I saw a personal favorite photo of my Beloved, of our first vacation together and it was her April birthday up at the Ferguson Cabin in Clayton County Georgia. That little detail (her birthday that weekend) was a major fact left out. I snapped picture after picture of her (as I did throughout our walk together) including the one where she lay on her back against the lake dock and it is a good photo.

I saw that photo today of Her used in social media where it has always been used previously, except that this time it bothered me because it wasn’t framed correctly. Her big wide eyes, curiously childlike and hued light blue, look out from behind frames that caught my eye first.

The white bandana has French wording on it. Liberte. The photo makes Beloved look like another person, lighter, smaller, narrower, younger. It is a startling remake of the Original that I fell in love with so.

Today photos are all that I have. It’s a death. It’s a giant hole. It’s a major loss for me. It’s time to be quiet and discern my next steps. The facts remain that I am left here holding the bag. I’d dialogued with confidante’s about whether to return to Atlanta from Baltimore where I’d sojourned and worked hard on a favored contract in Washington, DC, given Beloved’s propensity to leave me every 4-6 months.

She managed to embed herself thoroughly into my world and I welcomed her to a big slice of me, my family, my work, my colleagues, my time, my resources, my heart.

My heart.

I have over 12,500 photographs of Beloved taken over the course of 3.75 years, since the Ferguson Cabin vacation with her.

The question of what to do with all of my photos comes into deep question.

To destroy. To delete Beloved quickly, just as she deleted me.

So, what have I learned through all of this you will not hear, here.

My bottom line is this: do not use my photographs in any way shape, or form, without my consent or purchase.

They are my own. Mine. My heart’s. These belong to me.

I’ve a show at the Atlanta Quaker Meetinghouse in Decatur in a short while and it’s dizzying to me which ones I’ll select to exhibit, largely, framed and for sale this time, on October 6, 2017 running through to the end of October.

Everything’s got a price and so does a bad hand played worse, except for surviving razor thin cuts on my heart and on my soul forevermore by one who is so beautiful and broken.




her hands

yosemite30 days hath september

april, june and november

from what summer did we have, now winter

did it any of it ever take place

any of it

i wonder
it was a dream
perfect realism
i was awake but briefly
belabored breathing
climbing to the top

was it real
was it real
was it real

i have some proof

rocks to hold in my hand

branches of trees touched, in my hand

sand from mexico in a honey jar

in my hand drip drip drip

were it not for the leftover solstice hat

it slumbers, it holds no shape now

far away from mine

remember hers

in them i am



if you forget me

poet Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me – Poem by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.


the tempest

where is my Queen Leah now


i am forsaken

it is possible that the stars and moon and shapes of the world are behind the pine trees and the old oak in vines and the dogwoods are sleeping in the dark too

somebody let off a stream of fireworks sizzling and popping that stopped at the ground fast with reverb


the air in atlanta in august smells like smoke and truck exhaust

it whips at the back of your throat when you inhale it

i am forsaken

after the knowing and lovely loving, there is but a draught of familiarity

of cold

my skin and my mind does touch off rapid fire memories and it’s war again

a high wire of white and silver ring high like lightning and thunder

it roars

my body scan depicts a swollen mind and my cave is empty and cock hard

pablo 3