Deprived by country and elsewhere
For deeds and actions I didn’t do
Suspicious here, not welcomed there
You can imagine my worldview
You’re privileged to move around
Your peaceful countries waged no wars
I’m privileged to go without
The double standard world of yours
You think of nation seeing me
Though it’s not me but your projection
You’re talking to contemptuously
I only mirror your reflection
In Wonderland founded by bandits
Stands a glass house where I live
Break it to shatters, I won’t mend it
Just bear in mind I cannot leave
By circumstances I couldn’t manage
And to be honest, no one could
I am dehumanized and savaged
And you all set and understood
I’m not complaining, but just telling
The facts of living that I find
Funny enough to rhyme, compelling
Your short attention to unwind
I am a laughing man of August
I am a crying man of March
When spring blows off the winter dust
I click some photos to enlarge.
Time-spelled; in each of its frames
Both youth and age
Time-honoured; equally. For
What shared Life's stage.
I don’t know how sadness comes
After all, an hour ago it wasn’t here
Perhaps it’s the fault of the shoe
Standing askew by the door
Or of the clouds that suddenly appeared in the clear sky
Rolling in droves, embodying
Variable cloud cover
Or it's due to the photos from years gone by
Or all of this together
Falls down to engulf me
With a wave without water and air without light
The dark sun stares at me
Without the slightest sympathy
And I stare at the floor
Unable to lift my head.
Your spirit comes to read my lines
It shines within the images of yours
You look after the two of us
In silent eloquence, it grows
Like the blue hyacinths that bloom
In spring, I think it was last year
And there we sit in our room
In time, that cannot disappear..
Before and after house decoration photos amuse me
so many designers specialize in blah tans and grays
the before photos are often wild, whimsical and carefree
toned down to blah, gloomy and faux in various ways
I like oranges, reds, pinks and purples especially
designers ignore fabulous colors as far as I can see
I’ll live in a cement garage if I want plain dull gray
tan and beige also, do not take my breath away
color calls your name, gives the viewers a peek
at your preferences and attitude, let the walls speak
throw on whimsical touches of you here and there
don’t ooh and awe over blah-ness, that goes nowhere.
a few balls
on skinny limbs
of tinsel
a most
humble
christmas tree
I look back
at photos
child to teen
it was the
christmases
of our youth
these old photos
remind me of
growing up poor
they remind me
of joy from hearing
christmas carols
they remind me
of family reunions
with festive foods
a time when
grand-parents
were still with us
a time when
we were fulfilled
just being together
that beautiful
old pathetic
christmas tree
bearer of
loving memories
that will never dim
AP: 2nd place 2026, Honorable Mention 2025
black and white fifties
photos used to be priceless
film was costly
black fifties phones
attached to a wall
shared by parents, children discouraged from usage
Touches melt away in silence
I'm here, as always
Waiting for you beside the screen
Looking at your photos, listening to Nat King Cole songs
You loved these songs when we were together
The phone won't ring, but I keep waiting
It seems I know how to do it well
And maybe someday you'll come
I’ll feel that moment, I promise you
We'll see each other, just like we used to
Nobody will know our secret
We’ll recognize us from the photos
They’ll speak, as we smile
We’ll touch each other’s faces
Memories will flood in like rain
You won't need to wipe the laptop screen
It’ll shine like new.
My darling love, you have become a bit too quiet
I see no evidence or sign of you these days
What's happening out there, that keeps it silent
Why is the silence so profound at my place?
Is it too daring to assume that in our files
Your spirit watches from the photos that you took
And like the Phoenix from the ashes, high it flies
Each time I notice a slight difference in your look
Without soul there is no matter, and vise versa
But what is the eternal soul, my love?
If I can’t see you in this wasted universe
Where should I fly to through this low white sky above?
You won’t reply, but maybe that’s the answer
It is too early for this Phoenix to arise
And by the way, it’s just our Woody on your fencing
She comes by habit, then again away she flies.
Photos
are appearances
already not seen
gone with the wind
on a windless day~
inexplicable stories
which
never were true~~
I threw away the negatives
But couldn’t bear to part
With the photos of such happy times
They’re tugging at my heart.
Museum trips and boat rides,
Pulling sleds or on the beach,
Birthday candles glowing on a cake,
Those days all out of reach.
A fire in the fireplace,
The family gathered ‘round,
Performances at camp and school,
The beaming faces found.
All dressed up for the holidays
Or set for trick or treat,
The younger version of ourselves
We wish that we could meet.
I loved the reminiscing
But when tucking them away,
It made me sad that they’ll be tossed
On a not too distant day.
"A Cemetery Can Take Your Breath Away. Watch Out Where You Walk." By Poet
When I travel I love taking photos,
of cemeteries and of a pretty rose.
Sometimes the picture gets my painted toes,
or maybe even my nose.
On one trip I took a long flight,
when looking at my photos I saw a bright light.
Taken in the daytime not at night,
the big ball of light gave me a fright.
Some said it was a ghost,
but the photo was not taken by the seacoast.
Was this a cemetery host,
if yes are you serving a pot roast?
Snapshot! - a shutter impales,
a life to clicks, betwixt inhales and exhales.
Light into pixels, bloodshot in frames
kidnapped for a ransom of sometimes soon.
Snap! - a dry twig fractures under boot,
its echo resounding in forest shot.
Too brittle is the log of memories
we captured when we said we won't.
Shot! - the Sheriff, not the Deputy,
for he blinked and she pulled a face.
Both instantly aged by taking photos
of bygones not let it be, that refused to fade.
Snap! - of fingers cracked the hush,
a starter’s pistol shot with less smoke.
Called all and sundry to attention,
before all duck-dived for cover behind hands.
Between! - the blinks of eyelid snaps on eyes,
the video of endless life lives on,
in the stares and glares of film not shot freelance,
in a trance that freedom can ever be believed.
Memories Of Yesterday
A drawer filled with tattered
worn albums.
Each album holds sepia
toned pictures.
Photos of long dead members
of the family tree.
Most of them I never
knew.
I rarely look at them as
they are the past.
I hold on to them
because I am part of them.
I see a blank spot
reserved just for me.
I too will become one
of them some day.
Turning the pages backward
I find pressed flowers in my old diary
from the day we saw
lavender growing in the woods.
The sun was swallowed by clouds
that were halfway to a metaphor
and you told me the eye color of love
was dark hazel, the very depth of my own.
In a packet of handwritten letters
I find polaroids taken at a cemetery.
I remember I told you when I die
pour hot honey on my grave
to wash away my small-town sins.
Your manifesto,
written in a gas station bathroom:
you mourned never having learned
how to properly smell peonies
and failing to share blood and wine
with people who don’t exist.
You kissed me
and I told you things the moon told me
under streetlights and stars.
You replied if it ever ended
to burn it all.
In my hands I hold a broken promise.
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