We're Neither Of Us Angels

Heavy

I Take Pictures of Flowers

Who:

For my love, to make her smile

When a purple blossom makes

Me think of her favorite color.

For my Tumblr followers when

I post proof of my wilderness walks.

For my soul, so I might revisit these

Moments of awe and beauty.

For these,

I take pictures of flowers.

What:

A moment caught in my

Binary bug net,

A digital trace of my travels,

A daily commute or intentional stroll.

And along the way,

I take pictures of flowers.

Where:

My cloud storage fills

To the brim, and I deign to

Empty a single pixel.

Yellow, then red warnings of

Limited space,

But still,

I take pictures of flowers

Why:

To preserve what I cannot

Trust myself to remember.

Every detail, every shimmer on

A petal, every ring of color,

Every fold and roll and pleat.

To replace what I cannot have;

With no box or garden or

Sun-exposed pot,

I can only hold onto these beauties

In digital form.

When:

The golden hours escape me,

But they are probably sour grapes,

A cast of yellow hue on a face,

Not meant for leaf or colored bract.

Nay, whenever the feeling hits,

I pull out my device.

No process or plan in mind,

I snap one or two decent photos

And continue on my way.

Moment by moment

I take pictures of flowers.

How:

Only carefully, gently,

Holding the camera as I would

Carry a basket of down.

Motionless, I hold my breath and

Press the button.

My phone, with the help

Of an AI worth my trust,

Or with my moderately expensive

Camera I would like to buy

A macro attachment for.

I know not the specifics of how

My precious ladies make it onto

Film or image, but even so

I take pictures of flowers.

My futile attempt to find nature

I start with parks,

Unassuming grassy expanses

Rimmed with palms, perhaps

With a pond or playground

I graduate to preserves

Larger ponds, sometimes with

Geese, always with ducks

I walk along its paved paths

Or rocky byways, but I

Run into the road

The sounds of cars inescapable

Beyond the quacks and honks

And rustling of untrimmed mesquites

I try a "hike", more of a

Stroll through the stones of a

Great, holey hill

I lose track of my impromptu

Guides, so I take the easy route

It leads to he canal, another

Reminder of man's hubris in the

Desert biome I now call home

I was born to a land of true wilds,

Of old growth forests protected by

Fences, yes, but standing proud, uncut

I was born to hills, and creeks, and

Bushes bursting with black berries,

Counting the stars on a clear night,

Camping in the back yard,

Craning our necks to watch deer

And woodpeckers working

To hear bats screech under the new moon

I sit on a plastic bench, molded like wood

I watch men fish at stocked ponds,

I hope the sounds of motorcycles

Doesn't scare their catch,

But these creatures are likely as

Trained to the sounds as the grackles

Are to rooting through trash

I pray that the little natures around me

Remain un-golfed, and undeveloped

That the canal can yet give rest to cormorants,

That the bougainvilleas can shelter the sparrows,

That what little respect my new home has

For its many gifts can yet be preserved,

For the sake of the hikers, the birds,

The saguaros, even the God-given rocks

I pray for all of these things with my one

Little soul, with all the nature within,

Though futile my tiny words may be

To the unrelenting force of mankind's

Unending greed and craving for more,

More, more

I'm Not a Rambler

I Don't Have Hands

Eating daisies, yellow paint,

Drinking water, taking pills.

Doing everything as I should

Following all the doctor's rules.

Working hard, walking often,

Happy wallpaper, pretty songs

I wrote my feelings in the notes app,

Going to therapy, watching birds.

I have a cat, have a roof,

Have a bed, have a girl.

I don't wanna be sad no more

But my mind has been made up for me.

The ball's not in my court, and I

Don't have hands anyways.

What are the laws of nature? Can you tell me? I can only think of one That energy cannot be created Or destroyed That it can only reconstruct One form into another

So what makes a flower bloom? Did I give the blossom My energy? I assume it comes from somewhere Within the soil, the stem But let me believe I can transform Into a beautiful thing too

Farmtown Vibes

Planting seeds in the rich brown of my eyes,

Watering them with the cool blue of yours,

We gaze past irises and into souls

Our identities blurring and blending

Fusing into something entirely new.

The harvest is lush, my basket overflows.

Corn of ideas, creeping beans of love,

The flowing gourds of acceptance and

Understanding give a cornucopia of

Nourishing food for the soul.

Body

Writing References: Colours

Black ⚜ Blue ⚜ Brown ⚜ Green ⚜ Grey ⚜ Orange

Pink ⚜ Purple ⚜ Red ⚜ Variegation ⚜ White ⚜ Yellow

Word Alternatives ⚜ Archaic Words ⚜ Dark

Describing Colours ⚜ Word List ⚜ Gold

Symbolisms: Colour Vitamins ⚜ "Magical" Uses

More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs