I create art with the images I collect. A few other blogs have asked me to share more of my images. The following are a few of them.
Abstracts
Nature
People
Urban
Extras
34 comments on Images
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Climate 
Cracked Nova 
Wood & Water 
Embedded 
Golden Era 
Standing at the top of Twister Falls (Taken last week) 
Lost Highway 
Snow, good. Snowing, bad. 
Bridge to Nowhere 
Launch into Emerald 
Snow in the Gorge 
A Solitary Question 
Curious About Light 
Boy Watching 
Cell Phone Summer 
Concrete Jungle 
Dark Bridge 
Twins 
Way Through the Blur 
Circulatory 
Standing in a River 
Pioneer Gravestone 
Not So Subtle -
Such were our soft hands.
We thought we spoke a new language
Of skin – untarnished, a sweet sweat
When our tongues touched
And our fingers found their old purpose
Sprawling out a blanket upon the beach
Where the sun (or was it the sand?)
Burned the soles of feet. Our love’s
Stern arm, heavy as tenderness. ——
There were specks, sand on our lips
Licking fresh words or wounds
None knew the difference, but they slipped,
Travelled unscathed.
The embrace welcomed, encouraged
As if we were simply heat.
Such are our hardened hands.
Unable to speak the old language.
Remnants written on paper, a poor papyrus of
Conjugated verbs, glittering adjectives
Slippery nouns, tucked between brittle envelopes
Placed underneath threads and sewing needles
Inside Mason Jars and old tobacco tins
On basement shelves, a form of containment
Where the stairway creaks, the furnace flickers. ——
So much fire, two feet, just a walk
To the vague haze of old words or wounds
None know the difference, but they slip,
Travel unscathed.
The embrace welcomed, unwelcomed
As if we were… simply heat.
Deconstruction. An abstract image I made from water, rain, and clouds. -
Stop treating us like a lawn
Trimming the grass
Adjusting the lawnmower’s height
Sprinkling bags of weed and feed
Attempting to even out our growth.
We cannot be manicured.
Let us have a few dandelions
Who follow the sun
Bees circling their blooms
Worms, slugs, spiders, and caterpillars.
How about a fern or two?
Rhododendrons, fawn lilies, and western azalea?
Don’t edge us too neatly
Making perfect lines in our relationship.
It makes me feel like
I want to run off with a common ragwort
And cuddle up with a couple of creeping thistles.
Don’t even think about Barkdust!
Toss away the keep off the grass sign
And let’s mess up the flowerbeds.
A spring image from the eastern side of the Cascade Mountain range. -
I’m a gatherer of growing seasons
From planter’s sun to harvest’s rain.
All, with their fallen leaves and early blooms
Placing the cycles inside form and thought.
So much I’ve seen, so much I’ve been
And like you, I can’t stop looking.
My eyes are road weary wise
Yet infinitely the infant of curiosity.
My voice is tuned to the key of
Movement, which I mimic, measured in the
Shake, rattle, & roll of the ground…having found
A lifetime of elixirs, fixtures, and pictures
Right underneath my feet, on this dusty dirtball
Dancefloor, Earth…where with pants and skirts
I bowed, curtsied, laughed, and danced
The Twist, the Mashed Potato, the Boogaloo
The Shing-a-ling, while planting sprouts
That grow strong, green, confident.
Their stems bending toward the sun.
Why? Because it’s a hell of a lot of fun.
Though it’s true someday I’ll be dry stalks
Matter, to build nests for jays as well as hawks.
And upon those days, my limbs may appear hollow
Still, I will dance with toenails bent and yellowed
Looking forward to another coming of spring
Even if new branches, like love, it refuses to bring
I call this image “A Wormhole in Need of a Gardener”. -
Ingredients: Rain, Light, Sky, Reflection, & Camera
This image is a reflection. It is water during a rainstorm travelling through a chute. The image was taken at dusk, creating the dark blue sky. The moon is a streetlamp’s reflection, but it is also the reason the water has reds, yellows, and looks like flame and lava.
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Imaginations packed tight in urbanities
Thought caught between fiction and fantasies
Blood and bone, filament fragile fragments
Lit in bodies, pulsing, soft stuck on tangents
Building concoctions, cars, and drones orbiting
Heavy carbon thrusters, seeking, always targeting
Ideals burning death holes into flesh
Righteousness, wildcard bomber mess
Games playing games with gamers who are namers
Virtual reality vitamin tablet takers
Stinky-ass kiddos, full of trash talk
Limping like kings of the leper walk
Seekers of the hot truth talking mama
Pimps with gun tongues sending women into trauma
Progressive aggressives, arguing about Shangri La
Nazis posing as politicians in the land of blah, blah, blah
Pretty, little blurry-eyed scenesters, fully grown
Rewinding cassettes back to analogue unknown
The clueless, fattening fingers on a digital button
Unaware of the shape and size of deep-fried glutton
Hybrid condo boxes built inside the zoo
Made of fiddlehead ferns, plastic groceries, a bit of glue
Collectors of creeps, glory, gods, and sneakers
Meet weekly for a sneak peek at the full-length feature
Zombies escaping to the country, next to the cows
Cutting baked tofu into the shape of clowns
Leaves Of Grass has been sprayed for bugs
And The Song of Myself is met with a shrug
Image created by me. -
Climbing down the stairs, through the dead living room, out a missing front door.
Outside… where it is simple, yet intense, torn between silence and buzz.
Both show brightly. Both are masked.
Here, he grips nothing in his hands, squeezes them together as tight as they can clench, to feel the pressure, the strength of it, the life of it.
Above him, the sky is swathed in gray, mundane as if waiting for movement.
The sun is there, peeking through clouds.
If only he could see it move across the sky, he could reason with it.
Tell it about the way he walks.
If only she could move closer. He could reason with her.
Tell her about the way he is.
Jessie wonders if this is when time stands still. Is he missing how the world moves?
Does he misinterpret signs and speech patterns?
He looks keenly at the clouds, trying to see what is behind them.
The sun must have a meaning today beyond any other day past or coming.
As he looks down, the grass appears as a carpet of swirling chaos, fallen, but quickly vanishes.
He yearns for a powerful voice, but fears what he will do once he hears it, scared about answers that will drill a hole inside him.
Answers…
About loving someone that has a sickness.
Then, he must love sickness.
Doesn’t that stand to reason?
And he should be blamed for that, right?
Does he just accept that everything and everyone is cracked in some form or another? Or is it because he believes he himself is crazy, or at least on the spectrum of something never diagnosed, perhaps undiagnosable?
Just for a second, he thinks he sees a beam of light touch down amongst the grass.
He will tell her what he’s thinking. He knows she won’t understand. He doesn’t understand himself, this voice, her voice, all voices.
Maybe it is a strength and he’s weak. Maybe it is a weakness and he’s strong.
Maybe the world makes no sense at all.
“Last Reach”. An image I took in an old orchard. -
I was intrigued by a post by a fellow blogger. She writes that her father sees the forest anew every time he ventures out into it. What she wrote resonated with my feelings about the composition. I see this image not as death and horror, which it certainly can be viewed as such, but a recycling, an epiphany of sorts, a transfiguration of how and what we think about the nature that surrounds us. We learn its language for the first time every time we engage with it.
Transfigure was composed with a series of photographs, collaging and a bit of sketching. Click on it to enlarge.
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She walks along the old road, its surface broken, cracked, revealing the dirt underneath.
There are soft spots in the pavement scarred with plants, an occasional sapling, alive or dead.
Not an easy road to walk. She’s careful. Always.
Her eyes move along its lines, reading its rough syntax, wet on the edges, a dark, moist shadow frame.
She places her hands flat upon a remaining level surface.
Debris, pebbles, and a scree of thoughts stick to her.
She raises up her hands like opening a book.
How odd they look, their silhouette, alien.
She knows where the road goes, down to the lighthouse, where the coast trail flirts with beaches, towns, and a highway, winding in and out of a forest that meets the ocean.
She yells, for no particular reason, but for all the reasons in the world.
She turns her head and looks back.
She won’t walk forever.
Old Cape Meares Loop. My image -
This night is full of gunshots in this city.
The sound lasts only a few seconds, the time it takes my hand upon your chest to feel you inhale and exhale.
Sirens nearby.
They disappear inside the flashes of blue and red upon our bedroom wall.
We sleep between them.
I notice the wrinkles in my knuckles and the slow rise and fall of what it is to be a part of us.
In the morning, we watch the news cover the night. We attempt to restore our breathing to the day.
There is an endless list of things to run from. There is an endless list of things to run towards.
