The Spot

 

Dead
Blind
A zone without range
Empty
Void

We cross it each morning
Cursing and laughing
We wait
Calmly
Patiently
For life to 
Beat
    again

And it does
           Always
it does

But 
   there are 
            times
Other times

The underworld 
              Arises 
without warning

Signals disappear
Signs are misconstrued
Codes long broken become
Impenetrable

And we are 
          Lost

Until

From the left
A light
A faint
       Blue
Pulse

A dichrotic throb
As though 
         doubling
Might make the difference

And so it does
So 
  something
does

And the impasse
Dissolves
     Fades
         Passes
into memory

Becoming nothing 
                more 
than the shimmering penumbra
of a once
         intractable
Pain


©sdrogers 20 june 2015




 






Photographic Exhibition at The Camel Saloon

A couple of months ago, Russell Streur, the editor of an online litereary magazine called The Camel Saloon, asked me to do a photographic essay of my native land, the Texas Panhandle.  To say I was shocked at the invitation is a great understatement.  He made the request at the same time he agreed to publish two of my poems and based only on a single shot I’d taken of a crossroads on Hwy 207.

I took the request not as a statement about any sort of photographic talent I might have (which is slim and none), but as proof that the beauty of the Panhandle is recognizable even when captured by an amateur.  So, I agreed.  Even though I had no idea how to go about it.  A professional photographer friend said, “Just carry your camera around with you everywhere you go,”  which turned out to be the best advice and is exactly what I did.

 

The results have been mounted here:  20/20:  Stephanie D. Rogers Eye on West Texas.

When you get to the end of the exhibition, you can scroll to the bottom of the page and click on About the Photographs for my own thoughts about the project.

And I hope you’ll stroll through the exhibition’s home at The Camel Saloon.  There’s a good deal of talent represented there, and even one or two small pieces of my own.

Breadcrumbs

feathered stars
scattered silver

veins
across an indogen
palantir

she speaks
much
these nights
of her father

recalls

the unbottomed
black
of his eyes
the catholic
cry
of his laughter

in these
reckonings
lie clues

this
the man
knows

he knows
yes
he knows
yet
still cannot
follow

for
the ways
her ways
so steep
so slick
so shallow

dissolve

at even the
fancy
of touch

so he
reads

and reads
and reads
again

watching the words
roll and fall

cold mercury
fading
from her lips

©sdrogers 25 february 2014

Sanctus

Brothers!  Sisters!

Awake!  Arise!

Let the call come no
longer from Westboro,
Let the fist slam no
more on the pulpit!

Brothers!  Sisters!
Awake!  Arise!

Blood pools on the
sidewalks as pundits
pose and the ninety-eight
shake their heads and sigh!

Brothers!  Sisters!
Awake! Arise!

Beneath this habit of
skin and bone,  the foetus
and the corpse breathe all
the ages of the universe!

Brothers!  Sisters!
Awake!  Arise!

Now is Now!
Evolve!

or die.

 

© sdrogers 19 april 2013

Summer

priapismic yucca
explode across the plains
leaning left and right and back
from the weight of winter’s wrath

hands in my hair
still unused to its short weight
i lean too, lean to, lean two
feet west of where i ought to be

and smile for you are with me,
crouching in the dust
squinting through the grass
my silent silver lion
stalking his next
                             best shot

©s rogers 25 july 2010