Having stumbled upon the path, by then long lost, The elderly couple had half expected It would lead them back into town. “Maybe to the lot where we parked,” she joked.
Who would have thought the path would end so sharply While still deep in the woods! And why end at a stream so wide As if the forest had drawn some line?
Two hours of wandering, Hunger and thirst rising, These woods no longer looked kind. And above them the sun threatened To set not so long from now.
Hope draining, they stand before the stream, Staring in silence but still holding hands. “Maybe the path continues on the other side,” The husband murmurs, half to himself. “Or maybe it’s deeper than it looks.”
Turning from the stream, She pulls on his arm to bring him lower. She smiles as he faces her Looking directly into her eyes. She speaks softly to her man, “Give me your best kiss, my love, Then hold my hand, tightly please, As we step into the water lightly.”
He arrives at the entrance to the beach during day’s first twilight, And, as occurs on occasion, the old man stops dead in his tracks And plants the base of his surf fishing rod in the sand While he beholds the majesty of the unfolding scene before him. The sun is still a few degrees below the horizon, Yet the sky and the calm sea glow with early gold, And night’s reign in the west begins to fade. . He lifts his rod and kicks loose the sand from its grip, Then takes the well-trod curving path to shore’s edge, Guided by the rope line that traces each turn, Shielding the tall grass that bends in the sea breeze as if in prayer. . Having cast his line, he sets his rod in its sand spike And watches intently the golden horizon for the sun’s silent arrival. As before, he is filled with a wondrous sense of heightened clarity, Allowing him to see himself both as a witness to a divine unfolding, And as a thread woven flawlessly within it.
It is October—autumn in Quebec City. Cold by day now, colder still by night. I stand alone in a square in the old town, Not far from the restaurant with our reserved table. I wait here for my wife and the couple Who joined us on this tourist-minded trip. The three moved on when my knee began to ache, Too stiff to match their steadier gait.
As I wait, my eyes settle on a stately window. Vines frame it, hugging the white-painted brick. Their leaves remind me of Virginia Creeper. (Could it grow this far north?) A flower box rests on the sill, A mix of annuals still in bloom, but just barely. I limp a few steps closer, pain flaring in my knee.
I am this Virginia Creeper — My bare vines cling as best they can, But some have let go and droop over the glass. My few remaining leaves dry in the afternoon sun, And soon will all glide down to the pavement below. Yet I’m proud of my tenacious remnants, Now regal orange and gold.
And I am the geranium, the petunia, the primrose, and arrowhead, Each of my blossoms now missing a few petals, Yet those that remain still holding their color, And their stems still reaching for the sun.
In both my poetry and photography of late, I allow myself to be influenced by a mystical notion of whispered promises — a notion of my own making. These promises offer a deeper understanding of the unseen and are hidden in plain sight in our everyday environment: in a gate or a door perhaps, or in a window or a quiet street that curves out of sight up ahead. They are most often overlooked, and even when we do sense their presence, they likely hover at the very edge of our grasp — like the faint sweetness of nectar on a honeysuckle stamen, a taste both there and not there at the same time.
Every poem of mine is accompanied by one of my photographs. I pair them to appeal to two modes of perception apropos one message.
My poetry is becoming more narrative in nature, and I have increasingly moved toward free verse to allow greater freedom of thought and to better approximate the rhythm of natural speech. My line lengths vary, as do the number of lines in each stanza, which I use solely as paragraph markers. Though I do not rely on full rhyme, I do look for opportunities to use slant rhyme–principally consonance (e.g., shape and show) and assonance (e.g., high and strike) — to enrich the rhythm and flow within lines. Finally, the subjects of my poems frequently unfold through extended metaphor.
I take all of my outside photographs in town just after sunrise because the light is best and the colors richest when the sun is low in the sky. Also, there are few people and vehicles out and about then, and I rarely want them in my photos. At home, when developing these shots in Photoshop, I want a sharp focus, vibrant colors, and pronounced contrast between light and dark. I push development in these three areas until I reach the border between real life and fantasy.
Unlike in town, when I am at the beach and facing east, I take my photographs when the sun is still below the horizon, because once the sun appears, the sky’s rich colors will bleach out. As a result, these photos are darker than those I take elsewhere, but I want that dreamy twilight appearance here,and I even tolerate a little softness in my surf to add to that dreaminess.
In sum, drawing from the above practices, I am exploring the relationship between everyday surroundings and heightened clarity — as well as an ensuing inner calm — should we choose to pay attention.
Vilano Images 