What is it about fleeting shapes—
A sudden scene that soon escapes
The world’s apathetic eye
That makes me pause, compose, deny?
I seek for color, frame the scene,
I capture, hope that it will mean
Something momentous and dense.
More than mere coincidence.
All I view cannot be art,
But so much could—
It is my part
To use my eye, and some device
To trap the scene with artifice.
Shutters whirring, flashes blasting,
Fleeting moments made more lasting,
Different angles… Perfect? Never!
Try to make it last forever…
How well I might succeed depends
Upon my skill with light, and lens.
On settings, speed, and my perception
Photoshop—and your reception.
You might learn about my soul
From this mixture, once made whole,
Do you see what appeared to me?
Pillagers of stolen light
Photographers can please, delight,
Or just bore, or frantic, flail.
All that work—to no avail.
We do our best, there’s no denying.
Comfort ourselves, “At least we’re trying
To make fleeting moments stay.”
Still—the world slips away.
I seek and prowl, my movements lag.
Beggar with a camera bag.
Seeking when light’s good or cruel,
With my lens—to trap a jewel.