Black enameled  embellishment
Your beauty is refined
Like Audrey Hepburn or the Porsche 911
you share their Maitani good looks
OM2 you are the earlier OM1's size
You're the best of both worlds
Manual and aperture priority
Shutter in throat
Deftness is the first priority
A superlative on the field camera
better than the Leica M3 or
Canon A1

They say you are a rats
nest of  wires and circuitry
but thanks to a reputable shop
you're still guaranteed
The ancestor of the Nikon Fe
Nikon's first automatic camera
The battery is in the dafest of places
behind the mirror
Rabbit ears for Non auto-indexing
You are a workhorse  my Nikkormat EL

You're really not something else
You're a  copy of the M42  Spotmatic
with stopped down aperture too,
but it's your metering that is a first  
two concentric green half circles converging
for perfect exposure
making you something of a curates egg

They call you black beauty
there's no chrome in your body.
$160 short of your sister Canon F1.
Semi-automatic shutter priority
and beguiling manual operation too.
A 30-second-time relay,
making you part electronic.
You're part mechanical too, with a
farmed out Cobalt square shutter
with silver breech FD lens
and rumored platiminium hidden somewhere in your body

You're a mustang Ford by design.
A proverbial workhorse at 2 and a third lbs,
heavy even for contemporary standards.
Full shutter throttle in your mount.
Outstanding Rabbit ears for non automatic indexing.
You've got a reassured shutter life long click,
without a toxic battery
and an impervious iso dial for finger deftness,
and are a considered consumer model for Nikon
a poormans f2.

As a  swallow you are delicate
like a Leica you are a masterpiece,
with rubberized curtains.
You travel well  and always provide
a cozy 35mm  lens in one's Christmas locker.
Intuitive shutter in the lens mount,
built for overall compactness.
Astrophotography is another treat
for this durable camera.

No more fortuitousity happenstance
The white flag is waved
Like giving up on the highway
I can taste your cool porcelain

Following the rules
in splendid form,
social mores galore
clarifying the way.
No more spillages
I know where I'm coming from,
down the mountain
breathing and tasting.

Memories fade from your face
You decided to leave the human race
A bluebird flew through your hands
and saw you crying

Love never came to your door
What is it for
Something to warm the heart
and lessen the pain

How does it feel to be lost
to wake up in the morning and smile
open the door
let the wind ruffle you

In the darkroom
I scramble for my header,
a kingdom for scissors.
Sprocket enmesh  header
and gyrate with deft turns
to  the end of the spiral
cutting with a final twirl.
Let the darkness be illuminated,
by passing it to the teacher's hand;
that lost coordinated sensation
now can't find my tank.

I've been to many photography venues,
the equilibrium of exposure
the trade-off between exposed light,
can't say I have made  any friends
just recommended some classic cameras
like the OM1 and Canon EF SLR
with different exposures.

Seen Dungeness twice
the first time was like early  Christmas
with a certain light quality
caressing the wooden huts and boats
but we don't have a Mediterranean climate here

Herbaceous borders way lay me
stopping for a singular rose
in the Weald of Kent
the garden of England
the native bluebells
blend in the palm of my hand

Down the Greensand Way in Surrey Dorking by Juniper house
Field studies council
I solemnly believe the simple things are the best
as is High Beeches Garden  in Sussex
an independent woodland and water garden

I could say hollyhocks are a firmament
their palmate leaves abound.
From  my shuttered room with a single bed
and ginger-cat for company.
in a letter, I could  say I love you
with your cuisses pommelées
and shoulders held back,
walking in the snow
on a cold winter's night.
Hollyhocks I've been jealous
over certain girls  who parley  in French
the words of l' amour.

It's just like a teacher
to suggest 1/125
for street photography
to freeze action
turn people into statutes
Shadows F2
Sky F11
he turned my camera into a light  meter
picking up the prevailing lumiere levels

Whereas I had always used F5.6
to record fleurs
A slight customary bokeh
throwing the background
and generally, 1/60 to stabilize action

By the end of the night
I scrawl my name on the moon
silently on a comedown
You let me down
seemingly taking the bus the wrong way
to Dulwich village

Rachel with tattoos
video artist using k4
I see you again  tonight
with your sweet demeanor
hanging over us
We could process film together
its intricate ways profuse
and laugh at your broken OM10
with its  intermittent light fault

I'm as picqued as winter
and so let down,
you shouldn't leave me on my own.
Dyslexic's back story unreviewed,
a lack of recognition of your fellow beings feelings.
You didn't understand the part seconds
of the shutter speeds.
You were confused
and criticized your last teacher
although having no knowledge of the professed present.

We could have met in Croydon
for a coffee,
The 468 bus from Ruskin Park
is still journey apparent
I thought we could have shared our past
Dyslexia 
but like silken ash you proverbially
waved me Adieu
although I tried to explain
Dungeness and its shingles

It almost like you wanted to preserve
confidentiality, despite partially opening-up
about needing teachers' notes.
Nonchalant does not suit you
the past is not a closed shop
its a bridge yet
for peer acceptance

I am getting tired of your rumors
and I can't hold to my dreams
Once, a contender, I am tired of being asleep on the wheel
The Sunshine should make good hay
Yet our days have been useless
as a story told
You had black hair
now it has turned to grey

I've forgotten to cry
to hold the day in my palm
The Sun cannot provide a setting
cannot hold onto my dreams

Say I was wise and different
who has three German penfriends
who only wrote in English
We write about photography,
be sent photocopies of Black and White montages.

I  own about  30 Cameras
cursed not to be photographic each day
searching on meetup for courses
Someone suggested West Brompton  cemetery
Tried Macro photography
Bon Soir to Landscape
I'm on the verge of a buttercup
prosaic in my newfound world

By the light of the moon
I am writing to you
of what I did today
The rue down the street is alight
and the weather is as cold as winter
We talked of the world today
she said life was hard
and if she were alone
she could cry


Yet she shouldn't have left me
on my own,
we should have met on the snow-covered street
and I send you all my letters owed
I am unable to sleep in December
I should go back to people
who truly remembers me

Jenny, we are old  friends
and at a drop of a hat
I run to the end of the world for you
The Vet has again performed miracles
shinny and new
shop new,
you are the Lazarus of the cat world

Keep the faith and  don't lose heart
don't let old age tarry you
I should see more of you

We were political  friends
a generous  X at the box
But something terrible has happened
Public sector cuts
Councils allowed to financially run dry
Welcome to Brick by Brick Croydon

The general circumnavigation of Democracy
You've got a stone heart
and at the drop of a hat
You demonize your enemies

We've got a Mayor
with a presiding vote
NOC a stalemate assured
Give us back our Libraries
and Purley Swimming pool

The palliative cure is the Lib Dems
We are sick of the two-party system
Normalcy at a mid-runner's pace
why can't we be like Sutton and Richmond
the prequistive in ascension

The Tories  have devalued civility
Even the Met Police cannot escape this calamity
Admonishing channel refugees,
as if they were part of this disorder,
to be rudely awakened on an outbound trip to Rwanda
The aftermouth of Brexit seems to be a byword for a lack of humanity.

Rampant gangs in London.
****** mile in Croydon.
Social Service cuts are unwarranted.
The voluntary sector is the only thing plausible,
to pick up the pieces
when the social fabric
is so wantonly tight

They masquerade as a Plethora of Businessmen
incorporating a bastion of QC's
with a palliative cure
to balance the books
and create wealth
the trickle-down effect

But instead of that
they return  us to Dickensian times
Soup Kitchens
Food Banks
and dwellings collapsable
North-South divide!
Have they really a Commission for care
or is it just inflation
a bufflers air?
an abdication  of feelers

Darling sweetheart
I can only say I love you
in a  French letter.
The ginger cat will purr
on a cold winters night, alone I
walk home in the snow.

Darling Sweetheart
I feel lost in your refrain.
My language  is in a welter
as I arise from my slumber.
What words can I conjour?
Your freckled like thighs,
with long shoulders back,
spoke a  term apart
to sink as low to say.
Bon  Soir.

Tories are running for their primms
Indian summer of their wilted reign
Twelve years of spreading marmite
Child Q to Rwanda
London Police in special measures
The fabrics of civility collapse
as the spiders enmesh us
within their web of lies

The Tory whale flounders on the seashore
The young have lost respect for politics
The Boris factor has contaminated the gene pool
And now the Torys have a feel for entitlement
in the shape of  Sunak,  Tory boy hereditary
Wealth doesn't make for noblesse oblige
it goes for Green cards
and now Truss in her Thatcher grandese guise
is coming second best
God protect us from these collasal beasts

The Torys aren't fit to govern their lesser sums
Red walls will relapse
Labour will ensure,
and Blue Walls will  fall
with SLD  bricks to replace.

Your smile has cracked
like a country mile
Your voice has not been heard
for a length of time

Reflected in the water
is your gaze
like a chased reynard
you're a spent force


What does the wind want from you?
wrapped up in your own world
Until you realize the blame was yours alone
dipping your fingers into the ash
playing sunlit with your future

An emergent crimson light
settles after the rain.
The ******* bended  knees
kissed the morning dew,
and bid her classmates goodbye
The elm leaves flurried, from the eastern wind.

The Nuns in their dark sanctuary
closed their hearts to the aegis of  youth
and the art of forgiveness.

The pale girl averted her gaze,
from her music teacher,
walked to the duck pond instead
where the reeds grow.

Sing between the silence.
Eyes alone cannot identify the plenty  from the dearth.
The sky bobbles,
its another way of shedding time


Similies and metaphors
twilight each other.
Words are  just a woeful way
to express yourself
and at times a lark
The night is so full of platitudes
longer than your blink.

Your single shingle waysides:
is a  desert's outreach,
tiled orange tin shack,
your spiked garden, prevaricates.

Commercial photos are verboten,
only payment to the estate ensures.
Messrs and co got caught that way

I only the wanted presents
to show you cared
bright  young shiny things
without a vacant stare

Why should you be good to me?
without counting the Peebles in your hand
Why should I exhale
your attention?

And now you've had your wickedness
Does that make me your gal?
Your bravado won the day
beneath the irksome mattress!

All the prayers were young and yellow.
uninformed  and adrift,
My marvel bust burst.
Yet I cried for all the nameless
on the narrow endless road.
My defences were shaking,
yet I still said hello.
A craven blackbird spoke volumes.
My moral compass presided over a rock and hard place.

We spoke of our tomorrows
and whispered a paragon promise,
as laminated truth,
never knowing any other texture
for all we had were our eyes
conveying this pledge
our gazes outshine - glowing,
we could never journey
on borrowed moonlight

When I wander among the swathes of  Bluebells
I am minded of a  nascent  variety
creeping in amongst our beloved ones,
Spanish shifts of hue
in the Weald of traditional  Kent.
I swear some sad maid
riding on a basket bicycle
scattering new seed
how unpatriotic!

I heard the wind dancers surge,
before the silence between
the leaves,
shuffling forward,
one foot into the darkness.

I wished for the  trail of bright Ferris wheels
before becoming something better
The blackbirds sang on the shores
I then became the roots and stems
searching  for a blossom of light

She wrote me a  letter
trying to explain.
Winter is coming.
All the greys are here to stay.
Like a honey mustard vinaigrette
it thickly rains here

The cranes fly by,
as the lichen of years
withstands the wind.
There is silence
between the dead leafs.
The gentle coming down.
I belong here.

They tell you inflation
is good for your soul.
It sharpens thoughts on the larder,
avoiding the food bank

Blue and red walls shanter.
As the people aim for higher ideals.
A parliamentary debate
of the nation's stable
Hotel Rwanda remapped
Impertinent Channel 4 for sale?
Conversion therapy stalled!

The builders of the nation
lack impetus.
It's time to see the injured raise.
They say the meaning of success is to work harder,
for the same wage.
Its time to uncover the CONTRICKATIVES.
Business suits without a care

I count the stones on my burial mound
Pursing  my hushed lips
not to convey a sound,
cave in my ill-spent wishes.

Tardy in time
fly like the swallow.
Lord it feels
like I am walking in liquid lead

Tepid was the night
The dreams came back,
slanting fast from the ***** of the emergent sun to the black pool

Please walk slowly
some people don't like the rush
Sing with impertinence
Together convey convergence
Paint your faces
the color skywards

I have honored your time
Some people are marching
others shunter like the swallow
Some in silence
Routine is a whisper
Marigold in its splinter

It's the silken sound,
on the near-naked ground
like a long blade of grass.

It's in your first hope,
cherished and memorized.
the sudden gust of wind,
scented Sandals teasing the high ground

It's in your  turned pages,
that invites you
like a corral,
teasing the rendevous
climbing the waterfall.
Oh how we were once children

Abundant double-crested hollyhocks preside
White hebes, usually pink glance,
pruning rose hips from the vine
and prolonging their goodness.
Going to get a new fence
because of  Storm Eunice damage
Aching black roots of Elephant ears are cut down.
Green Sherwood paint for picket fence,
Take cuttings from lavatia
to flourish further anew

with love jaded,
bright young things should enjoin
the gossamer quilt of another day.
fortitude should follow,
daybreak may forbid you,
but you come hither
on a given day.

The blazing summer gardens
makes him homesick for London.
Pure yellow daffodils, candescent poppies, sunflowers.
Flowers are essential.
They never have rage or conflict.
They are instinctive.
The National Garden Scheme,
offering carrot cake and coffee
for the followers.

Order  has a long-endured shadow.
Like a fire learning to burn.
I've fought hard for the easy life
seeking order,
in the natural economy.

We have a recognition,
with the season's slip,
lit bright against the houses.
Standing to it all
forever an early October song.
The disorientation of a citizen.

Mediocrity takes me on a rainy ride,
down to Tatsfield on the 464 bus
Manufacture me joy,
by slow degree

Sing a feral love song.
This old planet has nothing to teach us.
Like a disused canister,
it is earthen by distinction.
Camarade, this morning
has a shy happenstance

We the underscored
have come for our just desserts
meekly receiving our own rewards
It may not be pleasurable
what we receive
but with cuticled nails
and smarted suit,
let us wait profusely
for our undulations.
Our daily bread
this feeble feed.

It seems so hard to carry on
War in Europe, inflation, monkeypox.
I would rather live in the past
and shop at the Co-op,
for their community fund purposes
and uber polite staff.
And of course, I go to the Isle of Wright for a day trip,
again to live in their 90s  past
about 20 years behind the mainland,
and I'd buy a Yashica kyocera 230 AF
so I can snap in kodak black and white,
in manual  metering only,
oh the rivalry  of being retrospective.

Acrobats dancing wily
Let the wild men adopt another view
Take my friend and me for a ride
withholding the answer
After all
it's vainglorious
Quite alone I emoted
so bequeathing quietude
that we so wistfully call peace

First and last,
don't push me around.
I may have lost my skint.
Caught taking aripiprazole.
My miracles of dimension in recess.
I waved goodbye to all that,
taking my logic for a ride.

All hail the hearty King.
A tyrant in the making.
A wisp of smoke
all driving small.

I espied a monster
and by the bay of the tree, it was me.
Venoms skin, like a delicate leaf
laughed and shook my hand.

We will liable her with laughter,
naked beneath the stars
she should still be heard,
insisting on the art of listening.
She's in my head
her hope coursing through my veins.

We will cover her body with petals.
She talks in her dreams,
the insistence of light
will be her shroud.

You are the past perfect picture
I took before the war
The frillitary of the dead follows:
hiding your grief up your sleeves.
I am gaunt with worry
like  waking the dead with love,
kissing them before they were gone.