So, I have been taking a photo each day, forcing myself to do so. With so little of this project to finish, I think that it is time to get time posted. I do not think that I will be starting a new photo odyssey when I finish this, instead giving myself the pleasure of taking a photo for the photo’s sake instead of because I have to.
And that said, I will be posting the past month’s photos with no words. We’ll get back to those later….
Pink Azalea by Kim Unsong
Early on an April day
In the land of morning calm
Azaleas bloom pink
At sunrise with a bright salaam They bloom alone
Around a quiet place
Where men, animals and insects
make little havoc of rat-race Azaleas are no Cosmos flower
Standing by the roadside
Flirting, giggling and cheek-rubbing
Against passersby, so dignified
They only bloom pink
Like maidens’ heart, so purified
Breathing free fresh air
In the morning glow, misty-eyed
They drift upon the river
Getting neither wet nor dried Azaleas refuse to be tainted
By evening glow on the west-side
Mellowing into a pink shade
Beneath the sun at eventide
by Wendy Rose
The way they do
this old woman
no longer cares
what we think
her black tobacco
any which way
From her bumpy bed.
ash on the snow,
but the walk
Centuries of cedar
have bound her
on her neck.
snarls and ploughs
great patches of her skin.
in the north,
with the shudder
of her slopes,
of her arm.
it’s not as if
they were not warned.
She was sleeping
but she heard the boot scrape,
the creaking floor,
felt the pull of the blanket
from her shoulder.
With one hand free
she finds her weapons
and raises them high;
clearing the twigs from her throat
she sings, she sings, shaking the sky
like a blanket about her
Loo-wit sings and sings and sings!
People collect things. They collect thimbles, spoons, rocks, teacups, sports memorabilia, cameras, baseball cards, Snow Babies, Avon bottles, angels, eggs. They collect any manner of things. I knew a woman once who collected her own fingernail clippings. Eek! Once upon a time as a high school senior, I made the mistake of telling people I liked bells. Soon I had a bell collection. I had crystal bells, silver bells, porcelain bells, glass bells, copper bells and even a cow bell. Some were pretty, but most had the look of an item that had been picked up for a quarter at a garage sale (and I suspect that is how they were procured) and the collection sat, collected dust and grew into a bit of a monster. Back then, I was a very nice person and so I kept accepting them and stacking them on shelves and tables all over my bedroom. Thank God, I went to college and moved in with a friend because it gave me an excuse to unload the bells, every single one of them.
I like Mt. St. Helen’s ash glass. I can tell everyone this with no fear and no worry about a monster growing. It can not be found at a garage sale, at the local Salvation Army or Goodwill, and it can’t be found at Walmart. The smallest piece is costs a bit more than most people want to spend on a small bit of glass. I get one piece a year from my mother who picks it up at Bronner’s (who have adjusted the price for inflation). The fact that they are a special gift from my mother to me makes them all the more valuable to me.
(The poem is about Loo-wit, an Indian maiden, who was transformed into Mt. St. Helen)
On a side note – my sister needs to hire a photographer in the Dayton, Ohio area to shoot my niece’s wedding. It is going to be a small wedding and since it is going to be so small, the photos are the one thing that they want to really stand out. If any of you is in the Dayton area or knows someone in that area, can you please leave contact info in the comment section? Thank you!
Souls And Rain-Drops by Sidney Lanier
Then vanish, and die utterly.
One would not know that rain-drops fell
If the round sea-wrinkles did not tell.So souls come down and wrinkle life
And vanish in the flesh-sea strife.
One might not know that souls had place
Were’t not for the wrinkles in life’s face.
After Sunset by William Allingham
Around the Sun’s death, lit, incarnadined,
Cool into ashy wan; as Night enshrouds
The level pasture, creeping up behind
Through voiceless vales, o’er lawn and purpled hill
And hazéd mead, her mystery to fulfil.
Cows low from far-off farms; the loitering wind
Sighs in the hedge, you hear it if you will,–
Tho’ all the wood, alive atop with wings
Lifting and sinking through the leafy nooks,
Seethes with the clamour of a thousand rooks.
Now every sound at length is hush’d away.
These few are sacred moments. One more Day
Drops in the shadowy gulf of bygone things.
The Snow-Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.