Is a photograph more than just light
briefly persuaded into form?
Is it perhaps a small remainder~
a breath held in brightness,
a trace of being
still alive in the frame?
Is what remains more than image,
more than chemistry or code.
Is it perhaps the quiet vibration
of someone once present,
their energy lingering
in the captured glow.
Do old photographs
hold the faint radiance
of a life leaning forward~
a soft intention,
a body of light,
still reaching across time.
Perhaps a photograph
is a thin place of presence,
where the living and the once-living
meet for a moment
in the framed interior of light.
Frozen in Photographs
Heaven wind calls
Cheery blooms near
Bench feels like home
Your kiss is warm
We smile at photographs and spring that never leaves
timeworn photographs
shadows thinning into grain
sepia drifting
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I found us in a shoebox,
tucked between receipts and time~
your laugh pressed flat like August wheat,
your eyes still wet with sun.
The edges curl like fingers
reaching for what’s slipped away:
a carnival of fireflies,
the porch swing’s lazy groan,
the way the light would hesitate
before it left the room.
Now the colors bleed a little~
your shirt a faded blue,
the sky behind us thinning
to something less than true.
But here, in this dim silence,
I hold the ghost of sound:
the shutter’s click, your whispered stay,
before the world moved on.
We take photographs with people
So they could remember us
And leave memories behind
So they don’t forget us.
And the contrast
Between the two are the same.
We leave these moments
Scattered,
Hoping that somewhere
Somebody will discover them
And make sense of everything
We chose to neglect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
family
photographs
are
windows
into
times passed
sweet
as well as
bittersweet
We belong to other people,
In their photographs,
In their memories,
And in their hearts,
Because sometimes that is all we have.
The idea of wanting
To belong to someone,
To someone who tells us that they
Need us just as much as we need
Them—that is what the
Meaning of life should be.
To feel loved and to give it
Back and nothing else, because
Everything else does not matter.
Everything else is just a map,
And that map might lead us to a hole
Filled with quiet deserts
And empty spaces.
A familiar voice sharing the past,
Remembering a place that didn’t last.
Sifting through ashes of another life,
Searching for beauty amongst the strife.
Anguish surrounds me, a constant storm,
Cold and darkness, wanting to be warm.
Deprived of love, empty inside,
Shattered dreams, life denied.
Unresolved injustice, mistakes and fears,
Yet I mourn those lost years.
No peace in silence when I’m alone,
I reach to hold you, but you’re gone.
Pain causes me to isolate,
Chaos in my head to medicate.
Photos are fading, music grows old,
Lyrics and melodies pierce my soul.
All I have left are these photographs and memories.
Captured memories.
One glance will take you back.
It feels like time hasn’t passed;
everything feels the same—yet nothing remains.
Your mind, playing tricks…
a fleeting sleight of hand,
leaving tears spooling from your eyes.
You don’t know what you have until it’s gone—
a simple cliché, but it’s true.
When all that’s left are photographs…
one day, you’ll feel it too.
The most honored woman of her place;
I’m not fortunate enough to see her face!
She is none other than my loving mother;
People say, one can’t find like her another!
I know not, what mother’s love is all about!
Does God have any sense? I always doubt!
The lady in the photograph, I was taught,
Was my mother! Oh, a great relief I sought!
As I grew up, the photograph started fading;
But in my mind’s eye, it will be ever parading!
He sat captured in a surprised look,
Middle-aged, youthful and vibrant,
He was committed to his work and family,
An uncommon balance admired by his colleagues.
His story was that of grass to grace,
From humble beginnings,
He moved up the ladder,
He meandered and blossomed,
He was a shooting star in the night sky.
He took a wrong leap,
It was an anguish reap,
It pierced his soul and wrung his heart,
He couldn’t steer a middle course for long,
He plummeted into darkness,
He eased into the night at his prime.
A keepsake of him fading away gradually,
Slowly erased by time and clime,
Brought back to the light,
Awakened by technology.
September 19, 2024.
Fading photographs collecting dust,
the images of moments from my past
like ancient aging metals caked with rust
from torrid tear-soaked dreams that didn’t last
and cast aside as hopes became aghast.
Stowed away behind my closet door
these boxed up fading photos you will find,
though hidden out of sight, I can’t ignore
these dreams now buried deep within my mind;
the ancient aging dreams I left behind.
These memories still haunt me late at night
while sitting all alone in my dark room
without a single dream that brings me light
to brighten up this ever-growing gloom;
all caused by fading photographs entombed.
September 19, 2024
In a dusty bin, albums lie stacked, old and worn,
Yellowed with age, a few tattered pages hold pictures of a newborn.
Another bears autographs, a favourite band’s ink now faded,
With a young girl’s crush and tears, memories created.
Years of life captured through childhood and beyond,
Each image, a fragment echo of lives once vibrant, creating a bond.
Stories of laughter and love now unfold,
In fading photographs, only shadows remain untold.
Reminders of yesteryear we hold tight before they disappear,
A collection of memories, faces fading, but to the heart the feeling is still dear and near.
dust covered photos
forgotten over the years
just recently found
old smiles brought to life
memories that make me laugh
emotions run wild
the more I dust them
the more faded they become
sun's rays have touched them
through the years they've shine
bringing joy into our house
one photo at a time
Surreal sonnets found their way
into the cavern of emptiness,
Scrolling through rusting rhymes and concrete couplets,
All in a chaotic cadence of crème de la crème.
This hard-held heart barely softened for the colors in the fading photographs.
What can the mere past do to these strings of stones,
When the dents from adrenaline-filled butterflies
Remain as few frozen water droplets,
Resting on an ocean-wide dinner table,
Questioning what lives and what wilts?
Have these hands abandoned the will to hold the moon?
For the absurd symphonies your worn-out wounds sing
Do not touch the skin of my ears.
Naive senses were the first silk to pay for lost love.
Delusions are funny when they play,
Crystal ball showing doves,
Promising everlasting angelic bells from above.
What difference does it make
When words can only be breathtaking as they float,
Without a beat, without bones?
The malicious necessity behind a heathen and it’s horns,
Making pouring Polaroids out of dreams and thorns.
For beyond a portrait of murky eclipses, there is nothing more,
Just ravenous ravens and stale blue shores.
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