Best Photographers Poems
“To have the wings to fly and roots to reach deep inside is to find beauty and tenderness amid the gravel and dust and the wound opens the rupture into a rapture.." Jayita Bhattachargee
In the ambient silence of twilight's gentle embrace,
silhouettes and shadows dance as stars sparkle in grace.
Ecstatic eyes gaze towards spheres where dreams come alive,
an enchanting canvas of wonder where spirits revive.
An air of perfumed peace whispers in pomegranate skies,
celestial sensations glow as lavender clouds comprise.
Ivory moon commands horizons with purple hues,
as its rays reflect in glorious amethyst views.
A sense of serenity gives birth to spiritual rapture,
like a moment of nature, photographers crave to capture.
Where lonely lovers allow their elated souls to take flight,
merging with darkness to illuminate an ebony night.
Soaring beyond earthly boundaries of euphoric delight,
in a cosmic flow reflecting lanterns of fluorescent light.
Romance is a rhapsody of rainbow colours free flowing,
a perfect palette of pastels that leave a heart glowing.
Realms of true love endow golden visions of vivid bliss,
softly soothed by lips of a beloved's enchanting kiss.
Is it not enough that you’ve hung me beside
myself from your fraying rope - tendered by
graying wooden clips with rubber fingers?
Must we really soak on dry until we are sepia
toned under-developed photographs, left on fix?
Why is it you still feel the need to marinate
my every flexed tendon in formaldehyde?
Is it the slow bumping up against red glass
that turns you on; that you relish? Or simply
the come-hither thrill of the bottled hunt?
Watching our developing forms (and by ‘our’,
I mean me and myself - I left the party half
cocked and ready for more long ago) submerged
beneath the red tinge of shadow forms split at
the wrists - dividing one truth from the
next - your tapping, impatient, ready to dance
fingers drumming my convoluted tumbler to
halves; throwing tomatoes, cabbage and micro-
brewed beer bottles at my smiling face as it
develops, appearing as every God damn thing
you never could do; slowly, quickly emerging
hung on the next pin over.
O’ how you hate that photo!
The one where I’m smiling and you’re not.
The one where I know who I am, and you
don’t. The one where even though there are
two of me; there are, (at last count) 10,000 of
you. And if you could see your own face through
the wide V darkroom dusk looking back at
yourself, you would see that sometimes even
the best photographers get it wrong. Sometimes,
all there is, is shadow covering up the best parts,
leaving no room for light meters, fixer, or dull
graying clips clutching white Mickey Mouse fingers,
forcing the image still.
© Kristin Reynolds 5 7 09
Bernadette and Juliet
Alone, alone in her mind
as she sleeps comfortably
now alone permanently
as she drifts away un-noticed
Was it Bernadette or Juliet
that flew away
as the designer was given
a one thousand gun salute
As the glittering buttons
of a non-existent dress
grabs many headlines
allows many excuses to forget
So the role models fling their false tears
not speaking to, not noticing
the unplanned photographers,
Tv cameras that the PR people sent
As our models of hope
are wrenched apart
their love still untouched
by the ravages of the real? world
And all that is left is a world
that can't look smart, that will find
something else to pay ten grand for
in a world with one fewer true love's passion
Two horses share the acre of pasture--
A proud Arabian, now a gelding,
Who sired seven stately champions, stands
Elegantly while I snap his picture.
The other one, a thirty-two-year-old
With a sagging back, stands waiting to die--
A three times national champion stud
With honors--ribbons and trophies galore
Moving slowly toward the feeding trough
No longer poses for photographers.
written June 14, 2021
On a warm summer evening
as stillness settles on the turquoise lake
a solitary golden tree stands
expanding it's arms outward
the trees on the shoreline remain
still coated and covered in green
not wanting to change with the season
the golden leaves visual
on the smooth surface of the lake
reflecting like a half baked sun
a round glowing golden figure
nature's beauty captured
is a photographers dream.
For all those who’ve been captured by my camera lens,
I wish we could do it all over again.
But time waits for no one despite what we see,
In images made of you and me.
In the snap of a shutter or the blink of an eye
A memory is frozen like tinsel in time.
Shiny and shimmering like diamonds and pearls
Each one a treasure, immeasurable world.
Yet never to last beyond dawn’s early light
As the picture of now is an illusory sight.
To have and to hold like water in hand
Hasten photographers to do what we can.
To coax, cajole, position and prompt
People and places to do what we want
To fill up our cameras with just the right touch –
Never too little, never too much.
With just the right color, right texture, right mood –
A slim slice of life that says what, where and who.
In a gathering of pixels of zeros and ones,
Technological marvel mixed with light from the sun.
And oh what a ride I’ve had by your side
Be you stranger, family or friend,
Throughout the years of trying to make clear
What’s moving like clouds in the wind…
People, places, flowers and trees,
Sun rising and falling on rivers and seas.
Small creatures and features of wood, sand and rain,
Sky scrapers and ruins of ancient remains.
The famous and infamous, lost and found;
The good, bad, beautiful and perennially profound.
Healthy, wealthy, humble and weak;
Down and out with nothing to eat.
But your smile most of all is my favorite frame;
Vignette of your memory, your life and good name.
Etched now in the hues of bold colors and grays
With gratitude I have you to reflect upon today.
Tibetan monks share colorful lore
Taking wide-eyed listeners from a valley floor
To peaks in the sentinel Himalayas
So how could such holy men’s tales betray us
A dark, furry creature’s outline has been seen
Startling climbers on mountains so serene
Leaving bipedal footprints on pristine snow
Stumping searchers who try to learn where they go
Yeti, the not-so-abominable snowman
Much maligned being of God’s creative plan
Never attacks, just appears and quickly flees
Allowing sighters to suspect what they please
Howling in the pain of loss from lofty peaks
Perhaps for a missing cousin Yeti seeks
One who traversed a lost land bridge from Asia
Then made his way south from the Arctic Tundra
To explore lush forests now U.S. Northwest
Where for centuries Bigfoot has done his best
To elude capture by settlers and hunters
And scoff at ever-hopeful photographers
Publicized encounters still boggle the brain
But only footprints, blurry photos remain
Of man’s intriguing, unevolved ancestors
Scientists think they’re human predecessors
Far smarter than we, they blend in with nature
Appearing now and then in the newspaper
But their imprints on Earth have been minimal
Never chopping trees or scarring a pinnacle
They’ve reason to hide from one who pollutes
One who doesn’t reason, but only shoots
Perhaps these “beasts” we should emulate
Learn from our ancestors before it’s too late
*Entry for Joyce's "The Rhyming Game" contest
Mornings fade into evenings, evenings slip into nights.
Day colors spill from their pails, then seep into
valleys, wind caves and shale.
The Painted Desert bleeds into a Stygian hue
as the heat reaches up to embrace the moon
and soon, nocturnal eyes will glow starry bright.
She is a stern and hardened matron, giving homes to
venomous lodgers, leathered skins and prickly spikes,
nurturing the Eagleclaws and Buckhorn Cholla,
seldom shedding tears, yet seducing hikers with
her raw beauty and enticing guile, beckoning
well-worn travelers, luring them in with her temptress smile,
wagging a crooked finger while breathing sweet, hot breath.
Her brilliance inspires painters, giving passion to photographers,
scribes, and past homes with heirlooms to Navajo tribes.
Though the sky grows dark with oranges and pinks slipping away,
they are resurrected at dawn, when cactus wrens scold
rattlers coiled by rocks, commanding them to dens.
The Painted Lady is harsh, watching with lavender eyes,
scarlet lips, and a throat of dust- thirsting for a drink.
She wears skin of leather, powdered with a coat the color or rust.
But she does no intimidate me with her sharp nails, hot breath,
and painted face- for she once was my neighbor.
And though years pass by, her radiant beauty never pales.
My great grandfather, "Sani" is buried somewhere deep
in her bosom. I placed a stone and etched his name above
the place where he now sleeps in this land.
The epitaph is covered by a tawny shroud
blown in from the Niyol- so I brush away the
offending residues with one swift, sweep of my hand.
What a name called?
Football a game called,
To known arena called stadium,
Played eleven to eleven side to side each,
Formations of it kinds,
Aims of a two goal post net,
Aims of a trophy,
Aims of winning,
In a color Jersey of its kinds,
In a color booths of it kinds,
Side to side balls picking sons round,
Spectators sat rounding pitch watching,
Centered with a nominated referee officiating,
Lined with a two lines men flagged,
Officials of substitutions in questions,
Pronounced by named commentators,
Red and yellow cards rules in question,
Supported keys of volunteers,
Supported with all sorts of supporters,
Declared a stadium manager jobs,
Declared a team manager jobs,
Host the nations, Host the world,
At moment of a country designated!
At moment of a country authorized!
Called for all practitioners....
Photographers, Cinematography, Press, Medias, Adverts, Sponsors, critics, etc. centred.
What a name called?
Football! football! ! football! ! !
A rounded leather circled!
Circled in its color of its choices,
Declared fifa authorities,
Declared statistical over all game,
Respect covered face to face,
Stretchers officials in uniforms of its officials medications,
Football a game called,
With boots of its kinds worn,
Saddled a whole lot supporters,
Saddled a whole lot analysts,
Presumption for a nation's glory,
Preemptive individuals' desirably for survival,
Football a game called,
Called to the passionate in spirit,
Football a game called,
Embrace understanding to unnamed,
Embrace love to unloved,
Embrace unity to diversities,
Embrace creativity to un-creativity,
Football a game called,
Adore a nature,
Football a game called,
Called to a glorious home,
Football a game called,
A rounded leather circled!
With boots of its played,
With jersey of its kinds,
With choices of many kinds,
Football a game called.
Act of inspiration wrestle pythons
Research scientists are the primary audience
ethics and research breakthroughs
bring the beauty, multi-media presentation allows
photographers
Auto loading service pistol- long awaited culmination
Brutally overbuilt
disregard" the request for help
generally docile the loudest creatures on earth
Shoot, shovel, and shut-up
collaborators use a suite of factors to assess
national policies to promote efficiency
Europe After the Rain
Persistence of Memory done before 1800
Commercial advertisers often seek purpose
An Experienced Perfectionist
showing a belief in and veneration
imbued with pious sacred rites
*For the cut- up contest
( and yes, these are in exact order LOL)
In a public washroom, can Kings ever be DEthroned?
When a cowboy moves to the city, is he DEranged?
Do photographers wishes sometimes DEvelop?
Are former famous models ever DEposed?
When a ship leave for the Caribbean, is it DEported?
Do lawyers sometimes sit on Defence?
When a man gets ready for bed, does he DEbrief?
If they drain the waterway around a castle, is it DEmoted?
When a male is castrated, is he DEmand?
When a scholar is sent back, is he DEgraded?
Can a lady of the streets ever be DElayed?
Do certain shampoos help you DEflect?
When a doctor withdraws a needle, is the patient DEjected?
Can a person survive without DEliver?
If you tear up an agreement, do you DEsign?
Can baseball player ever DEposition?
Ever seen a dog chasing DEtail?
If you lose your extra tire, do you DEspair?
Do manicurists sometimes DEfile
When a downpour stops, does it DEluge?
When a student leaves school, does he DEclassify?
Can someone's old clothing DEfray?
Does a coffin always contain a DElivered?
Can a movie star ever be DEfamed?
© Jack Ellison 2013
When I was a child my utmost dream was to be recognized, famous.
I determined that it is rather a curse, not a joy, for it impedes freedom.
Being a hippie I relish my seclusion and communal time; I revere it.
If photographers were hopping all over my house I could not bear it.
I allowed my childhood fame dream to float casually down the brook,
Knowing that I can forever write my truth without public criticism.
I paint my canvases and keep them safely hidden from the Status No.
Weird how swiftly I put down my mantra of wanting recognition actually.
When I was about eight I had an epic dream that continued for a year.
I was rich and famous. Anyone who had a newspaper knew of me.
I had an orphanage, an animal shelter, a home for unwed mothers.
How in the world I knew about unwed mothers is nobody’s guess.
This was in the early 1960’s when no eight year old knew of them.
Yet, somehow, I did. Giving credence to reincarnation in my mind
As my mother shared nothing with us kids, not even her grocery list.
A secretive time; I could not wait to go to sleep to dream of my fame.
I added a movie theater, basketball court, playground and tennis court.
I could not wait to get to sleep, for the orphans fawned all over me.
The dogs and the cats did too for I had added a cat shelter.
When the dream stopped, I was shocked, willing it back, disappointed.
Now that I am grown I wear a mumu with paint stains on it,
I draw my pictures, paint them, dance in my garden, raise flowers,
Take care of dogs and cats, play with my ten grand children
I am never bothered by photographers or reporters I am happy to say!
At the end of the elated visit
Around the mind moving marble mausoleum -Taj Mahal
I was unconvinced to leave and got a place to sit
As excited to enjoy the environment, withal
It was the inside on the right, near the main entrance
Just before the famous ‘visitors bench’
from where visitors pose, with faces full of romance
As a monumental memory, though the fire won’t quench
I was seated at a comfortable distance
To watch this mankind’s magnificent marble marvel
My mind churned the charm, inch by inch
With visitors from the entire globe, lining after a long travel
Of all colors, gathering was the crowd of tourist
With dressing styles that were, to this land, new
My emotions of excitement, I could not resist
Their expression of ecstatic too, none knew
Flocking was also the beeline of photographers
With the face of everyone, full of excitement
Earnestly everyone was immersed, as none bothers
None can forget in life, this joyful moment
Distracted my ‘dream-like-reality’ was an eagle
He was flying low, short rounds over the main dome
Over his unusual behavior, into me, I did giggle
He returned after two short rounds, as it was awesome
He now flied directly to the Finial – Islamic moon symbol atop
He sat over the Finial, as if he came to chat with me
A new relationship between us began to develop
I enormously enjoyed this ecstatic and wondered to watch the game
Joy or grief never lasts for longer
As he could not sit there comfortably
As the edges seems sharper and stronger
My friend was forced to fly away, inevitably
This play of this eagle, perhaps I only noticed
Perhaps only towards me, He sat to chat
Taj as universal ‘symbol of love’ is highly placed
The joy of watching the eagle too, a tantalizing treat!
(Copyrights reserved by the Author)
I love Canada for her wintry show,
the red-breasted robins in trees;
and fresh fallen white in a wild meadow,
forests caressed by a cold breeze;
serene ice rivers and streams that still flow !
We have aged primeval forests of snow,
winter water colored sunsets;
and magpie birds who sing a song of woe,
I live with the snow- no regrets;
and red cardinals hang on while winds blow !
High white draped mountain peaks cast a shadow,
while north winds kiss the boreal;
photographers take a nature photo.
look at- in books pictorial;
I love it when filigree flakes fall slow !
I love it when the flakes dance to and fro,
so magical and enchanting;
in the still calm I can just let it go,
but the deep snow leaves me panting;
oh, wish it would snow in each tomorrow !
_________________________
November 8, 2020
Poetry/Quintain-Sicilian/Canadian Winter Scenes
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1303-358-08
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Quintain - Sicilian
sponsor, Emile Pinet
First Place
Some people can draw
Some people can write
Some people like dogs, others like cats
Others like both or neither.
Some people like to sit out in the sun and chat
Some people like to sleep in and make music after dark
Some people can't tolerate smoke
Some people can't tolerate noise
Some people can't tolerate sarcasm and some
can't tolerate intolerance.
That's like what 5% of 99% looks like
and if I can't post this here,
then where can I?
Bounteous blessings on the tent watchers
the strategists
the dancers
the photographers
the voters
the meat eaters
the ones who eschew meat
the ones who really don't care either way
Bounteous blessings on the people who speak
with their own voices
in the moment
and have the grace
to allow others to do so
Bounteous blessings on the people who after they've spoken
reflect on the moment
and reconsider.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Occupy everywhere