Coming of Night

Coming of night over Johnston Lake: Photo by Noelle

Coming of night over Johnston Lake: Photo by Noelle

In the coming of night I feel the day slip away. In the last rays that crest the hill, I forget what disturbed my midday and nagged my afternoon. No monk am I, but there is a vesper in my heart at this hour. As if the monastery bell had rung and in the reeds of the lake I knelt. Swallows catch the last flies, before the chill descends with the night. I ache to follow the rays across the horizon, yet, there is peace in this twilight I fear to miss. The passing of my day, its light and its dark, not to be walked again.

Goo: Photo Poem 39

Oozing Goo under an overpass: Photo by Noelle

Oozing Goo under an overpass: Photo by Noelle

This post was inspired by Harry Nijland’s blog. http://harrienijland.wordpress.com

His beautiful work with graffiti and cement finally broke me free of fearing to post my fascination with the weirdly, beautiful stuff you find in tunnels, sidewalks and sewage drains. This lovely, creepy goo was found under an overpass. I love the texture and the subtle colors. Thanks, Harry.

Seed to Mulch

Dead Tree at Chatfield Reservoir: photo by Noelle

Dead Tree at Chatfield Reservoir: photo by Noelle

In grain an old storyteller’s life twists and turns. Withered like drift wood that never left home. Each adventure a ring and a knot. An audience of millipeds and the rolly polly beetle that roam the planks and hone the staff. Sun demands payment in chlorophyll and sap, while wind licks it’s length a child on a lollipop. There is no rest from seed to mulch, for even in death the performance plays on, a tale told in wood.

Tree and Earth

Dead tree on the bank of the South Platte River: Photo by Noelle

Dead tree on the bank of the South Platte River: Photo by Noelle

And the trunk said “I am alone here. My branches are dead and gone. My many roots are withered or taken by beetles. My leaves have blown far in the wind. No life moves in my bark, accept that which feeds upon me.”

And the earth said, “Come to me. For you have fed me with your leaves and opened me with your roots. You have held me to this bank, for surely the rain would have sent me to the river. Be at peace, my old friend and sink into my soil. Tell me of your years in the sun. For that story given, I will trade of how water rises to the moon.”

In Stone

Stone at Roxborough: Photo by Noelle

Stone at Roxborough: Photo by Noelle

Veins run deep. Pockets of distortion, pits and sticks. A landscape cracked and disturbed, stained and bleached from the sun. Colors soft, contrast drifting into shade. Solid, firm, reliable as an East wind. In stone a story I hear with my fingers.