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.