Still Life
My passion has never been for photography in itself, but for the possibility-through forgetting yourself-of recording in a fraction of a second the emotion of the subject, and the beauty of the form; that is, a geometry awakened by what's offered.
Henri Cartier Bresson
Currents of Autumn
Currents of Autumn flow through
heart shaped medallions
flickering golden yellow
rose colored, and orange
twirl down from their hold
carried off by river currents.
Water colder every day
penetrates my waders
where only a few months ago
my nylon pants
soaked my legs with coolness
from the heat of summer sun.
Composting scents
of rot, the musty scent of water
signals season end.
Strong shadows cast on
river islands, sun yellow
leaves last blossom.
I stand in shallow water
on the ledge of metamorphic rock
eclipsing my time
as daylight fades.
Snow will soon cover the banks
fish will find cover under rocks
ice will cover the river
and memories
of seasons past.
Ancient One
Oh, Ancient One,
how many storms have you weathered
in your five hundred years?
Your age and wisdom are a testament
to the passage of time in this cedar forest.
What wisdom do you have for us?
How many hugs have you received?
Hugs when once one could wrap
their arms around your trunk.
The road divides your kin
the road I use to visit your grove
I imagine the fall
of the trees
from the saw.
I am glad you were
not in the middle of the road.
A sudden microburst of wind
you could not survive
after surviving so many
threats in all your standing years.
Now broken on the forest floor,
a hole in the canopy.
You did not die
you lay horizontal for dancing chipmunks,
to feed insects, birds, to
provide shelter for squirrels
light for sword fern, dogwood
for the health of your kin.
Ancient one, I knew you
I hugged you with arms stretched
not even a third around your book-thick bark
your sweet cedar scent
listening to your music in the wind.
I will miss looking up where you once stood
I grieve your fall to the forest floor.
I am comforted knowing you will lie
longer than I will live
giving back to the soil
feeding me on every visit
where you rest.
The Art of Nature
Spears of Light
Clearing skies, patches of blue
swirling white-grey clouds break, dancing
over mountains.
Sharp uniform spears of light
thrown from the clouds
missing trees
stabbing the forest floor.
Pale blue-grey spears
losing their edge
last long enough
to pierce my heart.
Still Life
Photographs and poems by David Gallipoli