Hi, folks. Diana Wallace Peach, the estimable and wonderfully gracious author at Myths of the Mirror blog, was generous enough to feature my poem “Wisdom” on her site today. It’s such an honor for me, and my gratitude is off the charts. Her blog post also reveals a few more details about her upcoming novel Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver, due to release early next year. Diana is a master of the fantasy genre and her novels are both sweeping in scope and breath-taking in nature. I hope you’ll drop by her blog and check it out. Also, it would be difficult to find anyone as supportive and encouraging as Diana. To me, she encompasses the very heart and soul of creativity and kindness, and her energy and enthusiasm are contagious. Do check out her blog and her library of novels, will you?
I attain wisdom not from church or pagoda temple or tabernacle but from wood and stream respite achieved through contemplation of cloud reflections on cobalt alpine tarns hammocked among granite crags and tors restoration gifted by toes-in-sand scamperings on dayspring sea shores as gulls cavort and sand pipers tempt fate balance granted by spinning constellations as Luna tends her silver star-gardens and earth dreams its pensive dreams
there is wonder in the fractal crevasses of konara bark the labyrinths of sandstone lichen mandalas the ethereal traceries of ghostly hanging moss promise in each acorn in every copse as elder oaks impart their ken of centuries and guard arboreal nurseries with burly boughs conversation in breeze communiques thunder rumblings and rain chatter as heaven above bends earth’s ear humor in toad-trills and reed whispers the coquettish giggles of creek cascades the curious musical burlesque of insects
there is hope in sudden sunshine after a desert deluge gilded god-beam-burnished cliff and canyon arch and hoodoo ablaze with magic-hour fire solace in quiet tide pools and silent autumn leas the compassionate chants of mourning doves the cusp-of-dawn stillness as the universe holds its breath encouragement in emergent golden winter suisen evening double-rainbows over August wheat fields the strident arias of sparrow, lark and finch renewal in gamboling days-old winter calves early springtime rills’ first ice-melt the preening petals of young columbines
but most of all there is kinship among everything that lives all who call Earth home sea, land and sky and all who dwell therein we belong together not as masters of all but companions to all not as kings but stewards fellow travelers on life’s journey through glen and hollow from peak to shore sharing a common path let us revitalize our love for all things let us return to our proper place let us embrace who we are and why we are here for that is the first step toward true wisdom
(originally published at Spillwords Press, July 2024)
Common Collared Lizard, Hovenweep National Monument, SW Colorado (c) Mike Utley
Hovenweep National Monument is located on a swath of land on Cajon Mesa in the Great Sage Plain that straddles the border of southwest Colorado and southeast Utah less than an hour from where I live. It’s widely known for hosting six extraordinary groups of Ancestral Puebloan villages and a kiva, as well as displaying signs of hunter-gatherers from 8,000-6,000 B.C. through 200 A.D. (Info provided by Wikipedia)
On this day in the early 2000s, I set out to photograph the sandstone towers and other structures, many of which were in surprisingly good condition. The day was clear and hot, and as I hiked from the parking area toward the ruins, I was eager to see the place for the first time and make some images to add to my portfolio.
Alas, nature has a weird fickle streak which makes her unpredictable, and about a half-hour into my hike a sandstorm appeared and intensified with surprising alacrity. I managed to photograph one cylindrical tower amid blowing sand, then jammed my camera inside my shirt to protect it from sand and grit and hoofed it back toward the parking area to wait out the sandstorm in my truck.
On the trail not far from the parking lot, I stumbled across this little guy near a small juniper and some sage brush on the dirt trail. I’d never seen this species of lizard in the wild before, and was unaware of its name. At around ten inches in length, it was larger than the majority of lizards in my area, and its brilliant coloring was fascinating. So, I stopped and set about trying to get some shots of this fellow.
The sandstorm was still blowing dust and grit as I hunkered down to get a decent angle with my 75-300mm lens. The lizard was active, darting about, seeming to run laps around me. It was obviously acclimated to humans, at least to a degree, and it hung around the T-intersection of the trail, flitting about as though it were playing tag with me. After about twenty minutes of stalking this guy amid rapidly changing lighting conditions and several “oohs” and “ahhs” from passers-by, I finally managed to make a couple of images.
The first image here has better composition than the second, while the lighting in the second image is more dynamic than the first. I rarely photographed animals during my nature photography period of 1995-2003 for a couple of reasons. First, as much as I love animals, I prefer landscape photography—I was always very methodical and meticulous in my approach to photography and that meant taking my time to evaluate the scene and make compositional decisions, something that’s more difficult to do when attempting to capture moving animals on film. Second, I simply never had the proper gear to photograph wildlife. Big heavy, fast, expensive lenses are part of a wildlife photographer’s arsenal. I couldn’t afford to spend thousands of dollars on a 300mm f/2.8 lens for wildlife images, and my 75-300mm f/4.0-5.6 zoom wasn’t ideal for subjects in constant motion. Photographing a mountain vista doesn’t require super-fast shutter speeds to freeze the action; photographing a common collared lizard who appears to be on a jittery caffeine-high is a different matter altogether. I was glad to get these two images, and later I checked my field guide to properly identify the species.
Common Collared Lizard, Hovenweep National Monument, SW Colorado (c) Mike Utley
This was more than twenty years ago, and I’ve never seen another common collared lizard. A bit of serendipity, I suppose—I set out to photograph ancient ruins and ended up with lizard images instead. You never know what nature has in store for you. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)
Scarlet Gilia & Sage Brush, SE Utah (c) Mike Utley
Growing up in the pre-internet era, many folks were subjected to erroneous information that passed its way down through the generations. A quick and convenient Google search wasn’t a thing back then, and unless one had access to a public library or a bookshelf full of encyclopedias, one really had no way of verifying the veracity of that which was told to us by our elders.
This photo featuring scarlet gilia and sage brush is a case in point. For many years, I was told by my mom and her parents at the farm that this flower was honeysuckle. You pluck the blossom from the stem and drink of its nectar, so sure, honeysuckle it must be. Except…it’s not. When I became involved in nature photography in 1995, I bought a guide book for North American plants so I could properly identify what I was photographing. There were clues all along that the info I was receiving from my mom and grandparents was a bit off. They called orange globe mallow flowers “Cheez-Its,” for example, after the tangy cheese cracker, and even as a kid I knew this wasn’t correct. There was no malice involved in these misnomers, of course, just incorrect hand-me-down names for things that were otherwise unidentifiable to folks back then.
I came across this little scene one day in 2014 while on a walk at the farm. I hadn’t done any serious photography for years by that point, although I’d occasionally take my little Canon PowerShot digital camera with me just in case I saw something worth photographing. I had my tripod with me that day, and I composed this image, then went on my way. It wasn’t until I got back to the house and uploaded the image that I realized I had a keeper.
My philosophy with regards to flower photography has always been to shoot in overcast lighting or open shade (tree shadows, etc.) and to avoid bright sunlight. The reason for this is bright sunlight creates harsh, contrasting shadows and tends to bleach-out flower colors, creating an unflattering image, while overcast lighting results in saturated flower colors with even lighting and no shadows for a brilliant color palette. And this philosophy generally holds true. However, there are exceptions, as was the case here. The sun was in a position where it created virtually no annoying shadows in the scene, and the pale-green neutral background of sage served to make the red of the scarlet gilia really pop. This scene, if photographed in overcast conditions, would have been equally acceptable, but the emotional impact would have been completely different. The image below demonstrates the overcast lighting technique for flower photography and how it produces even lighting, no shadows and a vibrant color palette.
Rocky Mountain Columbine, Abajo Mt., SE Utah (c) Mike Utley
Although I informed my mom of the real names of these and other flowers and plants, she continued to use the names she’d been taught as a child, and that was okay, I suppose. I always found it endearing, anyway. (Canon gear)
Tree & Boulders at Sunset, Lisbon Valley, SE Utah (c) Mike Utley
Lisbon Valley is a rather nondescript region in southeast Utah about an hour from the farm on which I was raised, not far from Canyonlands and Arches National Parks. There are no bottomless canyons cutting across the landscape here, no fragile arches standing sentinel over the sage and pinyon and juniper. It’s an out-of-the-way, forgotten place used mainly by ranchers for cattle grazing, and desecrated by a sprawling copper mine. However, it’s an area of special note to me and I spent many afternoons and evenings photographing this place before the copper mine brought its ugly open pit, pollution and truck traffic and destroyed its natural beauty.
This image from the late 1990s is what I call an intimate landscape. It focuses not on grand vistas, but rather a smaller, secluded view, one within arm’s reach. I was fascinated by the contrast between the two adjacent boulders in the foreground, how the doughiness of one appears so starkly different from the smooth, lichen-encrusted texture of the other—an almost surreal juxtaposition. The evening light was a glorious salmon hue with a delicate intensity, a softness often found in desert sunsets.
The thing about these unremarkable locales is that very few people, if any, have ever set foot in much of these areas. People flock to Canyonlands and Arches National Parks for good reason, of course—to be mind-blown by the outrageous showmanship of nature’s rugged chisel and brush, and never even notice these lesser-known places where desert life plays out in secret and beauty on a different scale is on hidden display. I left many footprints in the sands of Lisbon Valley over the years, and always considered it one of my favorite areas for intimate landscapes amid the silence of the stones and the pungent aroma of sage, junper and pinyon. It’s been many years since I last visisted this place, and I fear it’s likely unrecognizable now. My memories live on in my photographs, and they will last forever. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)
South Falls, Silver Falls State Park, Oregon (c) Mike Utley
Silver Falls State Park is located about 20 miles outside of Salem, Oregon and hosts several falls along the 7.2-mile Trail of Ten Falls. It’s a primordial place, shrouded in mist much of the time, still and quiet save for the whisperings of breezes in trees and the roar of falls when the trail weaves its way near one. South Falls is the park’s most iconic fall at 177 feet, and the nearest to the parking area. The hiking trail winds along the cliffside behind the fall and above the dark pool below. Although I always disliked any signs of humans or human activity in my nature photography, in this case the trail (and at least one person visible on it) serves to provide a sense of scale.
My first visit to Silver Falls State Park in early October 1995 yielded this image (among a few others). The size of the fall was impressive; navigating the trail behind the fall was thrilling (and a little damp) and offered a unique perspective. Oregon has more than 238 waterfalls (and more than 1,000, according to the Northwest Waterfalls Survey), and every one I visited during my all-too-brief time in Oregon was fascinating, from the specatcular fairytale setting of Multnomah Falls along I-84 on the Columbia River Gorge to the little six-foot cascasde I photogrraphed on this very trail shortly after making the above image of South Falls (see below).
Small Cascasde on Hillside, Silver Falls State Park, Oregon (c) Mike Utley
These two images were made just before the rainy season began, when the foliage was still predominantly green and skies were blue. Once the rain comes in Oregon’s autumn, it becomes a fixture throughout the fall, winter and spring. A comparison shot of South Falls below shows the same fall from an almost identical perspective on January 1, 1996 after a heavy rain.
South Falls After Heavy Rains, Silver Falls State Park, Oregon (c) Mike Utley
My time in Oregon was far too short. I came back to Utah in January 1996, always planning on returning to Oregon, dreaming of further explorations and adventures in what I consider the most beautiful state I’ve ever visited. Alas, not all dreams come true, and I’ve never made it back to Oregon. I miss the ocean, the mountains, the forests and the waterfalls. I’m landlocked now, here in southwest Colorado, no longer able to drive due medical issues with my legs, and can no longer explore nature with my camera. It’s a sore loss, indeed, but at least I have my old images to serve as reminders of the joy I experienced back then when I could roam the mountains and deserts and forests and coastlines and commune with nature. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)
“I Can Hear the Water Cry” (c) 2024 by Michael L. Utley
misty river bank I can hear the water cry through its mournful veil
from whence your tears my friend from whence your sorrow the stream of life long and arduous promises nothing takes wantonly yet gives freely drowns dreams yet slakes hope’s thirst erodes time yet blesses leas with hue and humor
I have bathed my feet in your cool waters drunk from cupped hands of your living essence and watched as villages flood and crops perish your fickle nature both boon and bane the rage of winter’s run-off the futility of summer’s drought the chaos of confusion the trauma of neglect
regrets eddy among the reeds koi doze in shadow-torpor levitating dragonflies iridesce oblivious to your siren-song your current inexorable immutable fate’s dynamo
what of your sadness what fears drive you what memories haunt your hidden heart speak to me, friend share your burden help me understand your tears
there is purity in kindness absolution in love such a pity a solitary meadow’s stream a rill of life darkened by despair
I see you, stream I hear your halting whisperings I smell your vital fragrance I feel your urgent motion I sense your profound depth you are not alone my friend the mountain cradles you the forest shades you the flowers dance to your melody let the sun gild your surface let the moon caress you let your heart be unencumbered flow, my friend just flow
This ongoing initiative showcases blogs with fewer than 500 subscribers which I think are deserving of more attention. Hopefully these blogs will spark your interest and you’ll check them out. It’s my way of spreading awareness of talented writers whose work I admire.
This week’s featured blog is Ashley’s A Different View. I first met Ashley in November 2021 when he and I were both invited to take part in a discussion titled “Exploring Basho’s Moon,” an examination of one of Basho’s famous haiku, hosted by Mark Scott’s Season Words blog. I found Ashley to be the kindest fellow imaginable, and his delicate skill regarding the writing of traditional haiku was astounding. Since then, I’ve come to consider Ashley a good friend of mine, someone whose love of nature and poetic ability create a sense of peace and serenity. Ashley speaks my language, you could say, and his blog is a calm harbor of natural beauty and exemplary writing.
I asked Ashely if he’d like to provide a little background about himself and his blog. I’ll let his own words do the talking:
I’m 74 years old and married to Carol for 52 years although we were courting about 5 years before that so we’ve been together for at least 57 years
whilst Carol has had so much illness in her life (cancer x 4 + heart problems) SHE is still my rock
I’m a great grandfather
I was born in the city of Armagh in Northern Ireland to northern English parents
Armagh was the ancient capital of Christian Ireland & whilst no longer a practicing Christian, the sound of cathedral bells is in my heart (see John Betjeman: Summoned By Bells)
left home at 21 to live & work in London, UK. Work location then was close to the River Thames & that river flows within me still
30 years spent living & working in England in the clothing industry: after redundancy, aged 45, worked in various jobs (transport, retail, health service) now retired
returned to NI some years ago
did voluntary work with the Woodland Trust (30+ years). LOVE trees, obsessed by them
through WordPress discovered haiku & writing in season
have always wanted to write & illustrate
lower back problems meant that I restarted my life, exercising daily, a mixture of physio exercises & Qi Gong
I have only ever travelled outside the UK about 3 or 4 times but follow blogs all around the world. With tools like Google Translate I am amazed how many different cultures & languages I am able to connect with
I love the simplicity of seasonal haiku
I would be remiss were I not to mention that one thing I find intriguing about Ashley’s blog is that I have some Irish ancestry, and the Emerald Isle is a land I’ve always wanted to explore. I’m able to do that vicariously through Ashley’s writing and photography. Ashley’s essays take us on strolls through the Irish countryside among wild flowers and the trees he loves so dearly, and his haiku–distilled to their very essence–paint glorious pictures of the natural world. For an example of what A Different View offers, here’s a post Ashley chose to share:
In a nutshell, if you love nature, if you appreciate fine Japanese short-form poetry, if you’ve ever felt the desire to travel to Ireland, Ashley’s A Different View has it all. I hope you’ll visit Ashley’s blog and walk along with him among the trees.
Let’s spread the love and support our fellow bloggers.
my old hoe is dull and the weeds resist its blade still I toil on iron sharpens iron rust begets rust the crucible of life makes or breaks which shall I choose do I even have a choice
my garden’s neglect pains my soul its hardened soil thirsts for more than rain too many weeds too few blooms a loathsome facsimile of the worst of me
these hands cracked and dirty beset by age and the scars of a futile life once strong enough to break the earth shatter stone yet tender still to caress the lotus dry the tears of my beloved these calloused hands empty now save for the piercing splinters and burning blisters of stillborn harvests and sundered dreams
once, long ago across the stream my young man’s eyes beheld the youthful willow nubile and lithesome her slender feet glissading upon the cool water sinuous fronds breeze-blown her sultry-shy gaze beckoning me offering respite from noonday sun and I watched from afar as egret and kitsune nestled in her shadows and I yearned for her but my garden needed tilling my hoe dull even then my back bent from years of struggle my heart distracted by worries of harvests yet to be and in my hesitation she turned away and all was lost
cicadas drone in the bamboo grove their maddening chorus a condemnation their brief lives leave little time for memories but plenty for judgment their desiccated husks reminding me of life’s brevity all I’ve lost all I needlessly carry with me
it has been too long since the rains fell too long since the wind cooled my brow too long since my soul slept too long have I gripped this infernal device my entire existence rooted in this garden of regrets I have become the very weed I wish to slay
still I toil on for there is naught left but to toil until my blade breaks or the harvester’s scythe takes me away
“A Latticework of Tears” (c) 2024 by Michael L. Utley
autumn rain has come orb weaver’s sorrowful web a latticework of tears a trellis of weathered memories in this mournful forgotten meadow abandoned as dusk’s demise renders moot vestigial joy and hope gives up its ghost
your dreams, you say what of your dreams those airy flights of fancy those rumblings of your soul tinged the hue of virginal sun rays so bright as to blind you to the world’s apathy and horror so urgent and strident as to stay your sleep at night so incendiary as to ignite worlds birth universes
I know of dreams I know of death, too the slow withering of saplings whose brittle stems shall never reach maturity whose once verdant leaflets become piles of yellow dross that fade into oblivion
I know the soul-crushing pressure of expectations the futility of failure the exhaustion of anhedonia I know the tainted love of depression a foul mistress the bleak and hollow echoes of loneliness the roiling pit of dread and uncertainty for what lies ahead
dreams memories tears an elegiac dirge for a life lost a life misspent bereft of love and lenity the godless howl of the past the gaping maw of the future I know these things
shattered pieces of my dreams litter this lea’s desiccated grasses I must tread with caution lest I slice myself bloody
let the weaver’s web display my tears as trophies of defeat I have bled enough let what’s left of me fall to the earth as autumn rain
Silent Pariah 