The poetry of the back brain,
In shades of gray color drain,
The dial tone heard inside,
Reflect echo the light swift ride.

A poem of stillness,
inhale cease,
exhale unrealized,
potential fulfill.

The magic of photography as practiced by,
a believer in the art of interpretation,
the relativity of universal vision,
the discontinuous moment,
basis for conjecture.

Oh these years of brand name moments,
reinforcement of corporate happiness,
plastic smile say mouldy milk,
a pacifist with a tool that shoots,
the best minds of a generation now exposed,
tarnished as silver spoons seduced,
by bearded hippies dripping juice.

I like cameras,
using them is fun,
pictures are easy,
just push button.

Press you to my face,
or hold you at my waist,
gazing down into your ground glass screen,
the passions of post processing,
rock you in the darkness,
three fingers of my right hand,
a practiced motion,
sixty eight degrees,
I hold out for that one more.

Art alludes to truth through fiction,
the moment separated from time,
the proscenium masks space,
and the filter of intent cooks the creation,
awaiting your consumption my dear.

The solitude of facing your taker,
cable or unwired remote,
squeezed fingers sweat with trembling,
anticipation of release,
open to draw the light,
deposit on film or chip.

Such is the turning,
of life from chaos,
to the order of thoughts,
unspoken not open,
questioned by one and only.

How can these years go by good by,
tarnished silver memories,
in a negative reversed.

Prints in boxes,
puss in boots,
as a tripod erected to hold a suit,
flapping arms and wailing toot,
we came to take hold and root.

Words and images within this site © Richard Alan Fox All Rights Reserved