by Mike Yost

Non-Fiction

The Mind is a Mirror

Reality whirls with images

Dancing shadows of sound and color

Shaping the illusion of separations

Like shattered glass

Carving out concepts

Flung upon the mirror’s surface

Reflecting back on the self

Veiling its true nature

Photographs and Word Scribbles copyright Mike Yost 2017


Wanderlust

Home is where the trail
Leads me into the unknown
To wander endlessly
With tired legs
And weary lungs
Carrying a smile not found
Within the city’s sprawling grasp

Photograph and Word Scribbles copyright Mike Yost 2017


Luna

Captured this wonderful shot of our lunar neighbor.

Floating almost 240,000 miles away,
She decided to smile on me that night.

I sometimes forget that space is engulfed with light,
Brimming from the edges of the sun and other stars.

But we are only witness to this light when it strikes an object,
A surface that yanks the light out of that deep darkness,
Flinging it out onto the face of the Earth,
Onto the face of our eyes,
Onto the face of our thoughts.

To contemplate such a tiny fragment in this vast awe that surrounds us!

What other mysteries hide quietly beneath the surface of space?
What other wonders hide patiently under the surface of contemplation?

Photograph and Word Scribbles copyright Mike Yost 2017


Impermanence

I shot this photo with an old Nikon pocket camera after slinking into an abandoned building in New York.

When the camera went click, I wondered:

Who stood where I was standing? What kind of work did they do?  What was the dresser for?

Silence was the only reply.

I stopped my breathing and tried to hear the past.

Conversations only the decaying ceiling remembers.

Locked behind us all in memories forgotten.

Reminding us all that the future is just a vision.

And all that is true reality is the now.

I smiled at how to capture such a precious thing,

Just as the camera went click.

 

Photograph and Prose copyright Mike Yost 2017


Image

Neon Excursions

I’ve taken up the habit of wandering around the city’s pulsating streets and cracked sidewalks long after the sun has been gobbled up by the nearby mountain range.

I forget what surprises surface beneath a canopy of obsidian, breaking through the yawning darkness with vivid colors of neon glowing keenly against a black backdrop.

A technology developed over a century ago, these cylinders of gleaming glass generate an entire spectrum of colored light, illuminated by the flow of electricity igniting gasses trapped inside a thin, transparent tube.

I forget not to take for granted how the image of a glowing bluebird or a boring word like lunch can be made to dance on the delicate surface of the eyes, reminding me to smile (if only a little) as I roam through a dying nightfall.

Photographs and Non-fictitious Scribbles copyright Mike Yost 2017