dimensions seem to box us in but space grants no quarter we squat like dimples on the face of it
the young for all they don't know see everything
The future killed my parents And will probably kill yours too It steals your wealth and rots your teeth Wears out your coat and shoe The future sometimes seems so bright So promising and true You try so hard to please it What else is there to do The path well worn that seems to work For more than just a few It is the future's favorite trap Line up and join the queue A fellow blazes his own path In search of something new And finds the future waiting there He wonders how it knew The future killed our parents And theirs before them too And when you think it's had enough It finally comes for you
Photo (CC) 2021 : Have a nice day! 🙂
Captivated by the imagery produced in sand by the wind and water I decided to curate a little show of its work. Water or air moving over loose sand will produce a matrix of interlocking dune forms reminiscent of the cords of gray matter on the exterior of a brain. Dappling from raindrops adds texture to the mix. Some of these are combinations of all three effects. The photo captions serve as titles and attempt to gather loosely into a poem.
Cropped and minimally edited photos of Gulf Coast beach sand made with a Galaxy S9 over several days. (CC) 2021
I am all that I can see The one who matters, me, me, me The universe revolves around The point wherever I am found I could drink a case of me And be as happy as can be If only I knew what to do With all the other people who Think they themselves are number one How dare they ruin all my fun
With nods and all respect to Joni Mitchell.
Bricks and windows are forever at odds and space defies all confines while the breath, drawing and letting Marks out all the points in time where a move came to move or nothing came to much The space accommodates all takers: from receptions, wakes, last suppers baptisms and sky burials, to yoga classes teas for two, AA meetings, free associations sack races, and talent shows Come as you are and be as you were, the air here's been breathed by the likes of you And knows exactly what to do
At the break of mean sea level Bathed in the lowest of light A stark totem of redemption Warns of a powerful undertow As those who swim well know
Photo: on the Jane Long Memorial Highway, TX 87, Bolivar Peninsula, TX. (CC-BY-SA) 2021, G. Paul Randall
The Northern Cardinal
Sees himself in reflection
Me, I merely grunt
And keep on shaving
All these feelings viewed from a distance Like reports from a foreign correspondent Welcome news of victory and calamity alike As a stone angel receives the weather Sunshine, now pelted with hail Everything in passing
The departed do not gather In cemeteries, they stand mute At the window, peering in Tapping like a tree branch tip In the wind, outside the wake of a friend Everyone dancing in there, in spite of it all
We crossed paths on the way To the same spot, where a stone marker Announces all our days to your memory My stony face coughs up a smile Standing at this luggage claim carousel We travelers with our checked memories
Photos (CC-BY-SA) 2021, G. Paul Randall. Glenwood Cemetery, Houston, Texas.
That thing they say is extra small Does absolutely not at all Possess a quality called size When by itself, you realize The thing depends on something large Like a tractor or a barge To juxtapose it side by side Because without it, it will hide From you this metric we call small There's no such quality at all That by itself can surely say If a thing's petite or way Too fat to fit in these old jeans (The pants are small is what that means) If you find a thing so wee You need a glass to even see And nothing's to be found that's smaller I'd like to know, give me a holler
(Best when read in the gravely voice of William S. Burroughs while pretending it is illustrated by Dr. Seuss.)