#reel
We live in two worlds—
one real, one reel.
Two stages, same soul,
wearing different masks.
In the real world,
we hustle and stumble,
we laugh, we cry,
we break and mend,
we feel everything raw and true—
the beautiful mess of being human.
Bills get paid,
hearts sometimes ache,
promises made, or quietly forgotten.
No filters here,
no do-overs,
just breath and consequence.
But in the other world—
we trade in likes,
comments, and views.
Numbers rule.
Reach swells and dips
like a heartbeat on display.
The real me wants to watch sunsets,
hold a hand a little longer,
whisper “happy anniversary”
without the world’s applause.
To love quietly,
without an audience.
Yet the reel me pulls out the phone—
finds the perfect angle,
waits for the light,
pretends it’s effortless,
crafts a story to share.
And the world goes wild.
Notifications burst like fireworks,
because reach matters.
But being real?
It’s messy.
Unscripted.
Vulnerable.
Too raw for the polished squares of a digital wall.
Real people
aren’t always enough
for the digital world.
Silence doesn’t trend.
Content does.
So here we stand—
one body,
two worlds,
forever deciding
which self gets the spotlight.
The truth?
Neither is wrong.
Neither is whole.
Balance is the dance—
to post but not perform your soul,
to live but still witness,
to share but never surrender.
Because when the screen fades
and the battery dies,
peace—not reach—
is what remains.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 11:10 AM UTC
"I go to Nature to be soothed and healed and to have my senses put in order".
- John Burroughs
Part I
When the time was right, he does not hesitate to follow the path, “I've been waiting for this moment a very long time" he says.
Just himself, a Sage XP fly rod, a Golden Prince reel and a selection of March Browns and Slate Drakes. Its a special morning, Autumn 60s, overcast skies and lowlights.
The pathway bends past tall Sugar Maples, Old Stone fences, a Groundhog or two, trout lilies and mountain laurel. Its right here, that his fondest memories reside.
He had come at last to transcend the idea of coming back to the river for a greater purpose. A purpose that makes life worth living, a milestone, his own personal mark on this special place.
The sound of the river is in earshot now. A Chipping Sparrow sounds the alarm and all of Neversinks inhabitance are now on notice….human approaching.
As he reaches the river bank he's transported to a memory of his Granddad. The times when they fished this stretch of the river together.
His Grandfather told him about a time when fly fisherman and fly tiers honored Neversink and made it famous.
We always fished until it was dark. Granddad would light the lantern and we’d walk and talk all the way home. I often felt encouraged that just knowing the importance of this place, brought me luck.
Part II
"So by now, you're probably wondering who I am." "My name is Tom, Tom Murphy." "As a child, I came here each summer to spend time with my grandparents in the town of Roscoe, NY. When I graduated high school, I still came here from time to time whenever I had a college break as an Agronomy major at Cornell. I've always loved this place. It's always been near and dear to my heart."
The very next morning, Tom makes his way down the pathway to the river again. A nice steady Breeze was blowing through the trees, and that's when he heard it again. It's almost as if someone was speaking through the trees and wind. There it was again, this time calling out a whispering "tight lines." This was the very same voice that Tom heard as a child when his Grandfather took him to the river from the very first time.
A light rain began to fall, and Tom took cover under a large hemlock tree. Thunder sounded off in the distance, and everything in the forest was dead silent. As Tom peered across the river, he spotted movement in the adjacent Forest. A second later, a figure appeared on the bank of the river. An older man probably in his late sixties dressed in a top hat and coat, a split bamboo fly rod, and a German Shorthair Pointer by his side. Tom called out, " Good morning, sir. How are you?"
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 4:28 PM UTC
Feelings can be felt,
But can’t be melt.
Feelings can be betrayed,
But can’t be made.
Feelings can be sad,
But can’t be read.
Feelings can be played,
But can’t be laid.
Feelings are messed,
Because they are pressed.
The world doesn’t care
what you feel,
what it cares is, do you
Have any (fake) life reel?
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 1:43 PM UTC
a big catch
that is worth it;
that's what you once said
when you attempted
to reel me in
yet I see there's
no longer a bait at
the end of your hook;
perhaps an easy catch
just wasn't thrilling
enough for you
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 10:57 AM UTC
envisioned painting
man a warrior
walking with intention
where he once had his heart
pinned to his sleeve
sits a deep sea reel
endless string spun out
heart attached
floating near the edge of space
only when it rains
Salar De Uyuni
you can see
hearts flicker
magical mirror
providing the means
like tracking a kid balloon in space
you can see it clearly
unconditional love beacon
call for shield-maiden
significant leader
capable and fearless
two fierce hands
steadfast
reflecting pursuit
needed fulfillment
where
dreams become daydreams
turn reality
truth
do you fly there or reel?
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
She was like none I’ve ever met
Meeting her I would never regret
Her quirks, fishing rods
Reeling me in with ease
When I’m at crowded places
Her silhouette is what I seek
I can’t help but wear a smile
Whenever she’s within a mile
I lack the courage to tell her this
And her image I always miss.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.
Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.
Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.
And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.
This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.
As the years pass by and maturity abounds, I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.
And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking bug with yellow belly, so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.
As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.
It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.
He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.
I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
I cradled the unfurling shed snakeskin delicately
admiring the imprint of faces and places
swallowed up in time.
An ancient amative light sat patiently
on the blank sheet
before the electric medium;
the electric medium sitting buzzing
eager to tell another silent story.
I wrapped the skin around its spindle;
and from its den I extracted slowly and cautiously,
urging the skin into the hungry buzzing medium--
And minute punctures in the skin,
where the projector's teeth sink in,
whose teeth chatter like plastic wind up dentures
as the skin passes snake-like through its dusty plastic entrails.
The tattooed skin is illuminated at the heart of the vessel--
where the countenance of a single solitary bulb
omits a radiance, brilliant and magnificent--
powerful enough to cast the skin like a shooting star
across the darkened room
onto the patient white sheet
where my eyes await the tattooed memories
to dance before me.
I sit in my torn and weathered leather chair
echoing the silence of the screen--
(hypnotized by the hum of the projector--
an incessant electrical drone accompanied by the bombinate
incantations of chattering crickets.)
The stories are shielded from my inquisition
by layers of translucent grain
that leave textures gritty--
and a soft focus that leaves faces obscure
and expressions ambiguous.
(How clever you are to stay silent,
and leave me in such tempestuous musings!)
Vast pores pop up excitedly burned and scabbed intrusions
and if you linger for too long
the brilliance of the glare will burn into you--
Like the shaman who dances too close to the holy fire.
Like Apollo flying too close to the sun.
I must be careful,
and fully aware--
of your transience.
These ambulant hieroglyphs
speak volumes in their silence--
and I find myself drawn
to the blurry smiling faces
as they peer into my soul.
History breathes.
and History repeats.
but lies silent
in the sands of Time.
Becoming muddled,
but waiting.
for its story to be told;
for the mediums to rise from the grave.
I suddenly agnize myself as the last generation
to have its memories and histories burned onto tape.
and as I sit here I wonder
of the Society
whose soul I will peer into--
when I am unearthed
out of the sands of Time.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 4:31 PM UTC
~~~~~
"Sorry seems to be the hardest word."
I feel your wonderful eyes.
He was a greating glider
Knowledgeable, nice and
Sweet. Had a nasty divorce
Flooded with ***** accusations
Nailed and tortured by himself
For the things he wouldnt do..
He was clean.
~~~~~
Tears within us turn to ice. And they should burst.
***I've never cried over you.
I don't know you.***
Perhaps. I did.
Once upon a time.
For real.
He is a quick thinker
A worrior with an ancient
Soul and a progressive
Hardness.
A Black pearl.
Shelly aboard
in disguise.
Soft as a kitten
is his heart.
I love him.
~~~~
"Let love rule"
***Rise and shine.
A perpetual creation.***
Monsoons and many moons
Have passed like a metaphor
Core. A divine traveler.
A colourful world
It is.
He reads thankfully
Astonished.
And humms songs
Of devotion. And he
Writes perfectly.
~~~~~
Harvest moon
***He loves modern music and dancing.
He writes.***
He dreams about another tattoo
across his heart. We share air.
She was touched
Today. And there
Were sparks sizzling
through.
One long frozen
Moment. Reaching
The most intimate
Awareness.
Not uncharging the potential.
There was a simple question:
"How did you spend the day?"
"With the beautiful artist
In bloom. Drawing."
Shyness. And the
Realization.
He glows.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
at the fete du bons vieux temps - Cahokia, Illinois
White clouds of rosin dust
Flew off Geoff's fiddle strings
As his earth dance
Soared above the pulsing
Of friends on bass and guitar.
Tuniced men bowed
To their bonneted ladies
Bedecked in colonial frocks.
In turn each pair sashayed
Down and up the line,
Whirled and laced their way
Through outstretched hands
Of family, friends and neighbors
Shaping an arch at line's end
For all the rest to pass beneath.
All across our country's timescape
Countless bridal pairs
Have sealed their sacraments
Spinning in the whirlwind
Of the Virginia Reel -
With each interclasping of arms
A blessing upon their unions.
Geoff lifted his bow from the strings,
And bowed with his band to receive
The applause rippling the air
Like the patter of ancestral rain
Nourishing the sweet soil
Of our common earthly essence.
February, 2007
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC