish, with a two litre jug, barely touched.
some things are not
so easy to remember:
good days are
seldom blurred.
people drift in
and out of focus,
we slide in and
out of each other's lives,
like ghosts almost
and are gone.
probably we make
life a little more
worth living
for each other.
you can live
happily
in a comfortable
house
for many years.
we may want
to know,
does a house
ever forget us?
look and see before it goes away. the sun is best just moments before the sky goes dark. she tells me when it hurts so very badly. i see so little, but i try to help, but am helpless. my sorrow is her pain must be hers alone. i cannot feel it, though it tortures me, because i know she is in pain, and i care. the sun is best just moments before the sky goes dark.
my grandfather's
uncle saw the green
and said so.
since then we too
have learned to
see the green;
it surrounds us
and many of us see,
but some don't;
or they say that
they don't see,
denying reality.
some green things
are terrific, and
feed the world.
but others are
very deadly,
poisonous,
as are some
toxic people,
denyers of
the green.
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!
Something Old
parking is
uncommon,
beside such a
popular
coffee shop
cars almost
outnumber
coffee drinkers.
it is a near thing.
a beautiful old
building shows
amazing age.
such character
as well!
paint helps.
mute evidence of
long ago eruption,
cooling rocks
swim in warm
pacific waves.
a thousand
miles away
a gentle breeze
stirred a sea,
and pushed a
surface droplet
against another
and another.
the pile rose
and now waves
wash over
these dark rocks,
we watch their
rhythmical arrival,
hear a pattern
of splashes.
they could be a clock,
dividing our days.
we might live
between wave peaks,
resting in valleys.
and how the sun
burns down on us.
Murray Robertson (photography & poems) 