Uncle Bob's Words

Words, poetry, stuff like that

Archive for the month “January, 2014”

If these walls

If these walls could talk,

I’d get no peace –

Sotto voce sheetrock



Better they stay mute.

I remember

The days, the nights, people

Well enough.

Don’t Pray for a Pony

Where comes sin? David Hume asked,

After quoting Epicurus

That if god is willing to prevent sin, but not able,

Then he is powerless.

If he is able, but not willing, then he is evil.

So if he’s both willing and able?


Nicely put, I thought.

But I’m still waiting on that pony.



In 1900, George Eastman had a Brownie.


In 1957, I had an Argus.  Shot 12 on 620.

Basically, though, it was the same.

At a new school, the teacher asked,

“Anyone know about cameras?”

I raised my hand and got a Polaroid-

Model 80, no manual, just the camera.

Worked on EVs, a puzzle I figured out

Using school-supplied film.

After a while, I got good pix.

School Photographer, that was me.

An interrupt or two later, I had a Yashika.

Rangefinder, fixed lens, simple meter.

I was in Germany and used it a lot.

And stupidly left all the negatives

In my locker when I left for home.

Life can be cruel to the feckless.

Later, I shot for local print.

Pentax.  We joked that no one

Over thirty could handle a screw-

Mount lens.  Screw that.

I got a Nikon rangefinder, a gem that

I traded for a Nikkormat, an SLR.

I put many rolls of Tri-X through that cam.

And when I trained in camera repair,

I took it apart a couple of times, just

To put it back together again.

I still have it, but it’s up on a shelf

With all its gear and sometimes

Just sometimes I long to use it, but

I have a D3100 and three p&s units

That are sleek jets to that piper cub.

It’s still the same. It’s still the pix.

On the web, I saw some pix some guy

Shot on an old Argus TLR.  Good stuff.

It’s not the camera, it’s the eye that

Sees that great shot and there it is.


I am seventy percent water.

Ducks paddle languidly about my brain.

Goldfish dart in and out behind my eyes.


I am an ebbing and flowing spring.

I am a spillway.  I am a faucet;

A river, a brackish lake, a teardrop.


All that water in a constant swirl,

Moving incomprehensively within

This living, breathing common colloid.

As in ST:TNG

Ugly bag of mostly water.


You know that cortical homunculus?

You know that cortical homunculus?  The relative

Sensitivity of each part of our body?  Seen it?

I expected the dick to be bigger.


I mean, I can’t taste with it or tie a bow,

Or write, or see, or even hear a tune.

But it’s a pretty sensitive appendage, that.


It’s sometimes not so subtle urgings

Got me to interesting situations, and some not so.

Always wanting to bury itself in something.

I’ve had a lifeful

I’ve had a lifeful,

I realized as I meditated just now.

Like that “History”

I discovered about a decade or so ago.


A fat memory skein

Of long hikes and loves of trials and errors past.

And it’s really cool

Because they’re so light, like the Angel’s St. Teresa touch.


Old age, I read,

Comes as a surprise, but, really, it is just right.

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