Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. Perhaps it goes without saying that he lives in Los Angeles.
​

black like my mother
rocking the world
no fire
no plain
no silver game of stones
no home
it's all heart
in the work of rain
 
rain the work
lift the hell out of its depth
and curl it under your toes
steaming and cool
 
black augury of death
main line and call
 
(we're calling)
 
hello, is this the black augury of death?
 
-yes, hello
 
tell us, just what it is, just who you are, just what it is, just why is it, why are you--
 
-I get this all the time. Please state your question clearly over the line
 
tell us, won't you, what is it? What is it now? And then?
 
-What is what?
 
Death.
 
-Death is a transition into the future; death is time.
 
Why are you here?
 
-Isn't it more interesting with me here?



​

bear the dell inside
like a son
she's growing branches
over her head
blotting out the light
 
inside your head
we're growing trees
setting up the leaves
and looking for suns
to start the waves
 
hum hum
 
hum
 
hummy hummy hum


​

​the future's on the screen in charts
your child's on the screen
 
at auction
 
at the mercy of the river of time
you have no control

​don't short vanity
no vanitas permiscuous
short raccoon love
short raccoon hate
 
we're mining silver
over your face
looking for stoppages
weather
needs
uses
cords
all time highs
 
plant the bomb and walk away
we have your back
I remember your name
I remember your face
 
and I'm singing your song under my breath

we're scamming the world
shoulders and shorts
mighty divorce from history
running the pokes and moors
churning the storks out of the sky
 
run me for Morse
deet deet dee dah
and I'll cut you out
and cut you in
on the sky
 
we're watching the world slip underneath our sleep
a whole day lying on top of a subway car
just watching the clouds

​

Joseph Zarnowski lives in Chicago, Illinois.  He studied creative writing at Southern Illinois University.  He has since worked an endless array of odd jobs, tramping through the years like a pantomiming tourist.  His only discernable will being poetry.  He has recently published his debut collection, Sugar Soaked Days.  

​Those pill-induced nights on Dresden stories
the K holes we sunk into playing games
with the dead
the kowtow abasement of our thoughts
as we depressed lower and lower into the cotton
unstuck in time
lonely traveling the great milky racket
 
into the stars as the bedroom grew smaller
beneath us
and the towns smeared into the landscape
pilgrim astronauts in transit
two lovers in the strange curling magic
wicked crafts for the undead in death
do us all a part in freeing up for a weekend
 
motherless antibodies feeding on lakewater
catfish bottom feeders lapping it up green
rude and half learned
 
do me a favor and keep us lost there
in the amorphous mass of quivering lines
never let us comeback
we spent an eternity on a saltine cracker
afterall.
 

​As I ascended past earth’s atmospheric veil
the jelly mirage that drapes our entire being
I saw the blue-black cornea that overlays
the redbrick sunsets we used to witness
next to the Dairy Queen--
 
the cumulus clouds floating fearlessly
into the pitch of night
and somehow still remaining visible
like sparkling silver phantoms
shapes like great gray elephants
carrying all of existence unknowingly
beneath their stone feet
 
The whole time I’m in this tin can
masterfully crafted by
the most intelligent of minds
banging around like firecracker snaps
and all I can see is aluminum
all I can teeth is the reverb tracers
of my eyeballs shock from the whiplash turbulence
 
I caught on to the distance between you and I,
I grasped the great connect between
humanity’s universal breath
and our shared, beating heart.
 
 
 

​We went silent
so many winters ago
in the aurora
of late night infomercials
in the mute blue TV screens
where love deformed itself
 
right there in that Halsted flat
it just sort of broke its bonds
and like a jellyfish spectre
breathing in the black
cape of a deep sea
I could only watch it
dying
 
slowly pulsing in the half life
of Rx bottles
the traveling will of shifting sands
I tried, I did
 
I’d run myself right through
her quietly sleeping storm
pull her hair from her face
place it behind her ears
and
wait
 
here, I’d scribble my apologies
and fold them into paper wings
open my windows
and fly them across moonlight
drifting down three stories
getting lost in the snowflakes
and city traffic
 
undiscovered still
I set my needle to my table
and played her a song
 
I don't think we ever understood
each other,
I just don't think
that's really the point
anymore.  
 
 

Elizabeth Fisher is a freelance writer, vocal performer, and visual artist currently residing in south Florida.

​The concrete foundation
Holding firm the gray formation
Years written in the decaying bricks
The wooden doors towering over the entrance archway
As the monks file into the building
Rows of ancient pews
Outlining the outer walls
As colors pour in onto the floor
From the stained glass windows
Depicting scenes
From the Holy Book
While the monks chant the Scriptures
Passed down through the ages
The bell tolls six

​His knapsack upon his back
His shoes clinging onto his feet
No taller than the gate to his house
Today was the day he would be free
Mum and Dad were still asleep
Unaware their little boy was off
To see the world beyond his doorstep
To smell the grass of a different land
 
When he came to a fork in the road
He chose neither path
But walked right in the middle
Through the brush and the trees
When the sun was at the top of the sky
He came to an open field
There was one occupant
A tall woman with golden hair
Which seemed to bleed into her dress
Her face was soft yet stern
As she turned to face the young boy
She knelt down and kissed his head
He watched as she then ran around
The sun painting beams across the field
Yellows and oranges dancing on her face
The grass leaning to touch her feet
With a spin and a leap she disappeared
 
And the sun was gone
Replaced with the moon
The boy walked to the middle of the thicket
Looking up towards the moon
He was approached by a large shadow
The owner was a wolf
With long gray hair and eyes like ice
The wolf howled at the moon
And looked the boy right in the eyes
“You are always at home” it said
With a sparkle in its teeth
As it turned back and ate the moon
 
The boy took his compass
And placed it in the sky where the moon was
He followed the North
Which led him straight into the sea
There were no waves
But there was a lighthouse
Made of trees and stardust
Suddenly he was underwater
Tigers and ostriches swam with grace around him
As elephants walked in a line along the bottom
Atlantis shone dimly in the distance
But he did not want to go there
He wanted to go home
He missed his Mum and Dad
Plus he was hungry
 
The boy dug a hole in the bottom of the ocean
And swam through into to the sky
He flew among the clouds
Rainbows bounced along the ground
And bounded into the sky
As he floated down to his home
Walking through the front gate
He found he had grown taller
Just an inch or so
But he could now see over the gate
Mum was cooking breakfast
Dad was reading the paper
The boy entered the front door
And dropped his bag with a gleam in his eye
Now he knew how the world should work



 

​For long hours the horses have stood
in the rain,
in landscapes washed
by a stained canvas of sky,
quenched grass, a bruised green,
they occupy a torso of field
knowing the squall of the day will pass,
the focus of their stare
beyond hedges shaped by the wind;
from the Bucephalus of history
they sense ancestors at wars,
loaded carts and carriages pulled
through mud,
a focus within art,
the racing-reelers of cinema,
each eye haunted by echoes of arid plains
as the jewelled water exudes over them.
 
 

​The distorted triangles of canvas
billow towards a nameless horizon.
The sea is alive,
an energy of unguarded motion
as the profusion of land
views the scene
with a fierce hunger.
It has already experienced
the weather of time,
unflinchingly it stares
beyond the breath of sky.
Seasons continue to visit here,
while the brush's churning
rhythms understands
the treachery of ebb and flow
brought by the perceptible tides.
 

​That fresh and calm May
he’d free from his imagination
the nightingale’s speaking radiance
with words settled and relaxed
on summer’s high wing;
surrounded by a fertile geography,
thoughts on fine weather,
health and books,
all written down in a warm letter
to his only sister that first
Saturday of the month,
he galvanised towards a positive vintage,
the mood drawn out like a thorn.
 
 

​Lingering on this tropical esplanade
I watch at low tide
the restaurant of mud
that softly feeds the waterbirds.
The second day of a Queensland winter
in a humid, rich June
as the carriage of the pelican
rests, shares the fizzy ground
with the straw-necked ibis
plodding his stilts
through the devouring
smell of the sea.

​ 
The first red leaves of a Keatsian autumn,
a draught like fire piercing
the dawning air.
They will soon be gone,
beyond the jigsaw of branches,
spent sparks within a creative forge.
Already the unique days
are losing the race,
as individual melodies
fragrant with colour,
scent the hungering wind
as it jingles
a demanding score
that faces the dispossessed horizon,
an impulse of motion
that continued unseen.
 
 

​Have you ever seen so many stars
they’re dizzying as they shine
on the frost covered earth
 
it’s so cold we hug each other
to try and keep warm
looking into the night you know
someone there is looking back
 
our freezing breath floats away
I hope it’s nice and warm
wherever they are
 
we’d better go back
in the house now
this planet can be pretty
inhospitable sometimes
 
 

​He sat by himself
in a fast food place
against all the plastic
he looked older and sadder
than he really was
 
he’d been eating hamburgers
his whole life
now he just had
a newspaper
and a cup of coffee
 
the paper folded
in his lap read
photo at cemetery
reveals ghosts of deceased
walk with mourners
 

​ 
You boys want something to suck on
my Grandmother offered us
an old tin of hard candies
 
my friend Rob just looked at me silent
plastic sofa covers crocheted doilies
two young boys sipping hot tea
 
must be time for lunch
Grandmother said standing up
I’ll blow you boys to cheese sandwiches
 
later when it was time to go
Rob said what the hell is wrong
with your grandmother

​Kissing her gently behind the ears
down her neck to the hollow of her throat
then downward between her breasts
 
kissing the soft skin underneath
slowly moving upward to her nipples
taking each softly between my lips
 
then down her belly pausing at her belly button
to understand its complexity with my tongue
Then I’m sorry what were you saying
 

​The canal brought movement to the stillness
a traveller born in the sky.
Then hearsed itself between the sea’s,
threatening to take away the leaves and light.
 
But then we turned up. Petrol strimmers, goggles,
karibina’s, strap clips, steel toe caps and spit.
We broke silence like a dentist operating
on sugar worn teeth. The strimmer shudder
 
was like a leaf miner eating away at my skin.
Burrowing away into the maturing fibre.
We swept weeds and grass, brought summer
 
to its knees. Spun thistle into threads
let them bleed under sunlight.
We created new space for the canal to widen
itself, build a sky upon its face.
 

He still rolls the newspapers
and threads the stories through
letterboxes. His wife helps,
they walk together with a bag

over each shoulder.
The strap is belt tight due
to weight. Until it becomes
loose as the lightness takes hold.

Around four pm everyday, carrying
the days events. Sharing secrets.
Seeing people come and go, doors
painted, gardens lawned.

He views the weather from the slates
that glimmer rain, hold sun, frown
winter nights. His sons all grown

up. I saw his hair thin with every
round when we passed.
The print of his years falling away.
Today he walks with a naked skull

soaking up more about the place
than anyone else in the area.

​I was told today an old name had died.
Killed himself with a bunch of pills.
 
I remember him whacking a boy
with a tennis racket. Then walking away
 
like a fox after visiting a chicken coop.
He took drugs before we knew alcohol.
 
The only verbs he used were started
with a swear word. He had a thin jaw
 
with unwashed hair. Saw alcohol as normal
as a cup of tea. When his mother died he
 
lost his organs. His skin keeping him
from falling to pieces. I hadn’t seen him
 
for many a year. He could dribble a football
and smoke at the same time. We thought
 
that was great. It wasn’t until we left school
that we realised what a lost soul he was.
 
We moved into work and such like, bought
new clothes and went camping. We found a map.
 
He stayed walking the same streets
hoping the dead skin he dropped would come
 
back, make him young again.
 

​When the chalk squeaked
against the tip, a gas flame
blue dust fell to the floor.
 
We held the cue with wrapped
fingers, ninety degree elbow.
A photo stance. And the balls
 
stayed where we had left them.
The tip was used for kissing,
tapping, punching, smacking.
 
Our hips and legs argued
about which way to settle.
There were squints, eyebrow
 
raises, sniffs, smirks, false smiles,
roll of eyes, shrugs and all
the things that had yet to grow
 
out of us and into everyday life.
We were acted it out in the cloudy
dull light of a smoke filled room. 
 
When we went again years later
the light bulbs that were once smog
could spread a light that made us
 
see every angle on the table

Marc Carver has had over two thousand poems published on the web and has performed his poems around the world but all he cares about is doing what he knows he has to do. You have to be true to yourself if no one else.
 

​Afterwards
I could not but think
if I had left five minutes earlier
had a few beers the night before and left later
Went another way
went a little bit faster 
not gone at all 
but none of it mattered 
it would have still been waiting for me whatever I did.
The wrong corner 
the wrong time
the wrong day
but in the end 
it was all decided before
I could have left later or earlier
it would have made 
no difference
the only place it could have been 
was where it was.

​I still believe but I don't know why
Everyday there are less places to find it
They lose because they can't change.
They stick with what they always do
so slowly they stop
and there are less

and less places to find it.

Some day soon they will all be gone
and then you will have to try harder to keep that belief in your heart and mind

Churches keep god alive
they can burn them all down but people will rebuild them
they need faith
they need to believe

Beggars belief


I saw the junkie come out of the public toilet 
he normally runs around the town centre on a bike
shouting and screaming.
He walked down the street
saw the beggar on the corner
rotted around in his pants and gave him a coin.
The beggar looked up 
saw who it was and started to smile and shake his head
He even kept smiling at me until he realized it was me.
He never gets any money from me.

​We went to the pub for some food
I asked a young lad if they had any tables
he said no.
"Where are you going." She said. 
"There is a table over there."
"Okay I will be in the car."
She came out five minutes later
"We have a choice of two tables." She said.

In we go.

The guy who told me there was no tables
asked me if everything was okay with my meal, 
the one he didn't want me to have.
I told him it was okay and gave him a wink.

A man came in and sat at the bar
"Okay John." said the barman
and without having to ask
he had his pint on the bar.
I thought wouldn't it be good to go into a bar and have a drink waiting for you and everybody knowing your name
but I have never stuck around in one place for long enough
and with service like this 
you can't blame me.

​I went to another dead end town
just to be somewhere else.
It was quiet
a few women in shops smiled at me
and i even got adventurous in Nando's 
ordered something different.

There was a table in front of mine
about 10 young men on it
and time after time the girl came up with food and shouted it out
but they couldn't remember what they ordered
and some took other's people's food.
Eventually they got it all.

As i was about to get up for a drink
one of the men got up
He was carrying his plate of chips
but as i got up behind him
he went for a drink
I thought he was going to put some sauce on his chips
but he didn't he just went back to the table
with his drink and plate of chips
I guess he didn't trust the blokes at his table
I can't blame him
sometimes it is hard to trust

​Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing.

Dear December 
Maker and pointer
Writer and reader
Miner and payer
Burner and lighter
Teacher and preacher
Seer and seeker
Giver of butter,
Saver of sinner 
Lover, not hater
Safer, not stiffer
Softer not stricter 
Border our border 
Sever not the center 
Litter not our litre 
Bother us never.

Dear December 
Singer and mover
Cleanser and layer 
Trainer and moulder 
Restorer and healer 
Reviewer and revealer
Rearer and provider
Sanctifier and purifier 
Anointer and announcer
Runner and defender 
Shaker and hunter 
Discoverer and bearer, 
Spoiler of killer
Hammer of slanderer 
Dissolver of danger 
Builder, not pretender. 

​

Dear Statue
Which are you? 
Statue of Liberty 
Or Statue of freedom, 
Statue of Bondage 
Or Statue of Slavery? 

Dear Statue
Which are you? 
Statue of Apartheid
Or Statue of Xenophobia
Statue of Nightfall
Or Statue of Brutality? 

 Dear statue 
Which are you? 
Statue of Change 
Or Statue of Waste, 
Statue of Hardship 
Or Statue of Recession? 

Dear Statue 
Which are you? 
Statue of Religion 
Or Statue of Politics, 
Statue of Python 
Or Statue of Crocodile ,
Statue of Dance
Or Statue of Smile?

Dear Statue 
Which are you? 
The Cross of Jesus 
Or the Rope of Judas,
Statue of Bible or Budget?

Dear Statue, 
Who beats the drum
That you dance and smile naked
Are you this shameless? 

The Statue of millions 
One Statue, 
The future of millions 
No Statue, 
One Statue, So strange A Stranger. 
​

​Renee B. Drummond is a renown poetria and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Her work is viewed on a global scale and solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

Every man is an island
Alone answering for one’s soul
Alone in the grave
Alone in death
Alone in grief
Alone in sin and furies of insanities plea
 

 
 
Alone in truths
Alone in lies
Alone in mess
Alone in friction
Alone in bitterness
Alone in cries
Alone in loneliness
 
 
 
Alone in the fight
Alone in shame
Alone in the shuffle
Alone in the why’s???
Alone in the night
Alone in the game
 
 
 
Alone in wealth
Alone in leadership
Alone in the struggle
Alone in growth
Alone in the climb
Alone in poverty
Alone in schizophrenic mind(S)
 
 
 
 
 
Alone at birth.
No man is an island is a brazen lie
at best. But, alone…
One man can change the world
and make
a difference!
 
 Dedicated to:  Alone we return and alone we enter.
 
A RocDeeRay Poem
 

What happened to the fight we once
had within us? What happened to holding on throughout
our midnights? What happened to prayin through those storms,
winds and boisterous rains? Until clear. Out of sight! What happen to lifting our
brothers up? And ‘NOT’ giving them the drank or the drugs! What happen
to educating our girlz on virtues, cleanliness and boyz? What happen to teaching them, to iron, cook, sew, clean and their culture? What happen to hiding the Scriptures
in their hearts?
WHERE MY SOLIDERS AT?
​HERE WE ARE.
10 years old, livin an dyin on our VERY own. Getting shot as a sport.
Homeless in this thang called “The Hood.” A war zone at its best…But. If…there IZ a God??? We’ve been passed that test!!! 2 to the head 1 to the chest…Means absolutely nothin in this sick war! Society cares nothin bout us. A local bridge holds our cots and cups. Another homeless, cares for us. And he got NOTHIN but pity minus sum luv. The news don’t report what we have to say. Healthcare at 26, years of age? What a sick joke!
WE’RE OUT HERE dyin anyway! Keep it. If it makes you retract and repeal. Keep it. Cause we’re the one’s in the army now; drafted without consent. Did I say 10 years old? Truth be told I’m 9 taking care of one 7, 6 and five. I think. No birth certificates. I’m in the REAL army now and uncle sam don’t even know who I am? Scripture proclaims “And a child shall lead them” (Isaiah 11:6) Well here I am! Behind the veil. Ever so ready to dwell with both wolf and the lamb. Shhh.
Silence of the lamb(S).
The law of the land is evolution that tames the dog..and here I am, a soldier
that didn’t ask for this job (AT ALL) and undeniably knows no wrong!

You asked
but do you really want to know, or even care?
HERE WE ARE
we’re in y‘OUR’ army now
1, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1 year olds.
Dedicated to: “I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way”
(George Benson).
A RocDeeRay and A B.A.D. Poem

Don’t take her out to the ball game.
She wants not your peanuts nor crackerjacks. Surprise!
She remembers the very first strike! Then strike 2,
came. Her family and friends knew not just what to do! Strike 3. GRAND SLAM;
was hard as can be and she lost all sense of time and memory! God said
twas’ a home run! Cause when she awoke
she was standing in judgement of His Only Begotten Son.
 
Don’t take me out to no ball games!
And I surely don’t want no peanuts
nor crackerjacks, cause I care waaay too much, about getting back!
 
 Dedicated to: Domestic Violence Awareness
 
A RocDeeRay Poem

Momma told her not to do IT.
IT was done; she did not LISTEN
LISTEN to her, for what, and why, she too did it, AFTER-ALL?
AFTER-ALL, she had her at 16.
16, she, herself, should’ve been pristine CLEAN.
CLEAN as bleach on a summers CLOTHESLINE.
CLOTHESLINES, yeah, not soils hung out to DRY.
DRY stains. Tide can’t even get these out, nor CAN;
CAN a praise and/or SHOUT!
SHOUT it out!!! Should’ve been playin wit dolls, jacks and balls til 9:00.
NINE months to GO.
GO to jail…do not pass go til 18
EIGHTEEN-year BIDS.
BIDS her FAREWELL.
FAREWELL Momma says, “I told you so.”
 
Dedicated to: Recurrences
 
A RocDeeRay Poem

I can’t remember his name. But I know;
we loved once. I can’t remember his game,
but I know that I was always sent back to start, and it was a good one. I can’t remember a thang. But,
he says to me, we once said “I do.”  If, this is true. Theft by deception
is ev’r so cruel. 911 what can I do?
 
Dedicated to: Alzheimer's Disease (Awareness)
A RocDeeRay Poem
​

Saloni Kaul, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has been in print since. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed forty years of being published. Saloni Kaul's first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include Universal One and Essentials All.
Most recent Saloni Kaul poetic production has been published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Misty Mountain Review, Inwood Indiana, Mad Swirl , FIVE Poetry, The Voices Project, The Penwood Review, Mantid Magazine, Haikuniverse, Blue Pepper, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Cabildo Quarterly, AJI Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, River Poets Journal, Belle Rêve Literary Journal ,Taj Mahal Review, Verbal Art, Poetry Pacific, Ink Sweat And Tears and Military Experience And The Arts (As You Were : The Military Review) . Upcoming publication acceptances include Blueline, The Penwood Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, Cabildo Quarterly and Indiana Voice Journal.  

​The right hand is inclined only clique-wise to take,
The left is yet to learn to paltry give.
Such unity rare upfront’s exhibited in this counsel ,
So happily trustless the twosome slack staunch  live.
 
All thought and substance only to yourself strict kept,
Blurt out like fountains excess water into sink.
Highstrained, restrained, rain ropes upon public adept ,
Before the public say all that you do not think. 

Golden cheeked warbler, ruby crowned knight ,    
Light darting high flyer who only those ups seeks  !
That gold oriole voice climbs the tautest scale,      
Wholesome mature dancelike radiance plays at its peak.     
 
This yellow warbler  scaling highs of life’s song drills
Beckons even the lowly to fly out of bounds ;
Like one seeking soulmate emits vast range of trills,
Gurgles whistling crescendo loud akin to fullest sound.
 
All those who listen   try and rise to touch the heights,          
At each outpouring , heart at last tells right from wrong ,
When voice still elsewhere   still sings its own song
Is there a kind of fadeaway into dim lights ?
 
Situation is reversed! Song which tried to escape its fate
Is forced to stay to sing of life and living kind
While the song’s bearers are carried away in state
Leaving the closer to land warbling song behind.

​

​The road that runs along the sea
And hugs the coast sporadically each tight inch
Is saving its self from the bluff-like splash
Or its own sloe-eyed wave-inflicted flinch.
 
The sea that playful washes all land’s ends
In those erosively mild gentle slaps
Is either mock retreating in those hard-to-gets
Or artful briskly giving tit for tat.                

As patient painstaking as a photographer 
     that waits for leaf or flower to still to photograph ,
Waits for harsh breezes to turn placid , winds to drop
     till they are at a photo session apt ‘flat calm’,
Waits for the absolute right early morning haze
 or special evening light most flattering
  to that scene his main subject scholarly ,
   his object of fop modish keen interest;
Holds breath, his camera fixed ready, waiting
 for those most densely swirling mists to clear,
   thick fog to settle, clouds to thin disperse
    to kindly then allow that glimpse of glistening peaks
(Your trick photography photographer
   would even go to the extent of taming
    grand nature, backing physical planned universe
     up strong with hidden cardboard sheets
      and plastic boards all to contrive effects) ,
There they go arguing over fast film
  (ISO 400?) great for those closeups
    in which the fastest shutter speeds
      (the small aperture) are required.
Some strict insist on kodachrome 25 fine grain !
There he is hours down on his knees composing
   his closeups to obtain the right proximity
      and angle to then photograph clear sharp
         a minuscule item to maximum effect !
Fiddling around with polarisation filters
   to try reduce those stray reflections rampant
     and that occasional glare discomfiting.
Like poet closing in upon the scene,
The starved for detail, appetite for tight
 precision, cameraman just seldom seems
  to have enough of making the so little 
   all big and bright and all the better
    for us to see and dwell on at close quarters.
 
Macro photography where all of life
 looms large like megadose of tall reality
  or fact embroidered to swift meet your taste !
All the while using closeup lenses,
 efficient macro lenses or bellows.
Like a pair of binoculars, a telescope,
 those spotting scopes all playing wonders true
  with the sight barrier. A touchdown realm ,
   rush fountaining close focusses quite instantly ,
    that crystalclear and tacksharp viewing.
Those sharp clear definitions all very well,
 to vary and work where sharpness isn’t called for ,
  a quick change of lenses results in softening!
Where nature’s light’s inadequate to light
  your subject, to add detail and contrast
   to shadows, you keep light low on it strictly,
    entranced you play around all you can
     with that available light natural
Recording that much larger world, and seeing
   the tiny world’s great treasures inch by inch.
In closeups, depth of field shrinks to thin slice :
  all the better to focus on detail, amplification plus,
    (as Big Bad Wolf said to Red Riding Hood ).
How daring is photographer or lover
   trying so hard to get a little closer
     than sheer proximity or etiquette allows,
       for comfort or for accuracy prime spot on,
         to that frail allcorrectness   sound agreed upon
            clean boundary o’ intimacy.
 
For large magnifications (when longer
  exposures be required) to minimise blur,
    use tripod ! Fix a handle to get firmer grip! 
Blur, the lurking demon false and feigning
   created by camera movement !
Thanks to the shallow depth of field of macrolens,
  the closeup is enabled to effect ,
    excelling in its high selective sharply
     focussed image, unmitigated clarity itself !           
Distracting elements in zones periphery,
 irrelevant backgrounds are muted so ,
  toned down to make your subject sharp and welldefined.
 External clutter soon reduced and trimmed,
  all brushed aside like flimsy cobweb stretches,
  your towering theme of main interest pops up
   in stately dignified contrast.
 
Looking for architectural detail
 where twining texture is all in all ? 
  ornate the capital of that Corinthian column ,
    plain elegance the astragal, elaborate
      showy cornice. Exaggerate each shade
        and each hue overstate, till there’s scarce need
           for argument ; so double day precise are we!
Texture is all ! touch taffeta in twists , almost 
 smooth run your fingers through your subject’s flowing hair,
  recline feet up on lush upholstered chaiselongue,
     you see and sense its softness. All but sip
       the dew on newest blue-green leaf , enter
         the labyrinthine whirls on this bird’s eye maple
           and hear the boasting of that puffed up boy.
Closeups! as if more stunning than the long shot tight
   that gives the bird’s eye view, totality of scene.
Enhanced tactility quite elemental,
yet with a range of dazzling true effects,  
from seeming real prosaic and close at hand
 to looking surreal out of proportion
  when exaggeratedly close   for effect.
 
Total consensus! You enter the picture .....
The long shot takes you far and you observe
  all from a distance that lends its own firm
     enchantment to the one selected view.
The drama of frequently altering
 visual pace generates unprecedented effect.
Spatial equations flashed between
  two people alter as they come closer,
   the understanding of each other; then the need
    to quick withdraw, retreat into one’s envelope
     and sudden draw up close together yet again
      for a real closer glimpse, cheek by jowl,
       in all avowed tight-edged intimacy.   
  
So, technically a closeup picture
 is all of a tenth of this chosen gift
  reality, of your yoked subject;       
  macrophotography could be lifesize
   and larger, as extravagantly melted
    as wildly strewn elite hyperbole,
    extraordinary as caricature ,
     much closer than your usual eighteen
      inch distance and usual zoom lens allows.
 
In this era with that infinitessimal
 alarmingly less and less bench working space
  between prized lens and most engrossing subject
   we all appear to like getting cramped so.  
                            
As long as , in the culmination,
 it isn’t too close for comfort !          

​With sun from radiant heavens eftsoons snatched,
Bereft of beauty, awkward in darkness, newly
You turn to me craving comfort, grasp clumsily
Like newborn fledgling in need recent hatched.
 
When rapid moving mists over them sweep
Stark mountains bare go whirling out to sea ;
Illusions all cling to, true beauty trustworthy,
Like staid delusions make one shorn of beauty weep.
 
Alluring each prospect of beauty, luring as prospective kiss,
Prospect onto perpetual beauty is always the next promise.
 
            With changing perspectives, first shine  then fade   
Angles ; constant the prospects of beauty that prosper ,
Like an updated old prospectus, staunch upholder
Of standard , yet startling in themes that seldom jade.
 
Life’s scenic prospects change like sentry on duty.
You think you’re stranded, stuck to archipelago medley;
By isolation charmed, with me moved as unduly !
Therein lies potently the strange unfathomable beauty.
 
Alluring each prospect as trenchant shifts prospective beauty,
So lures effectively the prospect onto eternal beauty. 

​There comes a time when I see the world quarters
All through the filtered haze of my own writing screen ,
A scrawl of words that write themselves on scene --
Magnifically telling talking of the waters--
 
And in the depths of crowds and on faces of strangers,
That’re sucked into the vortex of my words ,
Shut like Rapunzel in my word tower , undeterred,
As I immeasurable roam freely like a ranger.
 
They let their hair down  most enticed  to browse
Through stress unstress quite uncommanded in silence,
Imbibe the music of the consonants and sibilants,
And air the vowels in assonance declaimed like vows.
 
And like exiguous starved for fame  parasites
On gradual exuded fame and fortune fed ,
By slow degrees they revel in a town infinite painted red
And clear express opinions as in large plebiscites.