Sunday, May 27, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Why else do machines
Not fix themselves?
- Mom's basement
- Grandma's basement
- Aunt's basement
- Garden level at Cascading Palms w/ 3 others
- Hotel room
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
His glasses likely flew off his
It was one of those plaintive cries
That only men, only, choke out
With the dissolution of their
There was a reply
It was low bass
The wind struck then
Rattling the apricot
Nothing more could be
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Payson Canyon Spring
Originally uploaded by Clint Gardner
No HftNM yet one this venture, but this might just be one of best pictures I've ever captured. It is, none-the-less, probably my favorite photo so far.
Haibun to follow--perhaps shortly, or perhaps longly.
I am on vacation, after all.
Stop peer pressuring me!
Monday, May 14, 2012
There, that blog post again, it itches his skin
The one that some no one someone posted
But like untreated syphilis it haunts his cowboy
There, there is his past; the stupid he can't live
Down or up, the empty heart that was tied to
Place and time and time and place and dark
The kids loved to hate him, and he tell himself
That before he leaves seventeen comments
Because eighteen would be too many to
And then he searches again and again and again
Looking for those mentions of himself and him
Self. Because that is what cowboys do who have
Lives after being a kid's show star and no some
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Lilacs were a favorite flower of pioneers and was my mother's favorite flower. I thought of her on seeing them with their heart-shaped leaves. The trinity that Whitman mentions is the trinity of Mother/Father/Child. Love.
WHEN lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring; Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love. (Whitman)
There was some other signs of us at the site: beer cans and butter cups, but one strange placement puts it all together:
Friday, May 11, 2012
It was quite a beautiful morning. The redwing blackbirds were out in force; their trumpeting, however, couldn't overwhelm thrush that were singing madly in the bullrushes whilst making their nests with catkin fluff.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Yellow Creek Canyon sits at the bottom of the Salt Lake Valley in the Oquirrah Mountain Range.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
Friday, May 04, 2012
My friend of all these years talks through history
Of thought he once found suspect and nonsense
But he has found the root of the conflict and how
The tree was pruned; how the prevailing winds have
Leaned the tree hard against injustice of life
It is the lonely leaf (not alone) that feels the
Whip of a hot summer breeze or the punch of hail
Those on the windward side shrivel and tear
Those leeward grow wide with thick veins
The tree knows to sway and twist in balance
Through its studied response to the weather's
Without the tree, no leaf. Without the leaf, no tree
Meanwhile, outside, a gentle spring rain falls on
The lush forest of the university, dripping life
On sparkling sidewalks slick with the future