Sometimes It Is Just Black & White   Wednesday, August 10, 2016

I'm continuing this week with more poems from the World Poetry anthology  that I've used for the past couple of weeks. The rest of the poems from my library are from another anthology, Ain't I a Woman,  subtitled "A Book of Women's Poetry From Around the World," published by Wings Books in 1987.

I also have, as usual, my own poems, old and new. The old poems are from my eBook, Always to the Light, published last year. This was my last eBook of poetry, though I have published a book of fiction, Peace in Our Time, since then. Both, like all my books  are available wherever eBooks are sold.

My photos are from a collection of black and white photos taken  in downtown San Antonio, either on or very near the river.

Green Umbrellas 1 - 5

Peire Cardinal
The Clerks Pretended to be  Shepherds  

a mid-winter poem

Teresita Fernandez
Every Day That I Love You

international pizza

Girl with Dark Hair

the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning or just another day in the life of beginnings-endings


a raccoon ate my cat food

Nuno Fernandez Torneol
The Lady's Farewell

all  brothers of all brothers

Nina Cassian

amphibian songfest

Sonnet When She Walks by Here

it is hard

Jennifer Brown
Africa and the Caribbean

I ask you...

The Message of King Skis and the Legend of the Twelve Dreams He Had in One Night

why is Monday the first day of the week?


This is a kind of long thing, a series and an experiment, trying to think about what reality might look like in a multi-dimensional universe.

green umbrellas


green umbrellas

red awning

blue  sky,
baby-blanket blue sky

the sun, bright,
Sunday morning shining
over the top of the yellow limestone

the morning into sharp-
hued edges
like an old woman
with stubby crayons
and the patient, steady
precision of an old seamstress's
gnarled and spotted
muscle  memory
recalling their days of dexterity... 

the mystery of memory
recalling such
bright days


green umbrellas

red awning

blue sky,
baby-blanket blue sky

the sun, bright,
Sunday morning shining
the top of the yellow limestone

the morning into sharp-
hued edges
by the crone smoking
in the corner under one of the umbrellas,
long legs
long feet,
long crimson-tipped toes,
like a hawk's talons
after a new kill,

exhales clouds of smoke
like a volcano preparing to blow
above her sharp, lava-flow face

of smoke
drifting through the sunshine
like muddy currents
in a slow-moving river,
the sun
like a hazy bar-light
with the 2 a.m. smell
of nicotine-stained nights,
like the burning fields in Mexico,
the stink of fires
rising to the upper atmosphere
then drifting over us,
a smell of burning
mesquite and huisache
falling upon us

like the crone,
barely middle-aged,
already in her small world
the beginning of her own
unnatural disaster


green umbrellas

red awning

blue sky,
baby-blanket blue sky

the sun bright
Sunday morning shining
over the top of the yellow limestone

the morning into sharp
hued edges

in the corner
by the fountain
splashing blue in the sun
a baby
at her mother's pale breast,
her lips tight
mother's dark nipple
that will forever
bind them

the mother hums;
the baby sucks, a soft
Sunday morning melody to accompany
the fountain's splash
and whisper


green umbrellas

red awning

blue sky,
baby-blanket blue sky

the sun, bright,
Sunday morning shining
over the top of the yellow limestone

the morning into sharp-
hued edges

here every Sunday morning
the elderly man,
natty dresser with a rakish fedora
perched squarely
atop his head,
eating a cinnamon-raisin
scone, his jaws
like a great threshing machine
crossing an alfalfa field
in Iowa

every Sunday morning
in his car,
a new Lexus,
a well-off man
why does he have no teeth

are his dentures
so painful
he can't stand to wear them
or does he just not like
prefers to go toothless

or is there some kind
of medical issue
not evident
to those observing
from outside

it's not clear

should he be pitied
for his condition
or is he just
and unreasonable annoyance for his obstinacy,
or is he to be
just another of the anomalies
seen by those who pay

it is Sunday morning
after all,
when all the good people
are in worship
and the world is left to the anomalies,
free to exercise
what is kept hidden
when the church-folk
are around


green umbrellas

red awning

blue sky,
baby-blanket blue sky

the sun, bright,
Sunday morning shining
over the top of the yellow limestone

the morning into sharp-
hued edges

by the window
the old man watches
and notes the changes
of time coming and going,
the shifting of time and dimensions,
this  little enclave
of umbrellas and
a stable point
in the universe of
dimensions flowing
past each other
like random currents
of the mighty river
of time and place as he,
as much of the unchanging reality
as the green umbrellas
and red awnings
and yellow rising sun,
records it all
as alternate realities
flash in and out,
recording in his daily journal
all  the inhabitants
of the other realities
as they pass and live,
unknown all to the others,
never knowing how short  their time
in the place that does not change,
never knowing
they are the ghosts of reality,
seen only by the recorder's eyes
as they play
their small, short part
and are gone
from this one reality
that eternally resides
in this small corner where
their ghostly passing
gives them this little time
to make a place
before the memory of them
in the old man's failing memory
is all that is left
of them...

the old man, the poet
of records.
who stays
where no one else
can stay,
fulfilling his duties
as teller of  who comes and goes
so  quickly,
giving them their small moment
of reality

I begin this  week where I left off  last week, Part IV of the World Poetry anthology, Section 2, "Southern Europe: French National Epic; Lyric Poetry in French, Provencal, Spanish,  Galicio- Portuguese and Italian." The last poem was French.

This one also is  French, but a regional dialect of French, Provencal. (And yes, I had to look that up.)

Apparently priests weren't in much higher regard then than they are now to many of us. The poem is by Peire Cardinal (c. 1216-1271) and was translated by Paul Blackburn. The poet is described as a troubadour and satirist, known for his dislike of the clergy.

The Clerks Pretend to be Shepherds

The clerks pretend to be shepherds, and under
A show of sanctity are
Ravening cut-throats.
When I see one shimmy
Into a cassock
I think of Alengri the wolf,
Who thought to break into
The sheep-cote but was
Afraid on  account of the mastiffs...
But then he had an idea.
He pulled a sheepskin over his head
And ate as much as he liked.

Kings, emperors, dukes, counts and knights
Used to rule the world.
Now the priests have the power, got
By robbery, treachery, sermons,
Force and hypocrisy.

First this week from my last poetry eBook.

The book is divided into seven sections. This is from the first section, "Passages."

a mid-winter poem

     I have the feel
of a string running out,
a slackness in my lifeline,
all that I am reduced to loose ends

I have done many things in my life,
good and worthwhile things,
though none lasted longer than
it took for my shadow
to fade around the corner

my proudest legacies
remembered only by me -
like clouds blown  apart
by the wind, so much more fragile
than  I had  imagined

and now the line that anchored me
to the future
has gone slack and I feel just
in the world's many forgettable
lose ends...

From the anthology, Ain't I a  Woman, this poem is by Teresita Fernandez, born in Cuba in 1930. According to the biography at the back of the book, she trained as a teacher, but joined the revolution. After the revolution she launched two children's shows on television. Later she sang in restaurants and bars. She also worked for the Ministry of Culture and toured the country singing for mine workers, cane cutters and others.

The poem is translated by Margaret Randall.

 Every Day That I Love You

Every day's morning tastes of  thinking of  you,
I go out to dust the carnations, to check the violets,
to  cut the last small rose.

Autumn  begins to  decorate the ground
with its fragile bits of loosened gold.
I'm happy there are flowers small enough
to fit the heart of a letter...

Each autumn day tries out a grey
that brings me to sadness...
Sometimes it rains...
and the street noises stop. Sometimes
Then I listen to  me say I love you...

On days like that people penetrate  the innocence
sleeping in the depths of eyes...
Each day I love you
our tiny quota of beauty takes its place in time.

San Antonio is an international city, obvious if you just listen to the people around you as they talk to each other.

international pizza

for my pizza
at Domino's

three guys behind me
speaking a language I kind of recognize
but not specifically,
Arabic or Persian, maybe Pashto or Urdu,
could be Indian or something else
that doesn't ring a bell for me

who knows what they're talking about,
but they seem  friendly
so I won't worry
about it

except to note....

what a strange world it is
from the small town South Texas
English/Spanish/TexMex world
I grew up  in

such diversity,
on the Riverwalk
languages heard from, it seems,
every place in the world
where more than 25 speakers
speak  it,
and at the supermarket,ladies
in beautiful flowing saris, ladies in soft,  diaphanous
veils, women in burkas, the most  devout
covering all but for a slit for their eyes,  their eyes,
like those with just a veil, dark and beautiful, and
Africans of every hue and costume, the oriental woman,
her arms filled with groceries and, atop  her head
even more groceries,so  gracefully she walks
with her day's  shopping

such wonderful diversity, as if a visit
to the supermarket or  a stroll
along the river takes you through  all the corridors
of the vast, varied world of people
and cultures, all the  people and places unlike me
and my place,  yet all still,  as our  acquaintance deepens
ultimately like me...

we are learning now,
if we didn't know before,
how this stew of differences frightens
some people and how pitiful
they are in their smallness...

I  wait for my pseudo-Italian pepperoni
pizza,  with the fellas behind me
and all the others flowing like a river
around me, all of us now making a larger world
for me to live in...

picking up  my pizza
and heading form home,
my international  pizza
and the days  novellas on TV,
another day in the larger
world I leave to those who
follow  me

Still from Part 4,  Section  of the World Poetry anthology, this poem is by an  anonymous Spaniard (c. 1140). It was  translated by W. S. Merwin.

Not a poem to  read if your already in a down mood.

Girl With Dark Hair

    Girl with dark hair
If you are asleep, be warned:
Half of our life is a dream
Which runs and  slips by us,
As rapid in its flight
As  a light sleep wakened,
As brief while we are young
As when age is upon us,
For the sad disclosure
Of our fleet career
When it would wake us comes
Late and avails us nothing
Your youth and beauty are
No more than a new merchant,
Rich to be left poor
by the lapse of time;
A glory of the world
And a veil for the eyes
And chains for the feet
and fetters for the fingers;
A ground for hazards,A midden of envy,
A butcher of men,
A famous thief of time.
When death has shuffled
Ugly and fair together
In the narrow sepulcher
The bones do not know each other.
And though the cypress is higher
And the cedar more lovely, neither
Burned into charcoal, is whiter
Than  charcoal from the ash tree.
For in this woeful existence
Delight comes to us in dreams only
And distress and tribulation
When we are widest awake.
Dry autumn will consume
The flower of fresh April
To unloved ivory
Turning you ebon hair

Still in my eBook, New Ways and New Days, this is from the second section of the book titled, "Perils  & Pitfalls of the Poem-a-Day Poet." Like many who write a poem every day, a frequent subject is something along  the lines of, "what the hell can I write today." I've written enough of those to make a whole section in the book.

the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning or just another damn day in the life of beginnings-endings

     I  was going to write a poem
about how miserable everything is

how the lunatics
have taken over the asylum

how good  things  everywhere

are hightailing it for the low hills
and high gulches

how the bad guys
have stolen all the white hats
and posture and  preen and pretend
they are the good guys
while the real good guys  are al off
eating crackerjacks
and drinking lattes and smoking
rose-tipped cigarettes,
mute and blind
to the ravages of their absence,
content in their philosophy of
pass the smokeys
while the world burns with the
riders of the
going eeehaw through the gread divide
of hip and hop and spit and spot
and drip and drop and pip
and pop and duck
and fuck
and clickety cluck
and eeehaw
they say
our grim teeth
gnashing and you run
you white ass
in the light of a dying moon

you had your chance
they say
now it's our time to  ride

in the light of a dying moon,
we are the riders
of your inconsequential doom

you betcha

and I've gone old,
my damn  coffee's gone
and my left foot's gone sleepy
twitching  like jello in a junk-jar
from jimjam jarheads
and don't-know-jack sprat

and that's just the beginning
of it...

but nobody wants to hear all that
so I'll just start over,
junk this jerky poem  and write
a new one
about bluebirds and puffy-fluffy clouds
and shit like that

This is an anonymous  piece from India, written some time between 900 and 1100. It was translated from Sanskrit by Willis Barnstone.


After he stripped off my clothes,
unable to cover my beasts with my thin arms
I clung to his chest as to my robe.
But when his hand crept below my hips
who could save me from plunging into a sea of shame
but the love god
who teaches us how to faint.

Barely recovered  from the thieves who kicked in our front door and stole our TV and  stuff, and then, more thievery, this time in out back yard.

a raccoon  stole  my cat food, etc.

a raccoon stole my
cat food

right off my patio

a big  plastic container
of cat food

I found the container
out by the

the plastic eaten through
the cat food half

now the cat is pissed
and the dog is  afraid to go out back
at night 

it's true

and I thought saying
"a raccoon  stole my cat food"
would be a great way
to start a

having started the poem
I discover that saying
"a raccoon stole my cat food"
pretty much says
that's worth saying

let me just say
a raccoon stole my cat food
and leave it
at that

The next poem is from the part of Section 2 labeled "Galician/Portuguese." Galician is the language of Galicia, an autonomous region in northwest Spain. It and Spanish are the official languages of the region. The poem was translated by Yvor Winters.

The poet is Nuno Fernandez Torneol (c. 1225), a troubadour in the court of King Ferdinand III in the middle of the 13 century.

The Lady's Farewell

Awake, my love, who  sleep  into the dawn!
The birds of all the world cried and are gone.
                      I go away in joy.

Awake my love, who sleep so late at dawn!
It was our love the small birds dwelt upon.
                     I go away in joy.

The birds of all the world spoke of our love,
Of my love and yours cried out above.
                      I go away in joy.

The birds of all the world sang loud at day.
It was my love and yours, I heard them say.
                      I go away in joy.

It was my love and yours that made their song.
You cut the branches where they clung so long.            
                      I go away in joy.

It was my love and yours that made their cry -
You cut the branches where they used to fly.
                      I go away in joy.

You cut the branches where they used to sing,
And where they came to drink you dried the spring.
                      I go away in joy.

You cut the branches where they used to stay,
And dried the waters where they cam to play.
                      I go away in joy.

This is from the third section,  "Human  Is As Human Does" from New Days & New Ways.

all brothers of all brothers

it's true,
I talk to my animals...

ever Reba
who can't hear me,
but she can see my lips move

and know
she's  on my mind,  like the blind cat
knows she's not alone in the dark

when I stroke her head as I pass,
like the friendly nod
I exchange with people

I pass on the street
because we all need to know we
are not alone in the dark -

such an acknowledgment
of our shared  passage we should
pass on to the creatures around us

balm to repair the primordial weld
that has bound us all
since creation, the weld that is

separating now
as all  become remote from the

if you believe in God, remember
he created us all
as part of his plan and it is not our

to redraw the blueprints of his

if you do not believe in God,
remember instead
that we are all creatures at base

of common offspring, basic
elements that  give us
as our relatives

the snake, the bird, the fish in the ocean,
the lion in the field, our neighbor
across the fence, the daffodil

wild as any creature on the meadow,
the earth beneath our feet

and the stars that shine overhead,
all brothers of all brothers in our most basic


From the anthology,  Ain't  I a Woman, this poem is by Nina Cassian, born in Romania in 1924. A poet and a composer, Cassian published fifty volumes of poetry, translations, children's verse and short stories by the time the anthology was published. As a composer, three of her chamber works were performed in 1982.

Her poem was translated by Laura Schiff.


I can't take it - you're so handsome!
And when night falls your hair shimmers
grand and tragic like the echo
of blood on a shield.
Your eyes make the air pulse,
they electrify the house,
the drawers open, rugs flood
down the stairs like a river.
Your star-like teeth
rip open my heart like  lightning.
I can't stand it -  you're so much!

But look, thanks for your low forehead.
It gives me more leisure to spend
on those beautiful lips, those treacherous teeth.

Here's another piece  from  the creek behind  my house.

amphibian song fest

heavy rain in the afternoon
flooding  the creek,
the rush of rain freeing
frogs hibernating in the hard,
cracked creek bed
through the past dry weeks

they rise from  their muddy beds
to sing their love songs,
a chorus of freedom
that sweetens the night
with the sounds of
under a mid-summer moon...

the amphibian concerto
a sonic background
to my own quiet

Next from the World Poetry anthology, Italian poet and scholar, Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374). Petrarch (as he is commonly known) is credited with rediscovery of Cicero's letters which is said to have initiated the beginning of the Italian Renaissance.

The poem was translated by Nicholas Kilmer.

Sonnet: When She Walks by Here

When shew walks by here
The grass bends down, the gentle flowers.
The mark of her foot remains in the damp ground beside water.

You have known her, the slenderness of trees.
Young green branches: making a shadowy wood
The sun breaks with its narrow shafts of gold smoke.

River, that has become her face, takes fire
Looking at  me fire from the sun has washed her.

The stones themselves are burning in my shadow.

On to Section 4 of my  New Days & New Ways eBook - "Life on the Fifth Planet."

it is hard

slept all  day
dreams of when
I made things happen

     it was in my


the blind cat
like a pin ball
from wall to  wall
as she seeks to find her way;
soft bounces,
her pink nose against the wall,
then turn
     a turn into a bedroom
     that goes nowhere,
     in the dark
     beyond her  personal  dark
until I find her
waiting for the world
to make sense again, then
I take her
where I think she wants to go


     doctor appointment today,
five and a half minutes, she will
give me
     new  pills
     and four and a half  minutes
     of advice -
I  will take the first
the second...
     young and pretty
     what does  she know
     about being old?


find comfort
in my regular place
around my regular people
     do I ever think
     I need more


find comfort
in thinking of other places,
other people,
where I can be
the mysterious stranger
in the back of the
     I might not ever see before
     or since

who know even less  about me
than I know about


     it is
to be happy

or old, it is hard
to know
the true nature
of happiness
from temporary


     it is
to live in a world
where nothing happens
     unless you make it

Here's another from Ain't I a Woman, this piece is by Jennifer Brown. Born in Jamaica, Brown is a radio producer and journalist. She is also a widely published poet.

Africa and the Caribbean

I came to you
dew wet
child of these islands
jewel of the Caribbean Sea
and you loved
my skin
like black sand beaches;
my hair
like coconut fibers
my lips
large and generous
tasting of sun and fruit.
You took me home
and together we dug
until we found
my long lost navel string;
we recalled the ceremonies
that had subsided in my skin;
I sang for you
my new songs
and we slept together at dawn.

Asking questions, it's how us intelligent people learn stuff.

I ask you...

how many virgins
can dance on the head of  a pin?

a question
no one but me is willing to  ask

and I have a bunch
of such interesting questions...

if, for example,
as some maintain,
we are made in the image
of the god who made us, does the god who made us
have hemorrhoids and does he have
bad morning breath?

if your clothes dryer
is a portal to another dimension
is there really a dimension out there
of mismatched socks?

if a train is going 50 miles a hour
and a car, leaving 10 minutes after the train,
is going 75 miles an hour, how many miles will the car
be ahead or behind after
6 hours?

then there is this -

when I was a small child
my father was always telling me to be good
because in the end, he said, the good guys
always win -  can anyone tell me where
the end is? am I close? or have I waited too long
to be good and the end is coming
before I finish?

and this -

in stories of the "Rapture," the left-behinders
always find piles of clothes the enraptured
left behind when making their  ascension - does this mean
everybody in heaven is naked? is this a good thing or a bad thing?
if the enraptured are naked, what about god? is he naked
too? doesn't this whole gathering of the naked thing
seem kind of  weird to you?

and speaking of heaven, does anyone really want to go there
and see Uncle Fester naked? and does anyone really want to go
to heaven since according to most tellings it's going to be
filled mostly with people you couldn't stand during
your mortal life - and doesn't hell seem like a better deal
since it's going to be mostly filled with your friends
and people throughout history you've always admired?

why do people like me ask such questions they know
cannot be answered?

Shouldn't  such people just be satisfied that the know,
at a least a little bit among all the trillions of things there are to be known
most of them to be never known?

I ask you...

This is the last piece from the World Poetry anthology, Part IV,  beginning Section 3. The poem is by an anonymous Serbo-Croatian poet, date unknown. The piece was translated by Charles Simic.

The Message of King Sakis and the Legend of the Twelve Dreams He Had In  One Night


I saw  a gold pillar from  earth to heaven.


I saw a dark towel
hanging from heaven to earth.


I saw three boiling kettles:
one of oil, one of butter, and one of water,
and oil boiled over into butter
and butter into water
but the water boiled all by itself


I saw an old mare with her  colt,
and a black eagle pulling grass by its roots
and laying it down before the mare
while the colt neighed.


I saw a bitch lying on a dunghill
while the puppies barked from her womb.


I  saw many monks soaked in pitch
wailing because they can't get out.


I saw a beautiful horse
grazing with two heads
one in front, one in the back.


I saw precious stones, pearls and royal wreaths
scattered over the whole kingdom.,
but fire came down from heaven
and scorched everything into ashes.


I saw the rich giving workers either
gold or silver or rice,
but when they asked for their own reward,
no one was left.


I saw evil-faced rocks descending
from the sky
and walking all over the earth.


I saw three maidens in a mowed field
bearing wreaths of sunlight on their heads
and sweet-smelling flowers in their hands.


I saw men with slits for eyes,
cruel fingernails, and hair that rose up,
and these were the devil's servants.

I'm finishing New Days & New Ways this week a poem each from Section 5, "As Is or Ought to  Be" and Section 6, "Out There."

why is Monday the first day of the week?

     looking for a toehold
to get me started this morning,
I latch onto the idea

that this is Monday,
the first  day of the first week
of the new year

and that leads me to thinking
why is Monday
the first day of the week?

and that's obvious, it's the old
"on the seventh day he rested" thing
which means the eight day

was Monday,  time for the Most High Commuter
to  get back to work
overseeing all that he had created

or did he slip off, instead, to do
new creating
somewhere else

and why did he need a day of rest anyway,
he being all powerful Whosit and Whatsit
you'd think all this creating

would be like a snap of his might finger,
once for the heavens and once for the earth,
ten an all-purpose multi-snap  for
all the plants and creatures,

the lions and tigers and bears, ow my,
and squash and cherries and trees and porcupines

and the geese and hummingbirds
and crab grass and red, red roses and
dogs peeing in the park and cats
sleeping and sleeping
and spiders and dung beetles

and maybe a single dedicated snap
to whip up a human being, a man first,
of course, and then a woman
     - product
     of left over
     manly parts -
some for both the he and she,
     (he invented
     those words as well,
     for until then there were no words
     to even  imagine a he  or a she)

making up arms and legs  for both
and lungs and tongues
and noses and  toes
and forty-seven miles of intestines
and hearts that beat and break and blood
and  piss and shit and boogers, too, and
sexually-explicit play areas
and occasionally a  brain,
     an accident, probably
     or maybe on oversight,
     a worn-out,  late afternoon  sixth-day goof,
     capable of asking asking questions,
     demanding  answers
     and a mighty
     every since

which begs the question, why
do I, being a pretty mighty pain in the ass myself
continue to think of  Monday as  the first  day of the week -
it's time, I think
in order  to be true  to my non-believing beliefs
to designate Wednesday as the first day of the week
which makes it now this minute an early morning
middle of the week  Monday,  the day the religiosos babosos
meet here for breakfast and I wish they'd hurry and get here
and I hop they have something interesting to say
this morning, not  like the last couple of weeks when
all they talked about was football -

a real deep and meaty conversation
that'll give me something interesting to write about
because right now I can't think of any darn thing

and that's a dangerous situation because,
lacking anything  deep and meaty
to write about
     not too proud
     to  bull-


like starbursts,
and blazing clear...

dark and cold,
the sky
on a field
of razzle-dazzle...

another creature of nights and days
looks to the dark
above his indeterminate head
and sees the brilliant mark of mine
among the billions
in the canvas
of his sky,
just as I see above me
the fire that warms
his  night
and lights his  day...

we imagine
other -
star-gazing  brothers
the universal
the further-most  reaches
of nights and

alone, still,
but no longer lonely

I hate being late, consider it to be  disrespectful to make someone to wait for me when I'm late. Doesn't really have much to do with this poem, just a general statement of principal.


being a person who hates being
I hate being late as I am today

missing the sunrise
the birds clearing their throats for their first
song of the day

myself once  again
hostage to the sleepy-eyed

soldier of misfortune
I see  in the mirror,
first sight of the day

a reminder
of the inevitable corruption
of the flesh

that befalls us all,
how I wish I had heard the birds sing
before facing such a sad


As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me

Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad


New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second


Sonyador - The Dreamer


  Peace in Our Time

at 6:07 PM Blogger davideberhardt said...

the 2nd photo is excellent- the one of the sculpture far below also- i do not know why i respond here as i get only greef from the manager of the site (see poisonous green photo on face book)

we must offer each other kum by ahs- and, as to the right wing decide how to combat them

at 8:48 AM Blogger Here and Now said...

the green face, that's my giving grief face, david, think of it whenever i shoot some reality across your bow

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