Another piece of Keith’s we found to paint a vivid picture. Enjoy.
Unwelcome with My Camera?
Local folks suspect strangers lurking about.
My head up, I gauge light burst on a window,
then as flashily decamps in the leaves’ flutter.
What to do with “get away from my lawn”?
Or defend a case of brilliance here observed?
If I turn to gaze farther, I dig ghastly cavities
in brain matter granted custody of this place.
All right, a simple inquiry at the door: May I
pause to limn the gilding pageantry of light?
Thus squandering that time and all should he
answer “NO!” East breeze ferries drama in;
rain sweeps to vertical the velour of leaves;
street spray from a car flashes the horizontal.
A tide no more regularly reconfigures beach
than light saturates this neighborhood’s eyes,
blinding in painted white of this church wall
of a minor sect sparkling as if combustible.
My accidental presence here creates a scene:
a timeless day, my imperfect finger ready on
the release; my ignorance; me, wet but steadily
pelted by as yet unknown but eternal certainties.
A forced departure bars me from final assertion,
penultimate views, or any infinite assertions
on any stage where my vision may earn a space.
Evening darkness, of course, supplants debate,
yet a word: I click a frame to the mediating, but
minor sect, yet in profile. Kinfolk tales portend
a fight, but guide the fine spirit of nostalgic light.
—
Keith Moul has written poems and taken photos for more than 50 years, his work appearing in magazines widely. His chapbook, The Journal, and a full-length volume, New and Selected Poems: Bones Molder, Words Hold were recently accepted by Duck Lake Books. These are his ninth and tenth chap or book published.