photopoet's PhotoBlog

The Ghost of Summer

2009-11-03T18:42:10Z

Everything rearranged— forms new patterns

Cooling Out

2009-11-03T18:58:39Z

Taken in New Zealand—this summer.

To every thing there is a season...Ecclesiastes 3:1

2009-10-27T18:21:49Z

“Autumn is a second spring where every leaf is a flower” —Albert Camus

Another Pond Walk

2009-10-19T18:49:30Z

I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in. —John Muir

Blowing in the Wind

2009-10-08T19:19:57Z

Walking around my favorite pond—

Milk Pods

2009-10-02T19:15:33Z

Ink Painting

Looking Out

2009-09-29T20:07:31Z

Am I looking in or are they looking out? A thousand woodpeckers flew in through the window and settled themselves on Pinocchio's nose. —Carlo Collodi

The Dance

2009-09-22T17:02:16Z

The choreography can't be duplicated.

Concord Grapes

2009-09-21T20:47:56Z

"Experimenting with seeds from some of the native species, Boston-born Ephraim Wales Bull developed the Concord grape in 1849. On his farm outside Concord, down the road from the Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne and Alcott homesteads, he planted some 22,000 seedlings in all, before he had produced the ideal grape. Early ripening, to escape the killing northern frosts, but with a rich, full-bodied flavor, the hardy Concord grape thrives where European cuttings had failed to survive. In "1853, Mr. Bull felt ready to put the first bunches of his Concord grapes before the public -- and won first prize at the Boston horticultural Society exhibition. From these early arbors, fame of Mr. Bull’s (“the father of the Concord grape”) Concord grape spread world-wide, bringing him up to $1,000 a cutting, but he died a relatively poor man. The inscription on his tombstone states, “He sowed--others reaped.” —Concord Grape Association Concord Grape History

Objects as Metaphors

2009-09-11T20:46:35Z

Found objects are their own poetry. A poem in form still has to have voice, gesture, a sense of discovery, a metaphoric connection, as any poetry does. —Robert Morgan