Archive for Poetry

Ghost

Posted in abandoned, Art, • Wood Dickinson Sites, Fear, Photography, Poetry, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on 08/01/2018 by wooddickinson

path-2 copyWhen I think of the word ghost, I usually think, scary story. Like the around the campfire at a campout kind of story. Most ghost stories seem to require a few common things, at least one ghost, a scary setting like an abandoned house that’s falling apart and, a person who is going to be threatened by this ghost. It’s always good if it’s a girl and the person who saves her.

I like to tell a folktale at Halloween called Tailypo. This story was first recorded by Leonard Roberts in 1955. It comes from the Appalachian region of the country but I always use the Ozark’s as the setting because it’s closer to the mid-west. The story has variations in both place and the name of the creature but otherwise pretty much the same. It’s a fun story to scare kids with. The Tailypo isn’t a real creature so I’m thinking maybe it is a ghost.

Peter Straub wrote an amazing novel called Ghost Story. Read it. Do not watch the movie. It is horrible. This book is a great ghost story.

But there is a lot more to this ghost thing than just stories. Ghosts can be many things other than disembodied spirits. Like a ghost of an idea or maybe a ghost writer. There’s always the ghost town. Colorado is full of them. Then there is the thing writer are always looking for, a ghost of an idea. You get the picture. Many of the photos I’ve done over the years have had the essence of ghosts. A glimpse into a place we shouldn’t see.

I like this word. It makes you stop and think. Think about life and death and loved ones who have passed. It makes you wonder about what lies just beyond the borders of life. If you are wondering, yes I have seen a ghost. Have you? Recently I wrote a poem that’s a bit of a ghost story. I think. You never know with poems even when you write them. Here it is.

found us final


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The Touch

Posted in Art, • Wood Dickinson Sites, Faith, family, Fear, God, Home, Hope, Humility, Kansas City, Love, Need, Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on 11/06/2013 by wooddickinson
like a whisper
my hand plants in yours

unaware

scared you’ll pull away. 

no I pull, no risk, can’t risk

when you sleep sometimes, I steal a touch,

placed my hand upon your back
but
only for a moment.
 
sometimes you reach out to me
take my hand
 
I feel life unfolding like a breath
knowing it will be gone soon.

what is it that makes your touch so powerful?

only you

it holds me in fear and awe,

i wish for it

that you will snuggle toward me in the night
needing me

like air.

11/5/2013 – fairway, kansas

Ruins Revisited

Posted in 100 in 365, Abstract, Art, • Wood Dickinson Sites, Color, Fine Art Photography, Ireland, Photography with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 02/10/2012 by wooddickinson

I keep playing with this image. It’s like poetry. I’ve written and published bit of poetry and was asked once how you know when a poem is finished. I said a poem is finished when its beat you to death and there’s no more left for you to put into it.

Some photographs are the same. There are those that I know exactly what I want to see when it’s done then there are those that just keep praying on your mind so you go back to it over and over trying different things until the picture revels itself. I find that this happens most on photographs that I passed over the first time I sorted shots. I’m just not in tune with it at the sorting time but later I see it and all of a sudden something popes out. The mystery of art or maybe better, the mystery of the mind.

Here is a sample of a poem that isn’t cooked yet. I keep them in the “not finished” folder on my computer.

I see blue sky

Finally;

The cold sets in.

But today the sky is blue.

I live for blue.

My chest. A thousand pounds

Pressing down.

What useless emotions.

Wasted and wasting me.

Where is peace?

Under the rubble of broken buildings in Haiti,

Shaken by God’s hand?  Maybe.

The year ends. I look for that strand to pull myself into the next.


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