Weekly Photo Challenge: Change

bb-chg1Can you think of a once strongly held conviction, belief or ideology on which you have completely changed your position?

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Five favourites from this week’s photo challenge from The Daily Post.

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Ohm Sweet Ohm

Lucid Gypsy

Delightfully Different Life

A Meditative Journey with Saldage

Weekly Photo Challenge: My Neighbourhood

I am hopeless at taking photos with my iPhone. I’m one of those Luddites who prefers to use my phone as only that, so make no apology for the quality of my entry to this week’s (actually, last week’s) photo challenge, which required us to do some phoneography.

bb-mn1I live in the ‘burbs, and a cacophony of cultivation culling machines pretty much characterizes my neighbourhood on a Saturday morning.

Divine Dementia

So many days
we are beyond bereft

at some ancient
god’s puzzled mumbles
beneath the night lamp,

his tremulous finger-fumbles
with jigsaw fragments
of our lives,

his fearful look of surprise
at the countless missing pieces
of his Master Plan,

unaware of the devil dog
chewing at his feet.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/16/nyregion/gunman-kills-20-children-at-school-in-connecticut-28-dead-in-all.html?hp&_r=0

http://jmgoyder.com/2012/12/15/children/

http://nrhatch.wordpress.com/2012/12/14/an-unblossomed-bloom/

http://thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com/2012/12/15/no-humour-today/

http://susandanielspoetry.com/2012/12/14/body-bags/

The Man in the Street

How often
is he there
in front of you?

Just another bloke
like you

except, perhaps,
a lack of personal hygiene

or its pathological opposite,

his way of regarding you
far too directly
without blinking

for the longest time.

When he asks for a cigarette
do you oblige

in spite of yourself?

Because in this stark room
you cannot reconcile
the rhetoric

on the face of it -

just another human being
in the silence,

no manifest difference
to teach the rookies,

no monster in plain sight
to slay with a bedside light,

just this banality
of evil

sitting in the corner
of your nightmares.

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Dilettantes of Disaster

The shadows draw long
through our limbs,
impoverished pulses from
indolent
hearts carve us
tragic sinkhole
s for eyes
; we are sallow
spectres in the night-
mirror, painting ourselves
in dishwater tincture
for dream-time, a sludge palette
of effete sorrow.

Until abstraction
manifests from the canvas
and chokes us by the throat,
we do not know gratitude.