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sunset at monk's cove

May 1 - September 15
Stairwell Exhibit
Coalition for Buzzards Bay
New Bedford, MA

sunset in gold
15 x 30 inch
gold frame

enchanted skiff
18 x 24 inch
maple frame

sunset at monk's cove - gold
18 x 24 inch
maple frame

two blue skiffs
24 x 30 inch
maple frame

solstice reflections
18 x 24 inch
maple frame

sunset at monk's cove - salmon
24 x 30 inch
maple frame

sunset at monk's cove - streak
24 x 30 inch
maple frame


peace, joy and serenity

from this side of the ocean, where the flowers are not yet blooming (but they will :-) ),
wishing everyone everywhere peace joy and serenity
for Easter,
 or whatever it is for you

nauset light beach


the leaders

at mile 20
at the finish Kilel first, Davila second by 3 seconds
boston marathon


fishing fleet forms

new bedford

at rest
new bedford

new bedford


when the time comes -- above lough nafooey


above lough nafooey
county galway

                 "When the time comes"

                 What of that mountain ablaze beyond our window ?
                 Gorse, burning up the dark, so loud
                 we fear its crackle, hear its heat.

                 It spits out seeds that defy flame,
                 smuts of furze get washed into the stream's source
                 that tumbles down, picking up along the way.

                 whirligigs, caddis fly larvae, turf scent,
                 the luteus light of lesser celandine,
                 foxglove, that does the heart good just to look at.

                 It foams by the boundary of our land, so small,
                 yet there is nothing to stop it from thinking big --
                 from becoming ocean when the time comes.

                 Rushing under a bridge to a neighbor's field
                 down through bog tannin, it carries into the lake
                 before it takes itself to the river that flows

                 around the oarsmen, past the tea house at Menlo
                 under the Salmon Weir Bridge,
                 by the cathedral that still reels in the faithful.

                 It catches sight of the sea, boats by the Spanish Arch,
                 lets go of its name, heads out into the Atlantic, reaches
                 your coast with the memory of mountain, gorse, fire.

                 by Geraldine Mills
                 from "The Other Side of Longing"
                 copyright, 2011 by Geraldine Mills and Lisa C. Taylor
                 (with permission)

blighted -- abandoned

abandoned house on the edge of the sea
county mayo


                    Your name came to you seaward
                    upon a ship returning home from Boston
                    where your mother never settled.
                    All those brownstone houses starving out the sky,
                    streets paved with streets, no gold
                    of whin, or corn at saving, or celandine.
                    Against the tide she bought a passage
                    on a ship still marked with famine, typhus
                    back to places that she hungered for,
                    kept hidden in her shawl your dead sister
                    until they docked in Cobh and buried her.

                    Before the year was out
                    her name was put to use again.
                    You carried the weight of that ship on your back
                    the cold backwash of her eyes,
                    the way the streets of Holyhoke
                    seeped into your tight mouth
                    the sea streeled out from your hair.
                    you heard the cry of her along the lazy beds
                    as you barrowed swill to the pigs
                    caught her on the wing of salt air, your body listing.

                    Kept hidden in your shawl 
                    a woman longing
                    to fall upon the wither of that name.
                    each letter blighted one by one
                    the sea to open up and swallow them
                    to stand at its edge and howl.

                    by Geraldine Mills
                    from "Toil the Dark Harvest"
                    copyright 2003
                   (with permission)

a picture of possibility

"open space"
north falmouth


it's not a "shot" .......... it's a picture

"menemsha memory"
martha's vineyard

I gave a copy of my 2012 calendar to my therapist yesterday, with this image on the cover.  She started to say "nice shot"....but I have said that I don't like the language of aggression -- "shot", "capture" -- for photographs, and she changed her wording to say "nice picture".  We went on to talk a little about how the word "picture" is better, and her line of thought opened up many new possibilities for me which I have only begun to think about and see, but I want to say something about it now because it is fresh, exciting and encouraging.

Actually the key word IS "possibility".  It is much more exciting and encouraging to think about what lies between the four edges of the above image as a world to be explored -- a physical world of seas, skies, efforts and journeys, and a metaphorical world of those same things -- than it is to think about this image as a "shot", a "capture" of those fishing boats and piers, which contains, lists, controls,  enumerates, documents and fixes them.

We all know that those boats are not fixed.  We all know that they venture forth on seas known and unknown, in conditions safe and dangerous, so why not let this picture suggest all those possibilities in our minds and to our sight?  

I hope it does, and I wish you all the best of possibilities in your pictures.

~ robert





april is the cruelest month of the year, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain......

TS Eliot
The Waste Land


go brave into the night

from the bourne bridge

lurking somewhere behind this title is the following poem by Dylan Thomas .............

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.