Marbles

A Jim Heynen Look Alike...."Marbles"

Boys gathered,five of them, knees to the dust, a loose dirt circle beneath the Sacramento sun. Each had a green felt bag, long as your hand, round as your wrist, topped with a gold drawstring. And in each bag, a blend of very unique marbles, a secret combination really... of cat eyes, steelies, ducks and taws.

For more than a few reasons, the older boys kept their prized marbles out of the game, safely in their felt bags. These elite marbles, treasures from a pharaoh, could not be trifled with or lost to a simple game. They were the cool swirlies, marbles marked for greatness, orbs melted and formed, some black hour, the glass....the magic. The more the rarified the tint, the blush, the more cherished the marble.

As governed by unseen rule and sacrament, the oldest set and managed the game, drawing a three foot circle in the dust. All participants would drop their marbles in the ring. A few would collide, coming to rest close to the circles arc... fair pickings. It began.

As in any dark conspiracy, the older boys always set their sights on the younger. Long piano fingers sent steelies thumping ducks. A storm of vicious accuracy would commence and by the end of the game, the youngest boy had lost all of his marbles. There seemed only a sick vacancy to the moment. The oldest, a skinny blonde freckled from summers light, chortled, leaning over the runts face, baring a sneering grin and all the runt could manage was a downcast look, tears welling in his eyes. As dictated by ancient doctrine, this was a game of keepsies, not quitsies, the older boy uttered. Marbles found new bags, new owners... the law.

Save for the oldest and the youngest, three of the boys rose, formed into dust devils and were gone. The oldest looked down at the runt. In his long piano fingers, purposely, so that the runt could see, he spun the metallic killer, his favorite shooter, his fine steelie taw. That's when the sneer became something else.

Looking around, to make sure no one was watching, the older boy quickly reached into his pocket, dropping the runts marbles back in the circle and became another dust devil.

In shock, the runt stared at the marbles. He pinched his eyelids in disbelief. Relief came in the slow draw of his breath. That's when he, too, looked around to make sure no one was watching. He gathered the seven marbles, being careful to place them all, including his favorite red and white devils eye, his taw, back into the green felt bag. He clinched the gold drawstring tight. He rose and like the others, became both dust and devil.

I Know This Familiar Road

A Pale Restless

Let me taste the heat and thunder

of your imaginings

Let me stir beneath your hands.

Let the seasons render

our fevered covenants.

Let me arc in circles to your touch.

Like a dreamlock...undone.

Let me, for a time, burn deep in

the ripest flame you hold.

And not permit the years.

Allow me the gathering of memories,

your pale and blond breeze against my cheek and

reluctant,

I'll turn the doorknob,

your voice now

dimming

in the

radio

across

the

street.

In the FireDeep, Dresden 1945

In the FireDeep, Dresden 1945

Still were the angels that night

V formations a seizure, a ravage

above smoke, shadow

shimmered hook and nail

spur and clutch

Just slim miles beneath heaven

swam seventeens gathered so deep to

Dresden's breast, so black as day

that Norden sights grinned their

nightshade and guile

lyric and wound

Yet, while your Eighth spoke the grin of weapons

a great plunge, with tailored toys, fell from the bellies of

four engined dragon flies

my Dresden burned days, then nights...

moonless

The Timekeepers Piece

The TimeKeepers Piece

Higher than the Afghan hills, distant squats an Eastern sun. Tempered by ancestral powder and dust, its glow skims playful above the two thin cows in a field, finds the broken, splayed Toyota truck, waits slight and patient above the sleeping Afghan family two klicks distant from the Americans. Alhib Muhammad snuggles with Aldira, her lips parted, perhaps she is speaking verses in a dream. There has been no fighting for two months. And the Americans have brought irrigation supplies. Poppy seeds are near blossom and he hopes these will make market. He has promised his young wife sandals and a new cooking pot. He falls back into an agreeable dream, one that sometimes visits when he is hopeful.

(My website)

words from a river

Perfection lived in the arc of a great trout, its red burnished against the cool blur of October light.

Yes, the days would be measured and judged against this day,

considered against the scent of burnt cedar caught in my father's Pendleton.

Other days considered, would pale, balance precarious and awkward against the

artful delivery of a mayfly facing these cold dark waters.

This day without fault, would assess the others...

a shaded ebon pool dappled with reckless trout, the line's spray a thousand separate angels.

Rivers Lost

The sun refused and the forest remained, ebon, inside its wintered black, the woodland song lost to a grey that came every morning. What lingered were only ghosts and obscenities killing in the dark. Creek bed waters eddied, gushed in black fluids,without light and life.

It was as if a great moving thing had rooted itself into the land, sightless, fingering the soil, and all the trees and plants succumbed to it, reduced, rootless themselves, grey, deathblanched.

It bore some grinning quality, his scarecrow picking a last gristle from the bone. A terrible harm fell to the land and it remained, the wound, taking the robin, the bear, the green.

Thank you Mr. McCarthy, for the inspiration.......Doug Deacy

unedited images are sneaky little devils

Realizing the inherent beauty (or ugliness, for that matter) of an unedited image is a tough, tough call. Knowing when to work diligently on a raw image can be frustrating. As one calculates the bewildering combinations of filters, layers, software programs, slider controls...the possible mathematical combinations of all these devices must be in the millions. Should you process your image in a photo-realistic manner or blow it out in Photomatix? Should you incorporate black and white through Silver pro? Do you add a new sky or perhaps Photomerge the images together?
Tough call. Perhaps it's wise to take a few moments and just see what the photo tells you. After all, it is akin to a negative, digital but still, a platform from which you can begin. It'll speak quietly.
Is the image serious, dark? Is it playful? Are you dark... or playful? Who is your audience? Writers must answer this question,...so with photographers.
I deal with this eventuality every time I open a photo file. I often rush in, filled with the intoxicating elixir of hope only to discover, rudely, that the photo goes yet again, into the discard pile.
But first things first.
You must begin with a good photo. If you have that, keeping your options open, give that image every chance to succeed.
"What if" works wonders.
If it grows stale, delete layers. They're not etched in photographic gold anyway. Don't be enamored with your artistic greatness...you'll fail as a visual editor. Edit with a ruthless quality but at the same time, leave your current image the chance to develop
Finally... this "soup" is my recipe. It works for me. Will it work for you? That question just illuminates my arrogance.One other point....
As you're getting ready to hit the delete button, ask yourself one question...

"Am I dumping something great??"

Thanks for taking the time...........Doug Deacy


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