Confluence

two eyes together yield depth 
one eye alone yields none 

yet when I let mine eye be single 
and not like Poseidon's son 
but after the second 
the one they call 
the third - 

the gate 
in the brow 
to greater depth 
and the inner realms - 

and gaze through the glass eye 
that frames my vision 
of the realms 
outside 

what does it reveal? 

a depth of apparent illusion 
as close as the far side of the glass 
as it begins to melt away 

glorious and rich 
it nourishes me 
like darkness 

like something 
only Alice can see 

depth in the shallows 
of a surface made mirror 
by the angle of reflected light 

This is the ninth pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.

I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.

I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfect a trine.

even so close to the shore 
in such shallow water 
and still 

the depth is immense 
as deep as the sky 
and darker 

in the shadows 
reflections distorted 
as through antique glass 
darkly... 

so hard to determine 
where the sky ends 
and water begins 

the tug of the tide is so strong here 
and in such fresh water 
I wonder 
is this the place? 

where Odysseus polytropos, 
turned all but inside out 
by the god he angered, 
came at last inland 

far enough 
to have his oar mistaken 
for a winnowing fan 
and so planted it 

there 
in the solid ground 
that those who knew not 
even the taste of salt on their food 
might come to know the god of the sea 

an offering 
a final sacrifice 
to propitiate the one 
whose wrath had kept him 
so long from finding his home 

for here, at this place 
reflection but momentary 
lulls me 

pulls me 
under the current of thought 
into realms of stillness 
silence and 
depth 

This is the eighth pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.

I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.

I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfect a trine.

ghosts of times gone long before 
irrupt in the modern psyche 
and seek new ground 
for grazing 

figures 
take shape 
become expression 
as the ground itself obtrudes 

mere marks on a chalkboard 
first [an illegible scrawl] 
then 
erased 
an attempt to suppress 
what is rising 
and now 
on fields made fertile 
by these underlying efforts 
life emerges 
real 
ineluctable 
the poetic image 

This is the seventh pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.

I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.

I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfects a trine.

Red Light, Green Light 

Or: How to Inhabit the Fourth Dimension 
 (an image from the winter solstice) 


waiting all winter 
for the new life of spring 

boarded up 

dreaming 

still 

you can see it, though, can't you? 

the once bare branches now covered in green 
obscuring the view of what was a vacant building 
the smell of sawdust and the sound 
of power tools filter through 
the plywood windows 

what at the start of winter 
bore no sign of new growth 
held within it all the same 
the potential for change 

the work of life resumes 
as resources become available 
whether by following existing paths 
or by creating new ways where 
before there were none 

for that is the secret of life 
which is not secret at all 

life continues 
in spirited disregard 
for obstacles and the frustrations 
of mere circumstance 

just as a baby bird 
needs to find its own way 
out of the egg that encloses it 
life thrives not only in spite of obstacle 
but as a direct result of transcending the same 

always dreaming itself into being, 
life is always becoming 
this inexhaustibly 
new world 

This is the sixth pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.

I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.

I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfects a trine.

Tilt 

soften your gaze 
looking down 
at the sky 
if you want to see 
into its depths 

piercing eyes only glance 
off the surface 

and will leave you 

where you began: 
the real world 

magic there is impossible 
unbelievable: 
unreal 

tilt your head
just right, though 
and drop down 
off of that high horse 

the one bequeathed to you 
the one fed on received opinion 

maybe you will meet some 
other world unknown 
unimaginable 
unavailable to you 
until you enter frame 

This is the fifth pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.

I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.

I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfects a trine.

Take Me Home 

wandering, desultory, gazing 
en vacances 

an image appears 

out of the fog 
on the road by the bog 

preceded by heraldry: 
chugging, a harmonic rumble 
and the slow procession enters frame 

we're just old folks 
with nothin' to do so 
we ride around 
together 

and just like 
when you roll over 
coming out of a dream 
I glanced away - a moment - 
and they were gone 

This is the fourth pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.

I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.

I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfects a trine.

The Munsalväsche Line 

the not so desperadoes 
waiting for a train 
are not waiting 
for this train 
unlike myself 
always waiting 
for the next train 
of any line. 

so long as I can see it 
or hear the low rumble 
or the whistle's lonesome moan 
it will carry me. 

it will carry me 
to a place I've always known 
as far away as it is 
immediately 
at hand 

a feeling inside 
one can inhabit 
something like 

home. 

This is the third pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.

I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.

I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfects a trine.

Glimpse 

beyond the reach of floodlights 
and the lined spaces of parking lots 
that herald the arrival of the outpost franchise 
of groceries and of general merchandise, 
stores with currency in their names... 
or the arrival of the next winery 

the presence of the past 
is context 

and while it will remain 
after the distilleries 
and dispensaries 
deliver the 
future 
to those of us 
still living in the land 
of the past 

it will disappear from view. 

This is the second pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.

I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.

I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfects a trine.

Sunny Samarra 

light reflected, light absorbed 
color aids navigation 
and provides concealment 

one lies in wait 
for those who come 
to feed on nectar 
and carry off pollen 
Death's representative 
in bright and cheery guise 

this harbinger waits, hidden in plain sight 
making it hard to tell food from foe 
or Baghdad from Samarra 

This is the first pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.

I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.

I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfects a trine.