simultaneity

The Lord will keep your foot from stumbling.
—Psalm 121:3a

Simultaneously he believed
in volition and predestination.
Quoting popular humor he noted,
"No single raindrop believes it's
responsible for the flood."
Ever drops of his life accumulated
Submerging possibilities until
his life-as-sailing-bark found
only one harbor, only one course.
"Certainly I could refuse that harbor,
this line," he thought while
he beat course straight for it.

32/100

To John Brunner

Joh Brunner’s The Shockwave Rider sought to show a near-future version of what constant change would look like, basing this premise on Alvin Toffler’s non-fictional book, Future Shock. In the process, however, I’ve believed more and more that he foresaw what our society has turned into 50 years since the book was published.


You wrote of youths walking
tightropes over alligator pits,
spectators screaming, "Fall!
Fall!" all for "fun," for
'cash considerations.'

Do you recognize us now,
John?

Show after 'reality'
show trumpets screaming
contestants. We live through
damaged people baring
their emotional problems
all for prize money, that
get-out-of-jail-free excuse
for any type of boorishness.
Inevitably it creeps into
our society where it's okay
to scream at someone if
it's justifiable. John,
we discover in your story
that everyone breaks down,
no one has privacy, that
drugs keep us happy, docile,
that society breaks into
cults curated for profit,
that criminals run what
seemed to be our
government.

Do you
recognize us now, John?

28/100

Yards

Our front yard. July 2026.
We live secret lives hiding
behind masks of mutual
pleasantries as we walk
our dogs, stretch our legs,
work quietly in our yards.
But these yards keep secrets
poorly. They reveal us to our
world more clearly than
we could ourselves.

Eastward my neighbor's
carefully curated lawn,
shrubs, flowers give way to
substantial but well-contained
wildness, trees, vines, anything
which chooses to grow there.
"He bites off no more than
chewable, this one," says
his yard. "He values order,
beauty, ornamentation.
His dogs bark freely—why not?
They come when he calls, they
serve him. Who needs more?"
I cannot see his front yard:
perhaps something deeper?
I think not; well-maintained in
back means more so in front.

Southward lies bare minimum.
Years ago, ten or more, she
planted irises 'round her
mailbox. Nothing else blooms, front
or back, which can be seen from
street or another's yard.
In back lies one small patch
of grass, some flowering trees.
Hidden deeply in vine-shrouded
solitude lurks her tool shed,
never visited, never needed.
Twice each month she brings
in mowers to keep her lawn
in check. She limps to deck,
to her car. I surmise once
someone else lived with her
who took more interest.

Northward lies ambition,
community, family. Just
prior to pandemic's pause,
its yard under new management,
benches appeared around
one fire pit. Party lights
dangled between trees,
firewood racks popped up
along their back fence,
which received repairs
inside one year. Next they
tore off rotten wood, remade
their basement, attached
two decks amazing for their
sturdiness, their beauty.
"When Jesus comes back,
those decks will still be there,"
he told me. No lawn appeared
in back after previous residents
let chained dogs wear it down.
Instead, frisbee golf came. Camping
gear occupied some space.
Everything about it screams
"Family! Friends! Comfort!"

Here? Our yard underwent
metamorphosis as I allowed
'natural' grass to grow unchecked
until I realized its invasive
nature. Then, shaggy
unkemptness gave way
to nothing-but-garden.
Its haphazardly located plants
reveal how poorly my dreams
get realized. Our back yard,
torn asunder by summer's
torrents, reveals how ill-
conceived our landscaper's
plans, leaving nothing but
soil to wash away...while
revealing my trust in what
others promise me. Now,
unwanted green strangers
laugh at me: "Go ahead,
pull us up! We have more
numbers, more patience
than you. We will prevail."
And so they shall. My yard
says, "Good intentions,
poor follow-through. Perhaps
some sense of romance."
Green and gold (that’s its name) in our back yard. April 2026.

27/100

Infinities

A funny thing happened when I started writing my poem for today. Halfway through a different poem said, “No, write me instead!”

A true tale….


I once read a book
where every distinct idea
received its own line,
prose as poem,
purposefully presenting them
in bite-sized pieces.

I remember it because
at sixteen years
I learned about infinity
this way, how
one infinity can be bigger than another.
Before this, I had thought
"Infinity is just Infinity,"
never dreaming
"it" should be "they,"
never considering
they could be quantified
(kind of).

"Think of all the numbers on a number line,
how they go on to Infinity.
Call it Set A.
What if we add one to Set A?
Call it Set B.
Set B must be bigger!"

"Think how a number line goes from Zero to One.
If you go halfway from One to Zero,
then halfway again,
and so on:
obviously you'll never get to Zero.
It's an Infinity, but...
since it's contained between Zero and One,
just as obviously it's smaller
than the infinities we discussed with Sets A and B."

My mind was blown. No
wonder I took psychotropics.
What else could I do to
fill the spaces it had made?

23/100

taste combos

Rainy day,
peanut butter on
whole-grain toast,
lentil soup.

Waterside cabin,
fried eggs,
syrupy pancakes,
bacon dikes the syrup.

Chore day interrupted by
grilled cheese
sandwich
dipped in ketchup.

Warm breezes,
cold-cut sandwich,
cheap potato chips,
airborne laughter.

Hot-off-the-grill
basted shrimp,
salt-air seasoning,
rosy sunset.

Fully packed car,
open road,
charcuterie lunch
eaten while driving.

Opening Day,
roasted peanuts
(shell on),
Yuengling Traditional Lager.

Salty tears,
wedding bells,
niece/nephew giddiness,
families-becoming.

20/100
I’m writing a poem a day (sometimes two), and now I’m 20% there. It’s causing me to rethink poetry and my approach to it, when and how I’ve written it in the past.

a mid-day walk

Every major city seems to have a botanical greenhouse where tropical conditions have been created to foster the growth of orchids, bromeliads, and such—or “July” as a resident of the American South might call it. I left just past noon today for a 25-minute sojourn around the neighborhood. When I returned, our weather gauge reported a temperature of 81.1°F and a relative humidity of 88.8% (now registering an even 89.0% 30 minutes later). Lighting was poor: completely overcast, the sun approaching its zenith. That’s okay. My poetry attempts have been poor today, also. This is my second try, the first being filed in the “maybe-it-can-be-saved” bin. This really isn’t poetry, more poetic prose, artfully arranged—unless it’s true what a friend said, that poetry is what I say it is!


Every Southerner learns gradual 
acceptance of sweat, wears loose
garments, overlooks each other's
spreading stains. "Only mad dogs"
indeed. Why walk now? Surely
my Fitbit will multiply steps
taken in such weather?

Escaping my climate-
controlled cocoon,
black-eyed susans cry
welcome. They're sprinkled
beside rattlesnake master,
goldenrod, butterfly
weed. Abiding our warmth,
humidity humbly, they
suggest I follow their lead.
Minutes later brings one
patriotically-colored
whirligig, neglected,
spinning madly with each
new breath of hot air,
much like my country
does these days. Inured
to these new great divides,
I just see [whirligig;
patriotic
] as I pass.
One neighbor's mailbox
decoration swings madly
with each puff of air. Its
caretaker keeps it small:
Chinese fringe flower
usually towers twenty feet.
Where once I wandered scrub
woods (leftover nature long
subdued), newer years brought
townhouses, all units clad
in ubiquitous white,
(accented with charcoal trim!)
Townhouses get
young magnolias,
crafted ever-so-
perfectly by your
local nursery, while
everyone else
nurtures what
such abnormal
specimens become.
Headed homeward I give
friend Crow midday greetings,
reflect upon our tree-bound need
for vegetables in front
(sunlight dictates placement),
admire still-red maple leaves,
register my soaked T-shirt:
its limit of three-quarters mile,
exceeded by my four.

18/100

Candids as portraiture

Recently I’ve been discussing with a friend of mine posed photographs in the context of a ‘photo shoot’. I am deeply prejudiced—wait, I should stop right there and not finish this sentence—to the candid. Just as the “live album” gives us a more raw, more honest performance of a musician’s music, the candid gives us a more honest visual glimpse into the soul of a subject. But—I cannot argue that a studio performance of a song might be better from a musical standpoint, and might offer more insight into the true meaning of a song. Similarly, a posed shot can, with expert crafting by the photographer, offer a deeper insight into the subject than a quickly, randomly shot photo of them. People have many reasons to want a posed shot: weddings, family gifts, graduation, proms, amid others. (A former colleague of mine spent weekends creating boudoir portfolios for wives and girlfriends who wanted to surprise their lover!)

For many decades I’ve been a firm believer in the candid that looks as if it is posed. To get a shot like this, the photographer must insinuate himself/herself into the situation to the point where snapping photos is no more unnatural than the sun shining through the window. Here is my first argument:

Louise Pilcher. Early 1981.

The above photo of my mother is unretouched, unedited—and unposed. She had drifted mentally from the family conversation in the living room. She is sitting on the hearth of the fireplace, likely because there were only so many chairs and a sofa, or maybe because in a few minutes she need to be in the kitchen again. From the angle, I can tell I was sitting on the floor. I believe it was taken in the summer of 1981, but I’m not totally sure. I would have been 27 that year. To my point, my mother knew I was snapping photos, but previous to this shot, I likely was pretending to snap in a different direction. I had/have a habit of just pointing and pretending to shoot because it puts my subject in a relaxed state. Example: I would note that my subject is about 15 feet away, then pick something that is about the same distance and focus on it. Swing around and snap! Subject usually isn’t even paying attention to me because my interest is elsewhere.

Sadly, one of the best portraits I ever took this way appears to have vanished. In 1981, just a few months after I started working for the Newport Miner and Gem State Miner publishing company, my editor sent me to ‘cover’ the story of a Native American woman whose relatives had informed us was celebrating her 100th birthday. I dutifully drove up to the Kalispel Reservation north of Newport, WA, to report the event. She had a beautifully craggy and lined face with a bandana tied around her head. Being less than pushy, I stood about ten feet away, chatting and taking notes, with a camera slung around my neck. Given a breather by the relatives, I swung my attention and my camera to the ‘birthday girl’ as she smoked a cigarette. A tiny bit of zoom on the telephoto and click: I took a head-and-shoulders shot which captured her hand with a cigarette. When it was processed, my editor exclaimed, “Damn, Pilcher, you sure can take a photograph!” It graced the cover of their quarterly features tabloid.

Here’s another one of my mother. My wife and my parents were visiting the Hancock Shaker Village on the western edge of Massachusetts in 2004. Mom stopped for a physical respite, and I said, “Hey, Mom!” before snapping this shot. We used it at her funeral fifteen years later.

My mother in 2004.

Does she look a bit startled. Yes. But does she also look as if someone just said, “Hey, Louise?” Yes, again, and I would argue that’s the impact of the photo. She looks like an 18-year-old who just turned to her boyfriend, except she’s 75 in this photo which adds to the depth of meaning.

I’m still having difficulty describing what I feel is a gray area between “posed” and “candid” where I think a lot of portrait photographers would like to live. The best examples I can think of are those photographers who take photos to accompany interviews, sometimes while the interview unfolds. I don’t know most of their names, but one famous one would be Annie Leibovitz who I know primarily because she photographed musicians for Rolling Stone. She photographed John and Yoko Lennon hours before John was gunned down. She photographed Demi Moore naked and pregnant. Bruce Springsteen had her photograph the covers for Born in the U.S.A. and Tunnel of Love. And on and on. There’s a good list on Wikipedia.

Maybe I’m just fooling myself. I’m never sure on this topic. Maybe I’m confusing the stray candid that looks posed for those that actually are. My point, if I have one: people are better known when shot candidly, when they have relaxed into who they are. As photographers we need to work toward putting our subjects into that state, even if the photos will be taken at a formal shoot. What if you click, click, clicked every few seconds? And you carried on a conversation while doing it? Wouldn’t your subject just get used to the snapping shutter? Do you have the ability to shoot someone without putting the camera up to your eye? (Oh, how I miss the two-and-a-quarter Hasselblads! A glance down there and you’ve got a shot they don’t even know you’re taking.) Can you use the “hey, I’m not recording these shots right now” ruse (presuming you’re shooting digital—it was so much easier in the film days)? You of course are lying. Can you carry on innocuous conversation while you shoot? Ask provocative questions? Or will it be the mundane, “Okay, Shirley, now let’s get some with you looking to your left”?

Ghosts

Bodnant Garden. June 2026.

I think a poem/day will be all I can muster.


Ghosts, slipping
treelike through forests
populated by people
looking just like they
once did. Slowly
dissolving, windborne
gossamer, 'til people
look through them.
Haunting not others,
but themselves with
each mirror-ward glance.
Remembering when
they treated ghosts
similarly, in
youthful vibrancy.

14/100

So angry

December 2010.
Angry 
Drunk
Driving my pickup,
Six-pack beside me.
Timing my throws to
Hit empties into the
Truck bed. Blind, thinking
Endless thought loops.

Years later.
Angry drunk.
Driving miles while still
Sitting in my chair.
Still timing my throws
Of empty thoughts to
Capture blind thinking:
Endless thought loops.

More years
Still angry.
Still drunk.
Tired of driving
Mental miles worn
Deeply in my mind.
Emptied soul tiring
Of postured thinking:
Break my thought loops.

13/100