Tonight I'm stoked for the Rollei Steve Stafford gave me with light meter. Steve did all his early wildlife photography with this camera. He acquired it in 1964 from Dale Crider who at the time had purchased a Pentax SLR and was throwing it in the trash at the Game Commission.
No hill to die on
Each time I see these old geezers struggling up hills, I think of my friend Roger and his slow zig zag up, never walking the bike up, then his later fast gliding down the other side, leaving us, until the next hill.
Roscoe I said, load up. I didn’t really need to tell him. He watches and knows the cues. Cameras in hand, keys off the refrigerator jingling. He’s already at the door waiting. I don’t know what his excitement is, the smells, the scraps, the territory to mark. We arrive and after the preliminary scouting out, settles for the patient looking up as the photographer waits idly by.
I suppose like me, just being idle is enough.
We pulled off the beaten way interstate on our journey from this fair Floridian state, the roar of the ocean fading. As we loaded back in toward Alabama, there in the window she was calling. It was a tortuous journey away.
It's not the height of woke outdoor fashion, we can spot them a mile down trail, wide brim sun flapping khaki hat, eye hiding Oakley's of course, vented, various elite safari or fishing poplins, the endless cargo pocketed pants with infinite zips, the Chuuka's or Teva's or whatever sandal is the vogue. The rope belt got me across the Robinson branch once, but mostly it just holds the pants up. I'm sure it's a yuppie woke thing, but the split leather I forgot to bring.
Aurelia D Wallace
Because I can't remember
What I had for lunch, they
Think I'm getting senile.
I hear them whispering
About the Shady Elms.
Good God, I'm not ready
For Shady Elms! I can
Still read Greek, I know
The whole score of Lucia,
(Though they don't take me
To music anymore, since
I've had to wear these paper
Pants). I can make Martha Washington's
Own recipe for Sally Lunn,
Without once peeking. I can
Recite the names and birthdays of all
Nine grandchildren, and I know
Franklin Roosevelt is dead.
All they ask me, though,
Is my street number backwards
And what I had for lunch, what
Day it is. Of course I know
Where I live, silly: inside these bones,
This bag my skin. No none needs
To know what I know anymore.
How is it they don't know
All days are Sunday--
As long as I can breathe
This splendid, cautious air?
john clare
Off they go
Into the wild
Blue yonder
Out of our
Lives to live
Alone in their
Self love
No room for anyone
And so off they go
Into the wild blue
Yonder
The sleeping little
One waking and
Calling for a Pappa
He will soon stop
Calling for
As off they take him
Into that wild blue
Yonder
Leaving us grounded
Unable to reach them
In that wild blue
Yonder
Leaving us to
Wonder
How is life alone
Way beyond that
Wild blue yonder
And how will we
Live without that
Little one
In this terrible land
Down under that
Wild blue
Yonder.
Twice in my evening mares you were falling. The first fall was by mistake and tragic.
The second fall was a deliberate swan dive
Into my arms
They wanted
In my seeing
It was all one scene
Playing out
Around me
In the corners
Dark vignettes
Reminding
Comes the sleeping
The path to
The long
Long
Dreaming.
It's what we old artists do
Before the varnish has even set
Mourn the cracking of the paint
Lament the mold gathering
To color green everything
Dwelling long upon the leaving
Before even finishing the greeting
It's this insipid seeing past
Knowing these works won't last.
The community socials
Were awkward and
Uncomfortable for father
He was invariably asked
And what ever became
Of the little one called
John?
And they knew
They just liked to cruelly
Provoke him
For their sons were
Doctors and lawyers
And politicians
With splendid homes
Up long winding roads
Manicured and nourished
By the finest manure.
