Film Photography > Poetry

Queen bee
Shiny things
Everything in juicier in red
No lip gloss
Everything at cost.

Looking for my camera that
I left it in a new build,
Someone moved in
To the address
I arrive at.

My key seems to open every
Single door in the row
Of houses
Cut for ever lock
Without a blue print
Of my outcome.

Her dog sits on the floor gazing up at me
Spread out like a pancake,

She has clothes in a pile in the corner,
Everything else is organized
Power Cords all in rows hanging off
A clothing rack.

She uses all tools reverse
Things that have purpose

She reinvents.

There’s a view of downtown from her south window
Between the houses across the street.

I’m making a movie -I say
She says hopefully I get my gear back
To finish the film.

I was scouting locations for a friend
And they said my things would all be safe here.

He scribbles his scenes on paper
It’s a wild mess from his mind
He wants to use songs in the movie

Popular ones

I say you need to pay and get permissions
For that kind of film score.
He staples an advertisement over and advertisement and
Doesn’t hear me.

I walk away and ask her if I can stay
For a bit.
She says she has groceries for miles
I say isn’t it -groceries for days?

The bags are all stacked in a tall bag
She wasn’t kidding about food

She tells me she is from Washington
We discuss travel and creativity and courage and food for three minutes
I see the seconds on the clock amasses
Behind her
Three rotations of 60
Second hands.

she barely knows me but welcomes
Me so easily,
There is a simple comfort with her
Maybe that’s why the dog splays

I tell Muriel I can give her a ride
But I’m concerned for my gear

not too worried though, as I have backup of everything,
When you lose once or twice in life
Things become less stressful.

Winning complicates things
As you lose feeling with each

Nelly is in love with the Filmaker that scribbles
Both of their minds scattered,
Somehow the ball of yarn has two different
Colour threads in the ball
intersections everywhere overlapping
She’s too patient waiting for his
Near kisses.

Once you’ve missed out everything is a gain
She says,
Doesn’t matter how weird his brain is
If he forgets to call her or meet up
She always finds him scribbling somewhere.

It intrigues and peaks her imagination
She helps him organize the scribbles
Into boxes.
Scene to scene
Writes herself into his mind.

Somehow he is more creative when she is near
She is not his muse,
His pencil is and the shavings from his knife
In a pile
After each page turn is the crescendos
In Chiaroscuro and shadows he holds onto

A shoulder blade outside
A sharp wall.

Somehow capturing joy and strife
In one scene is his goal.

I ask my new friend about her place
And why she chose this place to live
For the rest of her life
She says is cheaper than
the big Apple

Also she like the walks nearby.

The simple things give her joy
Having enough of it all

Less expectations.

The right book on a bad day,
Something to say that’s meaningful
To someone to cut through the

She made her own perfect pavilion
And palace of sorts
Stucco ceiling with sparkling rocks like stars
A universe in her living room.

The traffic sounds are all swallowed by the trees,
The birds sing more freely when she sings
In the kitchen.

She is of her own

I don’t have my lens to capture her smile
When she talks and the words
Tickle with sensations.

I just watch the smile lines form
And the day is born
Formed and not manipulated
Or sculpted

Or scripted.

Francis A Willey
December 31 2022

Scribbles into boxes