The Season of Lost Gloves

 Lost gloves 15 & 16:

Do you know what time of the year it is? The holiday season? No, to me, it's the season of lost gloves, haha. I have 45 pictures of lost gloves...then I went on hiatus. Not sure why, but I did. Now, I think I'll start it up again, as I've been seeing them all over the place lately. It's kind of like a scavenger hunt to me. And Tom Hanks, it seems. I once came across his lost boot/lost glove pics on the net -- seems he gets a kick out of it as well. Although, I find the lost boot pics to be more of a plebeian activity. Lost glove people are more highly evolved, in my opinion, Tom. I've never met Tom, but maybe we should start a "lost glove" club, and it'll be extremely exclusive, even among the exclusive. We'll have a long list of membership criteria. I'm sure there are more of us out there. Ha. The parties would be hilarious. We could showcase our work, and to support each other, we could all show up wearing one glove, one shoe, or half of a hat, something of the sort. I'm in. Absolutely.

I never move the lost gloves. I just challenge myself to take a cool shot, no matter where I find them. Wonder if I'll find one today. 

Actually, one of these shots made it on to the cover my fourth book, THE HOLE, a psychological thriller I wrote during the heart of the pandemic. Yes, I took the shot and designed the cover. I also handled the interior design, writing, and editing-- a completely solo venture. (True for all of my books). Shameless plug: you can find it here. And there's a rather spooky, running glove theme in there as well, one that sneaks in throughout the whole book. Here's the cover of that sucker:

Lost gloves. Makes life a little more interesting, anyhow. Have a good one.

C.A. MacConnell

Mosquito, a Day in the Life

I just wrote this little sucker. Pretty cool. Kinda sends you somewhere else. Enjoy. Love, C.A.

Mosquito, a Day in the Life

I guess I'm here now, which was quick. The water is cold this time
of year. I'm the only one
skimming the surface. Indeed, I could hide inside 
the tree's hollow. Earlier,

I was spent from trying. How high
does a damn bridge have to be.

I could give up and throw up makeup,
the sweet taste of old caffeine, smoky cigar skin,
and all of the horrible sweat -- exercisers and sleepers --
and enjoy the dirty, wind ride
home. Or I could rest within

a deserted wrinkle. Yesterday, earth-hidden, a fresh, male one
pitched a green/tan tent
on the bike trail. Suddenly, he was mine. I slipped through
the underside hole, digging
into his thigh, leaving him
shrieking. At the back, I spied a black,
smiley face
spraypainted on his cooler.
I guess he was grinning too. Illegal free rent,
and even though
the pesky chill covered that morning,

I then heard a rustle. The delicious buck spied on me,
and I thought about the tricky dive,
aiming for tail end,
but the hell tick
blocked me mid-back-hair,
and with sunrise, the branches -- our shared, lawless branches --
burned orange with light,
and our whole scene
turned into fire. Funny,

later, safer, I flew to the office. Caddy corner, the boss man
called the woman a twig.
Aside, I rolled my eyes,
all one hundred lenses. I'd visited her before. She's lived through
an above-average, human
war zone. Ninety-eight percent of people like her

have turned into heat, no more
than the vapor zone.
Even still, five days a week, forty hours, she stayed.
Resting on the desk, checking
my reflection in her ring,
I had all the time in the world.
When she was typing, I recalled the time

when I stabbed through
her open-toed shoes, expertly
finding the vein. Back then, people left rear windows
cracked. Hands were easy targets, and car phones made men mad,
buzzing without reception.
Even then, I planned on becoming
famous, with or without
tasting roadkill, mascara, perfume,
or lotion. I always knew that wasn't the answer,
but I heard the swarm. The others believed that once
we were known, we could live

forever. But the answer is this: 
we mosquitos bite for the blood type.
Time to find another, before they team together, like people do.

What if tomorrow, the white room,
the paper, the printer, and the grey
walls vanished. The girl could pack her blue car
and drive several directions,

because once, I heard her whisper

that all she ever wanted to do
was shoot pictures of the happy
cooler, unzipping the tent's nylon to find his peculiar eyes --
whether caked, lined, or untouched --
suddenly staring back. Soon, he would reach out his right hand,
smack and miss, scratching the itch,
feeling the trace
of what I always left behind -- the tiny speck of blood

staining his pointer finger
red. He could taste it, or he could touch her cheek,

making a print. And only then, according to god's unwritten rules,
I'd be forbidden from the return,
but I'd never be forgotten.
I'd simply leave them 

together

and tear away

laughing.

C.A. MacConnell

Happy Thanksgiving

 

Happy Thanksgiving from me...and the stranger in the tent up yonder. Hope you have a happy and safe holiday. Love to you, C.A.

Fence

 from the point of view of the fence. Enjoy, love, C.A.

Fence

Human, for years, I've been waiting.
Soon, I may warp into kindling --
no more than knots. Leaning back,
living in slant, there rests a ladder.
Today, may you reach out, touching
my strong side (the least faded,
the straightest, my shaded best).
Go ahead. Press your rising chest
against me. My mouth can take
the weight. You will make me --
one, lowly, man-made fence --
stand tall enough to come alive.
Peek above the jagged rows. Find
the crooked downside, for beyond
and below, a thousand splintered
stories, the aches of yesterdays,
are hidden within each crack and line.
So many whispers. All over, I hold
secrets. They are woven in.
They are carved into me
by little hands.

C.A. MacConnell

Left Field

C.A. MacConnell

Way Home 1&2

 

C.A. MacConnell

Twig

 

I took a bunch of photos today...weirdly, this was my favorite. I'll post some more later. I'm sure this won't be your favorite, ha. Hope you had a good day. Love to you, always. C.A. MacConnell

Talon

 

C.A. MacConnell

Skater, Devou Park

 

C.A. MacConnell

Rabbit Hash

 

C.A. MacConnell

Church

 

C.A. MacConnell

Clock In

So, clean the red buckets
or don't scrub a thing.
Maybe ride the finest
gelding; that boy's 100-K
at least. Fix what's black,
make it white-smooth,
or watch someone greater
get the leg up, becoming
the cowboy you’ll never
see again. Teach the kids
how to win, that blood
and bruises and blisters
are temporary. Always.

Or, head down the drive
and lose every single child
at once. The tortoise cat lives
or dies. Down at the gate,
Mac the dog smiles, almost
forever. Soon comes the pack,
barking, catching up, seeking
out game scents, trusting
the air for signs, whether
danger or play. Above all,
when the scene chokes up,
grip the wheel, moving
with the wind and rocks.

And when the road runs
out, breaking the back
of work, you suddenly
realize that no one ever
came close, that no one
ever knew your twisted
insides, but like live gods,
now that you’re gone,
maybe they’ll whisper
your name, seeing traces –
a handprint in the dust,
a boot track in the lounge,
all loose boards nailed
tight, the rules and lesson
times that were forgotten,
and suddenly, they too
will live, buried within
you, wherever you go,
long after you clock out.
So, walk in silence
or hammer something.

C.A. MacConnell

Reporter

 

C.A. MacConnell

Blindsided

The other half
is gone.

The aftermath
is quiet,

and the sheets
are still red.

With sunrise,
I disappear

under cover.

Alone,
in the crimson
morning,

I'm guessing
that every mosquito,
and every tree limb,

and every single
thunder crack back
has lived through

such a feeling.
If I could,
I'd ask the ant,

or maybe
the cheetah.

Here and now,
out there,

someone new
is blindsided

by a naked,
Iceland afternoon,

next day wishing
on smooth skin

or wrinkles.

Soundless.
Yes, the sheets
are still red.

Discreet,
in the crimson

morning

-- C.A. MacConnell

Perfect Fit.

 

I've been reading some new spiritual texts, as suggested by K., a stranger I just met, a small man with deep, dark, happy eyes. He was just hanging out, wearing coveralls, sitting by his partner of nine years, I soon found out. She was a cheerful, tiny lady with an enormous, yellowish beaded necklace. Both of them shared drinks of water out of the same ancient Diet Dew bottle, ha. Grinning wildly, they seemed so in tune with each other, and yet they were so unique at the same time. Freedom. Together, but free. Just the image of them next to each other sent these words to me. It was a vision of ultimate trust.

Never know where messages might come from, if I am open to it. I'm ready to take my morning walk. :) Hope you are well and happy, wherever you are. 

 

Thank you to all those who have helped me on my journey...all those who have shown me the way through this:  living it and providing an example of hope.

I love you,

C.A. MacConnell

Photo.

 

C.A. MacConnell