You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘photograph’ tag.
The rain-soaked pavement shines and reflects like a mirror;
the infinite water-drops fall slowly without a sound;
the sky looks as if it is one giant grey cloud;
the wind blowing makes the trees shiver;
the people walking around are as wet as the ground;
people keep moving, the Earth keeps spinning,
life keeps growing and revitalizing-
as does everything,
and I see the evidence everywhere I look around this town.
Things start off slow at first
and then get faster and more intense with every passing moment;
the best of things take time to build;
answers to questions sometimes feel like they are coming from far-away,
like a reply to a letter that you sent;
there are lots of things to treasure and love
about living in the blessed places of this beautiful world.
The city looks like a photograph I once saw in an art gallery;
the misty countryside looks like something out of a dream;
the colourful umbrellas being held above people’s heads
bring back different, and yet connected, memories;
the air is so pure and potent to my senses-
my ears hear only music, my tongue tastes only clarity,
my nose smells only the fragrance of nature,
my eyes see things and make them seem brand new and never before seen.
The world outside through the window
looks like a moving piece of art;
the feeling inside, where it is warm and dry, is cozy;
the character of things is accentuated,
and details hit you like a dart;
the place where you want to be
becomes all that you can think about, and want for,
and you know that who you are when you are there
is you being you only.
When the roads are a river;
when the parks and the benches of open spaces are vacant;
when the way you think and feel change because of the weather;
when you can do something you want to,
but other things you simply can’t;
when life demands that you take a breath, keep calm,
be a fighter, be at rest, soldier on, take it easy,
see order and beauty in chaos,
and look and appreciate everything you see-
like the world and the rain creating a wonderful,
real, dynamic, deep, and rich, constantly-changing,
watercolour.
Sometimes you do honestly have to pinch yourself;
sometimes you do need to take a photo
to prove what just happened actually happened;
sometimes more happens to you than you can tell;
sometimes you do just have to go with the flow
and throw out any ideas or expectations
that you may have had planned;
sometimes you do have to ride the train to the end of the track;
sometimes you do have to count your blessings;
sometimes you do have to stop worrying about working out the why,
and doing all the maths;
sometimes you do have to feel and act without thinking,
because you have no idea what can come from a seemingly chance meeting.
You can wake up one morning
and find yourself coming face to face with a prince;
you can look up and see the beautiful face of a princess;
you can go somewhere and see something once
and never again will you have seen the same thing twice, or since;
you can be lucky every day to be best friends
with the one person in the entire world who truly understand you,
and you makes you feel whole when the world can feel like it is in a mess.
When you do something and someone likes it;
when you make an effort and someone notices;
when you find someone and you just click;
when you look around you and it feels like someone has given you
a happy life like no other,
and has made real and enhanced all of your secret hopes,
dreams, and wishes, you know that life does not get any better,
you know that the universe really does have a centre,
you know that you are doing all the right things,
you know that energetic and wild feeling of release-
like a solar-flare on the surface of the sun,
or an eruption of intense heat from a hot spring.
The sights you see,
the music you hear,
the touch you feel, are important,
and those same instantaneous memories will become recollections and echoes,
waves and melodies in your daily life,
and they will influence your choices-
the people that you meet,
the things that you find,
the stories that you learn,
are like pieces of a mosaic,
patches of a quilt,
trees of a rain-forest,
lines of a matrix,
distinctive intonations of a chorus of voices.
When something feels right,
you know that you want to hold on to it forever;
when something feels natural,
you never want it to end or be over;
when something feels like nothing else has ever felt,
or could ever feel;
when something feels like it is just too good for words or description,
then you know that things are not just a dream anymore,
they are for real.
Early in the morning,
as the stars shine at night,
love makes my heart sing,
music fills my life;
when I wake up and the rain is pouring,
as I drift off to sleep,
a song, a voice, a melody,
takes me to my dreams and set alight
my deep thoughts like a fire.
My dreams are epic,
my dreams are sometimes dark-
but they are more often than not
overwhelmingly insightful and bright.
My dreams have things in them that have significance
and hidden meaning-
whether it is the sight of a typewriter,
or the echo of a clocks tick,
or the sight of someone taking a photograph of me
as I am taking a picture of them-
it always amazes me what my own subconscious conjures up
during the day in the heat of the sun,
or at night when the moon is reflecting light back at the Earth
and at all of us and influencing our thoughts and fortunes.
We all go to bed with thoughts, feelings,
and inflections of the day before that is slowly drifting away,
and its events will soon have gone by and be no more
than a shadow, when all is said and done;
we all wake up the next day feeling different,
but with certain splinters in our mind
still playing on our thoughts
that we can’t rid ourselves of or shake easily-
some of us get up and try to start their day
and free ourselves of any lingering worries or concerns
with a daily morning run,
some of us sit up in bed and listen to music,
watch TV, read a book, write poetry,
someone of us take hold of our favourite instrument
and play to our hearts content,
some of us just sit and cry on our own,
just so we can vent.
Talking is important;
connections are essential;
letting out and letting go
can be like the cool water from a font;
remembering the people you love,
and where you want to be,
because they are to you the most wonderful and the most special,
needs to be, must be, will always be-
and that is why you must run, walk, look, see,
the magic all around in the daylight;
that is why you must run into the ocean of the unknown;
that is why you need to touch and feel a part of the light;
that is why you must be fearless, bold, and brave,
and let the world and everything in it fill your life.
On a morning walk down the city high-streets,
passed countless people, passed shops,
stores, restaurants of all names,
I am stopped in my tracks instantly when I see
a Golden Gunslinger reading a book
while sitting at the foot of a tree.
I’m not sure how long he had been there,
I’m not sure what he was thinking,
but when I looked at him looking down at his book,
to me, the gunslinger looked
as if he didn’t have a care in the world,
and it seemed as if to the gunslinger
the rest of the world could carry on their way
because he was lost in thought, in state,
and frozen in time, but like a performer at a carnival,
the gunslinger sat with a tin pot
just to the left of his right boot
asking politely of his generous passer-by
for a token of interest, fascination, respect,
and a thought to show that they care.
I sat in-awe of the gunslinger on a bench nearby,
and I even took a picture-
I felt like I was looking back in time,
or as if the gunslinger had been transported to the future,
to our present-
and as I sat looking at him, the sun shone brightly on him,
and made him glow even more golden,
and he looked even more amazing than he did before,
and even the sky above looked even more blue.
I thought long and hard about approaching the gunslinger
and putting some money in his pot,
and I wondered what he would do if I did-
would he lower his book? Draw his gun and take a shot?
The incredible living-statue of the gunslinger
that mesmerised me, painted head to toe in gold,
in himself was a work of art-
he was so brilliant to behold,
because as soon as I saw him I was instantly transported
back in time to my childhood,
and my fantasies of wanting to be a cowboy.
The Golden Gunslinger was like a living photograph
of a time of adventure and a reminder of the heroes
and out-laws that fill the stories of the Wild West
that once was in America that for so many
still holds a special place in their heart;
The Golden Gunslinger reminded me of how care-free
and amzing it is to a child, or someone who acts on and follows
their instinctual passions-
whether you are a man, or a woman, a girl, or a boy.
As time caught up with me,
even though in all the time I was sitting there looking at
the gunslinger he did not move an inch,
I realised that it was time for me to move on.
I decided to approach the gunslinger and give him a coin
from my pocket to repay him for his time,
his inspiration, his generosity, and his golden spirit,
and even as I got closer and closer
he still didn’t look up or look away from his book
and didn’t for a second flinch;
and then, as soon as my £2 coin hit the rest of the coins
in his golden pot and made a sound,
The Golden Gunslinger suddenly came alive
and he looked up at me-
he lifted his left hand to touch the rim of his Stetson,
he looked right into my eyes, and I saw him smile
without him having to move his lips at all,
and he bowed his head slightly,
and it was in that moment that I smiled too
in appreciation, and I too began to shine as the sun shone.
As I stepped back the gunslinger reverted back
to the pose in which I first saw him,
and he immediately went back to his prefered-posture
of reading his book, at-ease against the base of his tree;
while I turned to my right and continued to walk down the high-street-
I didn’t look back, but I knew and I was so glad to have met him,
to have given him my time, and for him to have given his time to me
and to everyone who saw him, because he reminded me
in lots of ways of myself, and he was obviously someone
of great patience and a deep-thinker.
I promised myself to capture this moment that would never come again
in as much detail and with as much meaning as I could,
and I also promised that I would never forget
The Golden Gunslinger.
Like the moment when you first open a book
and you read the dedication on the first few pages;
like the moment when the clouds above you in the sky at night
clear and reveal the distant and beautiful stars;
like the first thing you see and feel
when you first meet someone
who you have been waiting to meet for ages;
like the experience and revelation that you live through
in a split-second when you look at someone
and right-away you feel as if you know them
and have seen yours and their future coming in clearly-
like a photograph from the surface of Mars;
like a water-drop in a cosmic sea
we are always creating ripples in the world
and in each other’s lives,
and I am constantly being touched by the effect of people
who live beyond the horizon, who do amazing things every day
that always get back to me.
Thank goodness for books.
Thank goodness for connectivity.
Thank goodness for shared memories and experiences
of first touches and first looks.
Thank goodness for divine poetry.
Thank goodness for the heroes we hear about
but will never know personally.
Thank goodness for stories told literally, orally, visually,
with heart, soul, and love,
that are constantly being sent out for other to find
like a message in a bottle that washes ashore
after being carried for miles across the sea.
Thank goodness for finding something new to talk about
everywhere we go.
Thank goodness for awesome and deep music that takes us away.
Thank goodness for everyone who comes our way.
Every day I drop my stone into the cosmic water,
I dream, and I make a wish;
every day I cast my line out far and wide
like I am trying to catch a fish;
every day I send out a signal and I listen for a reply
to come in via my psychic satellite dish.
Writing, to me, is like breathing.
Reading, to me, is like inhaling.
Experiencing, to me, is like dreaming.
Seeing, to me, is believing.
Talking, to me, is like walking.
Proposing, to me, is the end of all of your searching,
when you know you have found the one person in the entire world
who you believe was born beautiful and who is like a miracle
in every way, and who will never need perfecting.
Pull over to the side of the road once in a while,
look up at the sky, and dare to dream
and wish upon the star in the sky burning brightly
for your entire life that is the sun,
enjoy the good things that happen in life,
and endure the bad, and if possible find every
and any moment to have fun.
Go to a vast lake, stand on the coast of a deep ocean-
look out and don’t be afraid to see who and what you want to see,
look up to the infinite, unexplainable, and beautiful,
and feel like you are an important piece of an epic puzzle
that connects you to everything and links everything to you,
and know that you yourself are both a deep and sparkling ocean,
as well as a magical and influential water-drop in a cosmic sea.
A picture to remember us by,
a photo to look back on
and relive the happy memory
of a shared experience and a shared time;
a shell from the beach where two people used to walk
hand in hand and barefoot in the soft wet sand;
a ticket stub from a trip to the cinema you took with someone
to see a great film late at night;
an old receipt from your favourite restaurant,
a birthday card, a letter, a message-
a tangible memento that you can still feel
and still remember when and where and why and with whom
this meaningful and special thing to you
became a memento to you, and became so important to you
because of its connection with that someone that effected you
and always will, or because it just reminds you of the days
when you and your life were in their prime,
and everything felt perfect and right.
When times get bad,
when the waves of the sea of reality get rough,
when instead of looking forward you want to look back,
when you want to appreciate something in all it’s greatness,
when you want to remember the instant when you first fell in love,
when you want to go for a walk in the park of a relationship
when things were at their best,
when you are stuck inside on a rainy,
it’s good to take out and look at things-
things that may be spread all over your house
in places where you can constantly look to and know they are there,
things you always carry around with you in your pocket,
or things that you have collected together in a scrapbook for yourself
to look at and remember-
and that is why it is so important to keep what you can,
and don’t throw everything away.
I think photo-albums are amazing;
I think keeping a diary or writing in a journal is a fantastic thing to do,
and I think it is a brilliant way to record days, events,
and recollections of moments in your life;
I think a scrapbook is the best thing to start with a child
when they are just beginning to understand why certain things
and certain times mean more to us than others,
and why certain people constantly pop-up in the memories we have
and we return to, because it teaches them early-on,
and will remind them every time and always,
why we replay and know all the lyrics to the songs we remember and sing,
and that everyone can live on, as can we, after we die.
It’s sometimes only when we are alone
and looking for some reassurance about something
that we choose to look, re-read, remember, recall,
where something in our possession originated from
and who gave it to us-
it could be a faded photo;
it could be a worn-out piece of paper
with someone’s unique handwriting on it;
a t-shirt that you refuse to wash
because it still has someone’s smell on it;
it could be a precious, special, memory,
from which there are no souvenirs, or photos,
or anything that you can ever hold in your hand,
because it was so brief, instantaneous,
and because you simply did just have to be there to understand
the true meaning of the moment-
they are the very best, and they are the incredible,
and irreplaceable, mementos.
Above my head, skirting the cosmic veil,
a comet trails a path in the clear star-lit sky
and dusts the Earth in its wake.
I have always loved and I have always marvelled
at the sight of these glowing and solo travellers
that pass through our solar system,
and so close to Earth that they can be seen with the naked-eye
from the ground, from time to time, on a clear and unclouded night.
I have always been fascinated by what gives a comet its remarkable tail.
I have always dreamed about
what it would be like to be on the surface of a comet
as it passed by Earth, to see our testament oasis
to the infinite possibilities of choice and life,
and to gaze-out in wonder as the comet atomised and fragmented
and floated to Earth like winter snowflakes.
A photograph of the night-sky can never truly capture its beauty;
a camera can see into the depths of space,
but it can only return with an after-image-
a photocopy, a poor-mans facsimile, and representation
about what is truly out there:
colours that we don’t yet have a name for,
forces that dictate the reason for everything
that we don’t yet understand and perhaps never will,
life existing in forms we are incapable of envisioning
because we are not yet ready to see them.
We look longingly at pictures of nebulae, new planets,
moons, shooting-stars, and comets,
because they remind us of ourselves,
and they fore-shadow what we will one day find in the universe:
another and another and another example of complicated
and constantly evolving life-
the evidence of which will come of no surprise
to those who have for centuries believed, looked, read, and listened.
For thousands of years,
humanity has been in the perfect vantage-point
of the astro-auditorium to witness epic changes,
and to ask questions about what they are seeing
and about how the mere witnessing of something that is galactic
and out of our control will fuel the need of someone
to keep watching and finding new pieces to the vast
multi-levelled universal puzzle.
As is customary, to answer multi-faceted questions
you need to employ multi-faceted means of investigation, discovery,
and definition, until one day one layer of the picture
starts to take-shape in a way that could not have been planned,
that is the only way of making sense of what is right in front of you,
that is genuinely new and unthought of before- something like:
what if our universe is not the only universe out there in existence,
and maybe in the grand-scheme of things,
as seen in an infinite image of everything,
our universe is nothing but a puddle.
There is nothing more magical than sitting in a well-lit theatre,
staring at a blank movie-screen,
when suddenly the lights go down around you,
the film-projector turns on and the screen comes alive
with images of advertisements, film-trailers, and movie-teasers,
before getting to the main-event, before the spectacle of magic
that you have paid the price of a ticket to see,
is projected before you- so that you may immerse yourself in it
and come away from it with something that you didn’t arrive with;
just like how you feel when you see the ancient cave-paintings
of our ancestors in the early dwellings and places of importance
that have been discovered in parts of Africa and Australia.
For our entire existence, humanity has looked, learned,
and will continue to look and learn, and record,
and pass-on their discoveries to a new generation
for them to interpret in their own way-
in the same way, that when we look at cave paintings
we see art, our lineage, our humble beginnings;
perhaps our descendants will one day look at all life, as-one,
in the same way that we now watch a film in a cinema.
The infinite photograph of memory
is one of the most important, one of the most amazing,
one of the most powerful gifts in all of creation-
to see the detail beyond the snap-shot of the instant,
to remember and to relive every vibration,
to again be able to go back and talk to a long-lost loved one or friend,
simply defies explanation.
It can be hard to hold a picture in your hand
and to see the face of someone who you cared about at a time of great joy-
someone who you knew your entire life,
or perhaps someone who had an entire life before you even knew them,
whose after-image not even death could destroy.
A photograph of someone who made an impact on the world,
and on all who knew them,
can stir-up so many feelings of loss, torment, and pain;
however, an infinite photograph-
an ever-sustaining, interactive, re-visitation zoetrope of the mind-
that exists on another plane,
can reunite parted hearts,
and keep alive a shared capture of light and life that will forever remain.
It is in our dreams that our infinite photography develops fully
and reveals its meaning and infinite depth-
in dreams a blind man can commune with sound and see it for all its richness;
in dreams every facet of everything is remembered and felt intensely
by those who are deaf.
Our eyes see more in a single second
than our perception would have us believe;
what we think we see,
and what every region of the hemispheres of our brain
actually save, contextualize, and connect,
would be too much for our waking mind to interpret, or believe.
Infinite photography came into being the instant
that the first life on Earth became fully conscious of their sentience-
at the moment when eyes opened wide
and let in the light and shadow of all that surrounds-
that was when clarity first shone,
and the world started to make sense.
By the time of our last blink
the lens’ of our eyes will have exposed an endless album of multi-coloured,
multi-textured, multi-sense, infused pictures
that we have been witness to every second of our life’s path-
a breath-taking mosaic of our own making,
that will be the indelible flash of our life’s infinite photograph.
Everything
The Life, the Light, the Tears, of the Poet of the Sphere 