Surface tension
empty space between green and diamond pearls
quanta carrying forces*

Tiny hovercraft-globes
like boats on leaves
for a brief eternity

I accidentally strive the leave
causing chaos
and wet sleeves
then self-organization

*Thank you Brent Nelson:

Life is like a fruit bowl

Life is like a fruit bowl
Something sweet
Something sour
Something bitter
Something bland
Something exotic

Something not yet ready
Something overripe
Like our want to ignore
Like our urge to thrive

And if we don’t take care
And don’t lift hidden fruit
Underneath of all that colour
It is going to rot

Lift things from the shadows
Hold them into the light
Even if they are sour
Or really hard to bite

Or else they will just fester
Or else they make you sick
The hidden fruit in shadow
The wounds that never healed


I read an article a while back debating how much a photographer has ownership of their art when cameras make the decisions for them. Given that I take most my photos either with my mobile phone (don’t judge it’s Huawei P9 with dual Leica lenses) or a somewhat geriatric hybrid (Canon Powershot S50—with a broken viewfinder and some serious issues in difficult light situations), the cameras do very much make the initial decisions for me. However, what they do not decide is:

  • Why I am taking the photo.
  • What I see underneath the sometimes washed out veneer.
  • How the reality manifests itself for me.
  • How I want this moment to feel, taste, look, smell, and sounds to me.

So the machines do not see, smell, taste, hear, feel that this November foliage is an ephemeral treasure of gold.

The machines are not aware of the parallel universe, in which two moons circle the globe, and light breaks differently through a hazy atmosphere. The machines are not aware that this universe shimmers through the mesmerizing colours teased out by the midday winter-sun.

The machines don’t notice the complex fairy tale playing out around the bizarrely shaped branches of a tree. They are not cognizant of the battles, the monsters, the love, the light, the fantastic creatures, the purple dragon, the elven warrior, or the fairy cat. They know not of the little girl in the polka-dot dress, walking barefoot amongst the trees. The awkward teenage boy who is to tall for his breeches but too small for his sword. The person who changes their hair every day at will, just because. The machine’s focus did not notice the tiny mouse’s shaking whiskers when it poked his head cautiously above an exposed root, to see what I was doing and report back to fairyland.

I am aware of all of these realities, but when I point my camera all the machine notices is a fairly nice, sometimes even almost professional, but flat representation of all these stories.

So I use a multitude of programmes, apps, and filters until the stories emerge from this:


In the depth of stillness
The whole world is a soundproof room
Colours bleached with bright filter

In the depth of stillness

Green pointy ears of daffodils
Still to be seen yesterday
Misplaced optimism

In the depth of stillness

Ripe camelia buds
Covered in a thick blanket of ice
Smart move

In the depth of stillness

The snowdrops have gone under
Two blackbirds chase each other

In the depth of stillness

We all huddle down and wait
Short sprints into the eternal white
Leaves cheeks and noses red

In the depth of stillness
Stories are born

Angels, maybe?

Have you heard the feather fall?
Have you sensed the light at all?

Have you thought where steps will land?
Have you guessed where you will plant?

Plant your roots deep in the ground?
Listen to the hollow sound!
Clapping wings now turn around.

Have you thought of moving on?
Have you known the light of sun?

Have you embraced the love of lion?
Have you braced your soul with iron?

Iron forged in red hot fire?
Watched love fall through wrought desire?
Fiery swords drawn in pure ire?

Have you learned the gentle art?
Have you listened to your heart?

Have you purged heart, mind, and soul?
Hate will always take its toll.

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