Creating Images – 2017

Creating Images – 2017

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

A veces, por la noche,

cuando yo no puedo dormir,

escribo un poco.

- m

Imagination

The sun warms my chair, but not as much as you. 

You sit in my lap, it is not your weight that I feel,
but your warmth, your softness, your nearness. 

We sit silently as you drift off to sleep,
held, safe, caressed, comforted,
breathing softly, smoothly, like a baby.

You awaken, slowly.  That delicious “mmmmmm…”
tells me, without words, that for you too, this is heaven,
and you are saddened, each time I leave.

- m
07-Feb-2015

 

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

Sleep

We can dream.
We must dream.
But come the light,
we must open our eyes,
and meet the day.

- m

21-Jan-2015

Sixty

As I approached 50, I was depressed.

And now, though it’s still 3 years away,
I race toward 60, and all I’ve got
is a grand-daughter and a great big smile.

She is sunshine and warm hugs,

a romp around the house.  We turn chairs
and blankets into Princess Castles,
then relax in Poppie’s chair, and take a nap.

We make snacks out of graham crackers,

and applesauce, maybe yogurt out of a cup.
We mix batter and help Gaga make pancakes,
with blueberries and “Bo-nanas” on top.

We make a mess, and clean it up,

and then we make another one. 
Think about 60 ?, no… I smile and think about
my “Little One”…and next Saturday afternoon.

 - Mark W. Laughlin

07-Dec-2014
home

Shards

We toss, and turn, and sleep.

Dream, wake, repeat.

Visions, reflected in mirrors made of ice.

Eyes open, mirrors shatter, shards melt away.

Quickly, we forget the dream,

or sometimes even that we dreamed.

We close our eyes, begin again.

Dream, wake, repeat.

-m

02-Jan-2016

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

Moving

My mind is an aircraft, a space ship, or even a covered wagon.  Maybe a race car, no, not Nascar, I mean a Formula-One, or an Indy car, racing around the track.  Speed, noise, tension, sweat.  Hot babes at the finish line, bikinis, push-up bras.

When I fly in a plane, I love a window seat.  I sit glued to the glass, I’m a pilot in WW-II, swooping in low over bridges, factories and docks.  A huge number of missions to date, and so far, no bullet holes in my plane. 

Trains are fun, I stick to those windows too.  Some are fast, and life is a blur.  The world zips by and you’ll miss it if you close your eyes.  But sometimes trains travel the “back-side” of life, behind the buildings, the “graffiti zone”, through the “dumpster-side” of a city. 

At times, cars are cool, you see more at the speed of a car, than that of an airplane, but not, if you always have to drive.  Of course, you can stop.  The Pacific Coast Highway is a twisty, turney, totally scenic road.  Stopped several times, then grinned as we peeled out, dust, gravel in the air, roaring back to highway speed.

On ships, eyes searching for periscopes, the U-Boats are out there, lurking.  Never traveled the open sea, just smaller, local boats, but they might have been ships, Men of the Line, high-speed hunters of other ships, other men.  Hard grey water, dangerous skies.

Horses, you can see way, way more at the speed of a horse.  But more, you smell a horse, the dust of the trail.  And hear him, not only to the clop clop clop of his feet on the trail, but his twitching, his stomach gurgling, the whip of his tail, chasing flies away.  With a horse, you get a living, breathing friend, to carry you along, and no trouble finding your way home !

- Mark W. Laughlin

18-Oct-2014

Snow

Flying in, over the hills outside of town,

saw more snow than I expected.

Madrid has not felt this cold,

or lonely, before.

- m

03-Febrero-2015

Madrid

Time

How did we humans

develop an “internal clock”,
presuming that this evolutionary accomplishment
occurred many thousands of years ago, long,
long before we had any notion of actual clocks…
…or of time ?

It’s quite normal for me to wake up,

and look at the clock, to note that the alarm
will be sounding in a couple of minutes. 
I don’t mean necessarily every normal morning,
with a normal wake time, but in particular
for early-rising occasions, for travel, appointments. 

Was this development of an internal clock an adaptation

to get those of us, those in positions of responsibility,
for fending for our tribes or family groups,
up and about our business before the “game animals” got moving ? 
And if so, what about the game animals ?
Didn’t they develop their own internal clocks ?  

- m

05-Jan-2015
Madrid

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

Darkness.

Cold, heavy darkness.

Thick clouds, no moon, no starlight.

I cannot see a thing.

But I am reassured

by the scent of a wise and steady animal.

So I hold the rains loosely,

and put all my trust,

in my horse.

-          m

Racing

Inky blackness, long country road. 

Tired eyes focus, tiny patch of light.
Past the radio towers, quickly I glide.
The moon paces beside me, off to my right.

Beautiful, cool, blue-white rays,

Block the light, inky black floods in.
Skipping, flickering, zipping through the trees,
Past the hill, the moonlight dances again.

Finally, a town, a hotel, a bed.

Eyes barely open, I switch off my lights.
The moon glances about, for another try,
another traveler, another race through the night.

- Mark W. Laughlin

12-Feb-2015

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

Necesito un sueño nuevo

En la noche, te veo caminar.

Pero, en la luz, tu sonrisa no baila en mis ojos,

tu risa no cosquillas a mis oídos,

tu pelo, cae sólo sobre tus hombros.

Necesito un sueño nuevo

- m

28-Septiembre-2014

Madrid

  

Harbor

Wind, waves, rising swells,
20 miles at sea, nervous eyes peer,
“3 seconds he said, 3 seconds”…
blackness, rain, spray fill the air.

“Finally !, there, eight degrees-a-port !”

One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand,
three-one-thousand, flash.  Still bright,
130 years, tall and steady on her rock.

Cresting a wave, then dropping out of site,

the mouth of the channel they find,
light on their left, 3 seconds and flash.
From lost at sea to safe home again.

Smooth in channel, waves now behind. 

Will they stop ?  Quick wave to the keeper ?
No, busy now, mooring lines in hand,
tits and whiskey on their minds.

-M

2016

  

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

Dry Hope

Tall white towers cross the sky.

Bright the sun shines through the window.

Boom and rumble rattle the house.

Bright the sun shines through the window.

It’s dry, so dry, please, please some rain.

Bright the sun shines through the window.

The clouds sail by, not a drop today.

Bright the sun shines through the window.

                                      - Mark

Texas, 2011

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

The Barn

My horse is never so thrilled

to see me sneaking, sweets in hand,
bridle behind my back.

He edges away, and turns, and twists.

I offer the bait, treats he loves to steal,
but today is not quick to take.

Clever beast, he puffs his chest, so the

cinch I tighten will loose.  I must off,
cinch-up again, or fall, and bust my caboose.

Finally, caught, harnessed and climbed,

he walks, but dropping his head, protests by reaching
and grabbing, every bite of grass that he can.

We plod and step, reluctantly, away,

down and around the bend.  Then finally, finally he sees,
we’ve come round, headed now, back home again.

He quickens his pace, no matter my pull. 

He knows.  It’s off with the blanket, that saddle,
and me, as soon as we’re back, to the barn.

- Mark W. Laughlin

22-Oct-2014

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

24-Feb-2012

A nice lunch, a ride on a bus.

An afternoon laughing, talking, drinking wine.

Warm sun, warm talk, warm friends.

Four years ago, where does time go ?

When, when.  Will we ever, do it again ?

-m

The Box

Gray fingers stroke old memories,

shuffling through old photos, cards.
The scent of tobacco long since faded,
his trusted friend holds on.
His cigar box, his memory, his life.

On a park bench, the front porch,

at the table in the kitchen, we see him.
Alone, searching through the past.
“Don’t know why I need that photo…
…I see her when I close my eyes.”

“Gone…dead…ahh, there’s a smile.”

A bit creased, bent corners, but still brilliant,
captured 40, maybe 50 years ago.
A few color, but mostly black and white,
just like the images in his mind.

But these days, his thoughts are slowing,

can’t connect the faces to the names.
He keeps the box close, holds it tight.
Over and over, he sorts, and shuffles,
he smiles, remembers, cries.

- m

21-March-2015

Walking

I cast my eyes, left and right, as far ahead as I can.

Walking, my path takes me far, so quickly I must go.

Wondering, and walking, and searching as I step,

it is you I watch for.  Sometimes, every now and then,

I catch a glimpse, off in the distance, or lost in the glare of the sun.

Then, suddenly, there you are, crossing the path ahead.

You smile, and wave, then hurry on your way, as I go on,

walking, wondering, when I will see you again.

- m

30-Septiembre-2014

Madrid

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

Sorry

I get up before dawn,

gather my camera and head out,
hoping the sun will be my friend.
You get up, hoping traffic
won’t be your enemy.

I walk along a Finnish lake,

peering through the trees,
hoping to catch site of the swans.
You creep through lines of cars,
red tail lights glimmer in your eyes.

Sometimes I walk along a Chinese Wall,

enjoying the view with thousands of others.
You sit at home, alone, and wait…
waiting for me to return,
to show the images I’ve caught.

Now and then, we have managed

to enjoy together, Boston, Paris, Japan. 
But those seem too few and too far between.
It’s just not often enough
that time, and possibilities, coincide.

So as I start again, to gather my things,

checking weather and chances for sun,
I think, sadly, that I wish you were here,
and that I’m sorry
each time I leave you behind.

-m

17-Sept-2015
 Frankfurt

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

Was it you ?

In the darkness, with eyes closed,
before sleep takes me, I catch a glimpse.
In the distance, turning a corner.

Bright smile turned and gone.
I must watch more carefully,
next time the darkness falls…

-m

Images

Turning, switching back and forth.

Driving from Dehradun to Mussoorie,
in the foothills of the Himalayas. 
India, as always, is a hectic bustle.
As we drive, as always, I pass cool images,
a million per mile.  Mountains, clouds, monkeys.
If only, if only, I had the time to stop, get out,
and walk.  Maybe I could capture more,
more faces, more colors, more scenes of people,
people moving, moving, always forward.
As I ride, my head is on a swivel,
quickly looking this way and that,
afraid to blink, afraid of what I might miss.
A million per mile.  That’s how many
wonderful images, uncaptured,
flash by me as we go. 
Time, time is the thing. 
Oh, if only I could
slow down,
and catch
those
images... 

-m

Mussoorie,
16-July-2016

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

Waiting

Morning light splashes off buildings.

Traffic slows, people hurry.  The smell of breakfast.

I stand on the corner, there is no bus.

The sun climbs, flowers open.

Kids, dogs play in the park.

I stand on the corner, there is no bus.

 Hungry now, the clock drags.

Lunch bags, crowds in the café.  People rush about.

I stand on the corner, there is no bus.

Feeling older, feeling colder.

Clouds, wind, umbrellas, rain.

I stand on the corner, there is no bus.

Traffic again, people rushing home.

Evening breeze, the smell of cooking.

I stand on the corner, there is no bus.

Crickets, damp night air.  Stillness.

Warm lights in the windows, off one by one.

I stand on the corner.

There is no bus.

                                                                                  -   M. W. Laughlin (2008)

Visitor

Rapping, tapping at my window.

Getting inside was not what he was about.

To the Crow, his reflection must have seemed

menacing, intrusive, a threat.

Rapping, tapping, he raised his wings and warned

“We’ll have none of that…None of that !!”

-m

Parallels

Parallels, many really.  Girls, at both ends of life.

Both need lots of care and attention. 
One is Eighty, one is Two.

With either, sometimes their words

are clear and understandable,
and other times, like some secret code. 

For both, time is mostly meaningless,

they nap when they are tired,
eat when they are hungry.

We speak in sentences, not knowing

if they are listening, or if they understand, and from either,
sometimes receiving a surprisingly lucid reply.

As well, both are likely to say something

entirely inappropriate, speaking without consideration
for others who might overhear.

Both are apt to tumble.  For one, it is common,

and just a matter of growing up.  For the other,
it’s one of the great dangers of growing old.

They both drink through sippy straws,

and are fussy about what they put into their mouths.
With both, it’s an effort to keep their dinner off their clothes.

When stressed or alarmed, one runs to Poppies’ feet,

wanting to be lifted up, to safety.  The other, turns toward me,
without making a sound, and mouths, “…get me out of here…”

For either, when things are difficult,

A hug, a kind word, and a cookie,
or maybe some ice cream, can repair almost anything.

I want to introduce them to each other, but it’s been hard

to find a moment that works for both.  Still, as important
as a meeting may be to us, neither of them will likely remember…

- Mark W. Laughlin

Son, Father, Grandfather
23-Dec-2013

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin

Writing, raining, writing.

For me,

sometimes,

writing is a bit

like rain.

It may start slowly…

just a few taps

and clicks,

…on the key board.

Just a few drops…

at a time.

And then…sometimes, it’s faster.

Faster and faster, I‘m banging and thumping the keyboard.

Others around the coffee shop may look, wondering what’s going on,

banging, pouring, big South Texas rain drops are hitting everywhere,

and the keys, the keys, bumping and thundering.

Mistakes, mistakes, they are everywhere,

and I have to stop myself, from stopping to fix them,

or otherwise I will lose that train of thought,

become distracted.  I can say it this way…

…no, no, not that way, back, back,

back, again, and again,

trying to capture the thought…

to polish, to get it right,

before it goes…

And then it slows…

…until I finish

that idea.

Then…

I will sit back,

and read,

…and re-read.

To see

how the tone…

… the flow of it,

are working.

To see

if it is still

logical,

reasonable…

Just…

a few…

…taps…

A few

light

drops.

And then, I break,

for the granddaughter.

To play !

- Mark W. Laughlin

Creating Images

The brightest colors are always on the highest shelf.

Like a boy standing on an unsteady chair, I stretch.
I have canvas, brushes and plenty of sun,
but I must reach very high for my words.

- Mark W. Laughlin

04-Augusto-2013
Santiago de Chile

Photo by Mark W. Laughlin