The Photographer

May I inquire,

how doth the sun retires?

If thou has seen the picture she paints

surely you may say what heaven creates.

For have thou seen the lands,

and photographed heavens glory.

And the simplest, humblest may seem

you fill with lovely touch.

It is thee that read, the ardent pictures

the majesty, ecstasy, heaven you show.

Every ray a streak of paint from Picasso,

humble yet reserved, a mellow turf,

a bluebird, a clover, or a song.

Trees and green reeds, God’s art from afar.

May we be blessed to see the angels wings?

The photographer knows,

the photographer shows,

the secret art of realms above.

An yet remains humble a’best. 

Author's Note

I dedicate this poem to an old, long lost acquaintance of mine who was one of my favorite photographers, and to my mother who of course, is my favorite.

Reviews

[Cliff Rhodes]

....has that old world flavor and appeal to this piece. Ghostly presence of flashbulbs and backlit screens has this poem and it sticks in the memory like old world pulled taffy and real cinnamon tea.