"viewfinder" poems
1
Grey sky greyer sea
a litter of rocks balance
coat bright hat blue mittens striped
as on these November steps
you collect the gifts of the ebb tide
2
Glint green this living tapestry echoes
Jilly’s field with tractor not Devon
but salt-flats rocky revetments moorland rising
a map crossed by a chiromatic line
our destiny marked out on this concrete wall?
3
Beached clinkered double-ender
a bay-courser sjekte strand-crunched
fit once for Viking raiders two abreast
now daubed with tin ends of patriotic paint
a sea-steed hobbled hard on the shore
4
Bow faced a sea helmet thrice rope strapped
slow moulded over the boat builder’s ribbanded jig
a spanglehelm of wood
curved sheer straked plank bilged a tuck stern
raising its proud head seaward
5
Viewed from the air a map rolls out
north to the tilted curve of the horizon’s rim
cloud scattered mountained red
betwixt seas sun chalked wine-stained a volcanic isthmus
provokes desert the western waste land of a brooding city
6
Oh face of ropes knot eyed!
you blue cheeked wide smiler
wild wild your head of hair
beachcombed and splayed
wrapped on the sternest post
7
She sewed sugar kelp on the sea shore
a sporophyte with sheltered frond
strap-like stem stiff and smooth
of the species saccharina a spring-tide
stalk set among substrates shells and stones
8
I the camera turned and caressed
by her slight fingers (the pinky raised)
my viewfinder close to her blue grey eye / I
focus on this kelp-needled novelty feel her breath
wait for the thumb press the electronic click
9
Here is the beach walked in darkness
the fishermen shadows against the moonstruck ebb
fingers laced the sea’s breath in our ears
wave upon wave un-folding on the sand and later
we unfold then draw back in love’s relentlessness
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
i think the scary thing about ‘losing’ somebody (not to death but just a parting of ways in general) is that depending on how close you let them get to you, they saw you for who you honestly were. it’s like if somebody takes a candid photograph of you and then keeps it from you. they get to take that snapshot, that moment or fraction of you, and bring it with them.
sometimes they distort the image out of bitterness, or anger, and even jealousy. and they share that misconception of you with others. and those other people will hear your name and pin that ugly thing next to it and say “oh I heard about them”. and that’s the thing. they didn’t see you, they just heard about you. they haven’t had the chance to get behind the viewfinder and capture that raw and real photograph of you. a memory of you that is all their own. something special and unique between the two of you.
and sometimes people take their photographs of you and put them in a box under their beds, inside a desk drawer, or shoved between books and loose paper. you’re still there, floating around. but out of sight, out of mind. you do it too, you know. everyone does.
but then there are those people, even though you haven’t heard from them in years, who have your special candid photograph framed. right next to their beds. and you don’t even know. maybe you never will. but there you are. your stupid expression, your laughing grin, that embarrassing haircut. right where they left you.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
With a raw heart I swing the monkey bars of life. Day by Day.
I pray weak prayers for warm rays of hope to thaw these parts of me.
Make the picture pleasing again.
Swing by swing, He breathes into my spirit,
"feel the rawness"
"taste with thanksgiving"
"listen to the life"
"behold the blessing"
Point, Press, Focus
at once, the swings are of less significance.
When the Lord is at the center of my viewfinder
Weakness was the answer to my prayers
Coldness becomes a picture of beauty.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
1. I must let go of my expectations
whenever you put forward an idea
the idea of how happiness and bitterness
should work
you put forth expectations
on how the world works
it will surprise you every time
show the flip of the coin
if we do not live moment by moment
allowing each to have it's own
Importance
we label ourselves with
the falacy of past and future
we remember the past as only we can
Individually
we know the future by estimations
of consequence
in regard to present decisions
each day we are born anew
each day is a lifetime
a chance to Be change
to experience life according
to the gleam in our eye
label me by my past
and you label my ghost
my ghost doesn't care - it's only an imagined
imprint in the Now.
2. Happiness does not depend on
the opinions of others
there will always be those
for whom my joy
will cause the ugly head
of Cerebus to raise
and try to bite
their hair they pull
their teeth they gnash
in frustration of seeing
someone else
achieve that highest goal
of contentment within the self
it is human nature
within the viewfinder of history
to enjoy the suffering of others
even when we decry to the contrary
I must stand alone -
if I cannot be happy
in my quietest places
then that golden nugget
of bliss has not been truly found
the fire I light is for my
Own Illumination
I have no control
over the reactions of others
they may share in my epiphanies
or war against me - I never know which
but, I will always stand
within my own subjective reality
and know
My Own Truth.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 9:55 AM UTC
In this tan room cluttered with art deco mirrors
The accompanying voice, dancing like a feather, says “I heard you’re very lonely.”
This room is an endless labyrinth of rooms
turning over on themselves with no explanation
like a meat grinder of writhing bodies,
A chandelier in God’s sensorium.
My dreams are reality; painting the theatre bizarre
Mere moments separated by suspended animation
Two tiny abruptions ruling my perception.
Every bundle of absorbed organisms looking through their own viewfinder,
one no more true than the other.
Walking through walls like wading pools
I often wonder what I look like to other people
Behind every I resides the seat of sensation
stampeding in blind fear,
Trampling and suffocating the observer.
I look in the mirror and I only see darkness, an eternal abyss of black depth
There’s something there beyond the other side.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
We met each other
under the moonlight,
in the city of love and wonder,
we met in Paris
In your hands held a camera,
lens pointed to the sky
finger near the shutter,
as strangers passed by
I held my own
leading the viewfinder to my eye
as the Eiffel Tower was shown,
one click later and you were by my side
We met each other
under the moonlight,
in the city wherein I call you my lover,
we met in Paris
Jan 10, 2020
Jan 10, 2020 at 1:17 PM UTC
i am fascinated by the human emotional spectrum.
when i see the humorous glint in their eyes,
the pale skin due to heart-wrenching horror,
or the fire they seem to hold in between their closed fists
i am once again reminded that humans,
though extremely fragile,
have the power to penetrate from within the viewfinder.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 5:33 AM UTC
For the first time, the viewfinder fails to lose your years—
It kisses collapsed jowls, coaxes wire from your scalp,
Lauds that torn ear (which I swear is lower than before).
Each time you turn your head, my disgust at your denouement
Bows to disgust at my revulsion.
(By the time I finish my Flux Capacitor it will be too late and
You are already paying for my lethargy.)
Cactus coughs clamber out of your throat.
I close my eyes and you sigh and
I breathe in, involuntarily.
Words coarsen my throat and you and I and even our resident quarks know that you will die.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
I can remember growing up in my car
That year of not so sweet sixteen
As my line of sight aligned with my knuckles and
Further to the cyclops viewfinder windshield
That showed me the world through its
Cracks of heat expansion and cold contraction
I remember getting ice cream with a girl once and
Realizing that high school never was one of Baskin Robbins 32 flavors
Maybe that's why I never bought into it or liked the taste
Feeling it to be a waste of time
I remember driving by the school
Bright and early in morning
Deciding today was not my day and I'm not going
Because I was always too cool
Or more accurately too foolish to see the point of it all
I remember drug filled days passing by in a daze slowly but surely
But in my mind they drift by like a cigarette drag in my memory
Subsequently with each inhale and exhale
I remember the day I chose to walk the halls like a ghost and
Make as little impact as I possible
As far as I'm concerned I was fairly successful
I remember not knowing what it meant to be a sophomore
Only that as the pain progressed I was beginning to feel more and more soft
It's hard being the ****** in the vehicle
It's a vicious vessel to handle
Four grades in a classroom
Three years in my backseat
Two days in jail
One life to live
When I was sixteen
I wish this wasn't the future
Now it's my past
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
The girl
with two long braids
hanging from her temples
like droopy
antennae,
looked up at the sky.
A foggy halo
circled the moon
in a snowy paste
and
a tiny sister
pushed itself
redly
outward.
Out of the halo.
Out of the white shadow
of
the pearl.
The haze was so thick
that the girl
had to squint
to make sure
the tiny red dot
was there.
But it was there.
There
licking at the halo.
Eating it.
Eating its way out.
The black telescope
shined.
She laid her eye
on the viewfinder.
She felt suction
and the momentum of her eye
zooming
out to the vaccum.
She will tell the tale
of
the stars
and
the war-gods
full of blood.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
It's good to wake up again.
My slumber slunk in of its own accord,
my living realm a shutter of mismatched viewfinder promo pics
I can't switch the shutter fast enough to become animated
so it's good to wake up again
where I can keep the full frequency as it is
Give me analog, give me a thousand frames per second
Let me hold on to the whole memory from that lucidity
So it's good to wake up again
Where I can hover above myself and see what I'm up to
Follow myself down a supposed tangent
Only to see the roadmap written down on the backs of my eyelids
So it's good to wake up again
To remind myself the two realms are interchangeable
With pieces ripped from each other
So that my dreams are dotted along reality
So it's good to wake up again
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
*
I aim the old camera
And focus for the subject
As my fingers dance to adjust its settings
For the perfect shot
With my eye in the viewfinder
I angle myself
While feeling for the shutter button
...
It's picture perfect
~Click~
*
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 4:40 PM UTC
a folding table bearing Super-8’s
sits outside as we leave lunch
pressing viewfinder to your algaeic eye,
you aim it at the sky,
at the soles of your feet,
at the dishevelled seller
but never
at
me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
Each picture you take
plucks a moment out of time
an eyelash you can't buy back
It's blown away in the breeze,
but you believe that you've captured it,
a memory held still forever.
Young man, you have no more power to seize a moment with a memory card
Than you do to keep love behind bars.
But waste your time if you wish,
Watching the world through your viewfinder
You can't rewrite those adventures
The colors will never be as bright,
The memories are facades.
Stop wasting your time
And live.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
Only if I could take a plane out of stratford as far as it will go across the ever moving waters until the gas runs out
Only if I could use every last grain of energy to power all of muscle fibers in my existence to swim to the sands that I am not familiar with
Only if I could jump onto the back of the only moving train that will get me to where I need to be
Only if I could walk around until my pupils are certain as to what is in the viewfinder
Only if I could get close enough to this masterwork so that my nasal passages can pick up it's unique scent that it sent
If only I could be near enough to physically appreciate this work of art with the gentle touch from my hands
Then I would only be face to face with you
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
The Thew Of Phantasmagoria
<for Sanders Maurice Foulke III>
The Thew Of Phantasmagoria
the muscles of the brain, design bridges, author poems, obviously
the strongest force upon the Earth, whence & where the powerful
coiling of our mortal coexistence energies be stored & unleashed
muscles summon previous unknowns, establishing neural connectivity
between colliding galaxies, undiscovered planetary rings, using kinetics
to create a vocabulary for the express purpose of astounding creation
the modest only dare inquire of themselves in wondrous silence
how came this thematic landscape, new language, to escape my
optics, my ken, my viewfinder, purview, essential essence sensories?
the deniers claim magic lanterns, optical illusions, love, par example,
they ascertain, a chemical imbalance stimulates the sensorineural,
mocking those who believe the comet’s tail visible wags its orbital path
this poem abstruse, yet full of truths, a working man’s lunch pail
full of fine china chicanery, fooling those who observe only exteriors,
but we who live on bounded islands recognize safe passages available
when the thew of the phantasmagorical is debunked, acknowledging
that for something to be truly true, it must be agreed upon by two,
thus creating a language clarifying even if it’s punctuated by shadows
621pm 23-2-2020
IP lmn
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 6:29 PM UTC
sand and endless myst
smiling through a viewfinder
eating fries and fish
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC
9/3/11
Thoughts spill into parted lips
Can’t hold back
To strong
Explosions in my mind
Create elusive remnants
Of what I can’t be sure
Cravings surge through my limp body
Desires run amok as I lift my eyes to the stars
My heart sings songs I do not know
But are familiar none the less
Can’t stop moving
Beat pulsing through my veins
As music seeps into my soul
Embracing the empty spaces
Smiles creep up
Laughter released deep from my belly
Joy is displayed in the viewfinder before my eyes
I tumble through the stars as I lose my place
Nothing matters anymore
Just the pounding bass
Racing inspirations
Taking colorful form
Painting pictures I see in my minds eye
Plenty of canvas here
Empty white walls
Surrounding me as I dream
I throw colors against the wall
Blue green hues
Bright orange bursts
Splendor dazzling through the air
I spin in careless circles
Eyes head heart
Light
Dancing in bliss
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 2:05 PM UTC
Life at this moment you cant be bullshitting
me. There isn't an April fools that's getting
even close to what we find ourselves hitting
any where near to this. it's so unfitting.
But no matter the **** hitting the fan, I haven't got
any bog roll. I can only poo outside before I'm caught.
But leaves are natures wipes and I'm dammed if aught
I'll sleep with skids on my sheets, but if I do I'll just smile.
But underneath I gag as the sweet corn is natures reminder
to wipe before, as they feel like coffee not put through the grinder.
I feel like crap my legs woefully tanned, not because of the sun,
crap skidding my legs, as if you lift the sheets its a gross viewfinder.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 5:33 PM UTC
I see
the endless universe
with the sky as my viewfinder to my still-life
yet not so still as
vibrant explosions of stars scatter small, small particles
marking an end and a new beginning.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
In the viewfinder I find her, I am stood right behind her, she senses I'm there,she brushes her hair,turns and smiles at the lens,the light bends through the spectrum and hums through the shutter,I capture her,mutter,how beautiful she'll be in a frame by the fireside sitting with me.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 4:23 AM UTC
Watch the camera lie,and
turn the blue into
a big red eye.
The viewfinder's a kind of
kaleidoscope,
twist the lens and hope
it all comes out
alright.
Take a picture
infra red
in the night
and in the bed.
Black and white
is, to be sure
the film that
makes the aperture,
capture
the pure,
the light,
yes,
black and white will
do for me,
the future is
photography.
But you can't photograph a
laugh or a sigh and a lie can be held
in the picture they tell us is true.
In the image I seek, there's a hint of
the meek and the wild and the
child I once was.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Poor bitter lonely boy
Open your eyes wider
Poor bitter lonely boy
Take them away from the viewfinder
Poor bitter lonely boy
Stop living your life through a camera
Poor bitter lonely boy
Come out from your shelter
There is so much more outside the frame
Your view isn't the only one that matters
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 2:56 PM UTC
There is nothing in the media
and **** all on the news
someone somewhere must
know something
someone must have views.
Lines are drawn in Palestine
and crossed
and drawn again,
lots of places just like that
all of them the same.
The media will feed to you
the best bits so
you'll drool, and
the papers
though we call them news
are of little use and
take us all for fools.
We are seeing it through a shattered lens,
the viewfinder is
a kaleidoscope that tells
of broken dreams and
forlorn hope.
I hope the radio comes on
with something more to say than,
'thanks for tuning in and
have a lovely day'
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
Its been far too long
Since I was left to learn to love myself
What did you expect
If I cant love anyone else
You never once told me love is like a song
That if I whistle or hum
It doesn't matter if I woodwind or drum
Someone will play along
I played to my heartbeat
But the arrhythmia was wrong
But Im a rogue line stuck in the refrain
Coda
Im a rogue line stuck in the refrain
Coda, Coda? [Jim, take out the bottom and reverb]
And I feel it in my pulse
I know that I'm alone
Stuck between my teeth
Its no wonder I cant speak.
In every block you hit,
You turned me into coin
When I burn it down, every pitfall
Couldn't catch that vine
The 8-bit ******* was meant to die
Put up with every danger
Too many times to be clean
I bleached blood off my sheets
From our injuries
I invited "you" to inflict on me
And for all my knowledge
Brought by books and bruises
"You" unrequited me... why?
Justify an existence when no one should be this..
In every "the end" you leave me...
Lady Chatterly...
My conscience cant decide
Who suffered more in this
I can not convince you
I'm the one you're looking for
You will always look me over
Like the Ducky you must ignore
You cant be persuaded
I was better left for dead
But you still find me
Dig-dug me up to bind me
In our "pet" semmatary
I cannot imagine
The suffering you've survived
To be patient enough
To surprise me.
One day when the photographs start to fade
We'll look on the patina
And reflect
"At least we made them"
"Maybe they'll be better than us"
We'll say, to the Polaroids and our progeny
And they will be our legacy
Reflections of you and me
Tattered negatives of wishes
Viewfinder images of the kids
I wont live long enough to leave
Stained curtains and ruined sheets
Stained curtains and ruined sheets
Stained curtains and ruined sheets
Only because
Only when
You could love me.
Jun 12, 2024
Jun 12, 2024 at 12:47 AM UTC