Greece
Through Harold’s Lens
Canon PowerShot Pro, 7.2-50.8mm 30.4mm
1/400 sec at f/4.0
Category Archives: Still Life
“Mining Gold”
Thailand
Through Harold’s Lens
Nikon D300s. 17.0-55.0mm. 26mm
1/2000 sec, f/2.8, ISO 200
“Lure Of The Lobster”
United States
Martha’s Vineyard
Through Harold’s Lens
Nikon 300s, Nikon 18.0-200mm
40mm, 1/15, f/22,ISO 200
“Dinner For Ten”
United States
Ohio
Cleveland
West Side Market
Through Harold’s Lens:
Sony A7s, Zeiss 35mm
1/250, f/2.8, ISO 1600
“Prayers”
Mexico
Atotonilco
Sanctuary of Atotonilco
Through Harold’s Lens:
Nikon D800e. Nikon 38mm
4.0 sec, f/16, ISO 200
“Magical Thread”
Thailand
Through Harold’s Lens:
A Dusting of sprinkles
Smiles
Giggles
Laughter
Gusts of wind.
Mary Poppins
Floats through blue
Bound by
Mary’s Magical Thread.
“1938”
ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
Pounding noise awakens me
Old weathered garage wall shakes
Boy is only a dozen years old
He’s working between the studs.
Again.
Dad’s big, heavy hammer
Among two family cars.
Bang Bang. Bang. Pause.
There’s hundreds of them
All four walls
Floor to ceiling.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“Why does he do that?”
“Collect those old hammered metal license plates?”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“Is it the crazy names and numbers”?
BJ 777
546-291
7-86
42-3004
N-834-R.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“Does he want names from the 48”?
New York
Pennsylvania
Oklahoma
Rhode Island
South Carolina
Oregon.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“Maybe he’s collecting special old years”?
1910
1917
1938
Bang. Bang. Bang. Pause.
“That must be it”
“My brother Chip Green likes old things
He has a deep passion
Cars
Old cars
Iron resting on rubber
Classic look
Cadillacs”.
A rusted old hand painted license plate from Buenos Aires rekindles another memory from when I was 10-years old.
“Four!”
ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
The 2nd Hole Was Murder!!
Long par 4
Dog leg left
Lush green fairway
Long steep hill
Mountain capped by an area for putting.
The little boy was only ten
Nickname: Metty
Tiger of a tyke
Sixty-five pounds
Soaking wet
A four-foot runt.
Dad’s golf bag weighed thirty-one pounds
Stood three feet tall.
Lugging the golf bag up the 2nd hole
Murder by iron and leather.
Barely lift it
Sling it forward
Dump it down
Groan. Swish. Bump.
Groan. Swish. Bump.
Groan. Swish. Bump.
Dad said the bag built character
The small whippersnapper swore quietly
Older brother Chip had taught him the words
The older brother had schlepped the bag up the 2nd hole too
Now the torch was passed.
Groan. Swish. Bump.
All day
6,262 yards
The little nipper humped Dad’s golf bag around the golf course
Week after week
Month after month
For two years.
Groan. Swish. Bump.
Sweat dripped into eyes
Muscles roared with pain.
Groan. Swish. Bump.
Soon, Dad’s male golf tradition was passed
Younger brother Bart
Another runt.
Bart renamed the 2nd hole
“The Bastard”.
Groan. Swish. Bump.
Meanwhile, the shaveling Metty took up other sports
He retired
Other sports are part of his life
Remembers times with Dad
He now plays golf
Character was built.
I saw this old, heavy, sagging leather golf bag in Buenos Aires. It tweaked memories of the great times I had on the 2nd hole, at the Owasco Country Club in Auburn, New York, as I caddied for my Dad.
“Call of Terror”
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ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
USA.
Auburn, New York
4:12 am.
January 9, 1955.
The brass ringer bell on our rotary phone screams and screams and screams outside my bedroom door.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
I’m in deep sleep.
Ring. Ring Ring.
I am only 14.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Old enough to know only bad comes with a call in the black of night.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
I’m into horror movies.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
I am terrified.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Slapping bare feet rip down the wooden hallway.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Total silence.
A mind-piercing scream rips through my bedroom door. I leap from my sheets. I tear open my door. I’m face to face with my Mother. Wracking in tears. Sucking for air. Eyes wide with terror.
“Maudie”, Mom gasps. The hospital. Her five-month old daughter. Dead. I wrap my arms around Mom’s heaving, sagging shoulders. Mom and I cry.
Please Lord. There is an order to birth. An order to death. Our children are not to die first.
A jet black old rotary in an antique store in Buenos Aires evokes a 50 year old painful memory of an ice cold January morning in upstate New York and the value of life.
“Sexy Wrap”
ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
Blackness enveloped our private cabin deep in the Argentina woods.
Soft pine branches brushed the roof. Candles flickered their specs of light off a crushed leather sofa. Pine logs crackled in the fireplace.
The soft, soothing sounds of Love Me Tender. The King!
I sat on the warm animal skin rug in front of the glow. A bottle of red. Uncorked. Two crystal wine glasses. Where were you?
Slowly, from the darkened doorway, your long tanned legs first appeared. Barefoot. Slinking, you walked towards me. Arms surrounding a tan, deeply furred wrap across your bare upper body. Yellow necklace tucked into cleavage.
Slowly you sat down besides me.
Fade to black.
“Snappy You”
ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
I know you well, beautiful.
You dream of strolling through the sumptuous markets of fabrics and fashion.
Down the exotic avenues of boutiques filled with fibers to snuggle, wear and wrap around your body.
Floating in a world of exotic fibers of the most varied origin.
Delicious Latin men turn their heads.
The sexy Tango on the corner summons your presence.
Buenos Aires beckons you.
Selected as the main photograph by poet Felicity Ann Mcinnes in her sensuous poetry series “The Lusts of Man”.
“Rawhide”
ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
Armoas of rich, subtle leather products surround me.
Leather stores by the hundreds.
Leather products by the thousands.
Rainbows after rainbows of multiple colors. Full-grain. Top-grain. Corrected-grain. Split. Buckskin. Patent. Vachetta. Slink. Deerskin. Nubuck and Napa.
Boots to the knee, bags off the shoulder, jackets slim and snug, pants hugging buns, skirts swishing air, totes, backpacks, belts, wallets, pouches… all sanded, buffed or snuffed.
A world capital of leather.
“You dashing dude you”, Rita said as I strutted away in my new custom leather jacket.
“Mallet Memories”
ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
Polo match sounds, sights and smells grip my senses.
The huge vista of the polo field unfolds before my eyes. Green turf closely mowed.
Bright white wooden tables, chairs and tents stream along the sidelines.
Beautiful rich women abound. Floppy brimmed hats everywhere.
A young brunette, kicks off her black spikes. Sits. She crosses her long smooth tanned legs under a tight silky black skirt that rises well above mid thigh. The whift of intoxicating perfume wafts in the air.
Hustling tall trim men wearing creased cream slacks and snug blue blazers hug around. Right arms bent holding glass stems.
Pop! Pop! Corks fly. Champagne bubbles.
Smiling. Chatting. Hugging. Kissing.
Powerful polo ponies thunder high-speed down the polo field. Hooves flying. Dirt divots hang in mid air.
Aggressive and skillful testosterone laden macho men grip the animal’s reins.
Colorful hard wooden mallets wildly swing against the royal blue sky. Thwack!
Fast passes rip a white ball down the field. Smack! Winning goal. Chukker ends.
Pumped egos dismount from sweat stained saddles.
Nothing like the Sport of Kings in Buenos Aires.
“‘Round And ‘Round”
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ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
“Want to play around?”, she coos in your ear.
Only in this wild, funky, music saturated town, where the jest and the joke are commonplace, are you musically and mischiefly entertained by a pair of 33s dangling off a pretty woman’s neck.
What a sassy town!
“Big Chill”
ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
“-18 degrees”, they had said.
“45 mph winds blowing from the Northeast”.
Alone, out on the Argentina La Pampas, broad-brimmed leather hat brim bowed low over his bushy moustache against the biting, blowing snow, the old grey-haired Gaucho slowly plowed through the deep drifts on horseback. Warm wool pancho trying to protect his wrinkled body.
“Damn, seven cattle still missing, the aging Gaucho said to himself.” “I’m an old throwback.”
“All the other Gauchos drive around in warm trucks looking for their cattle.
Maybe the thrill has gone.
“Wrap Em”
ARGENTINA. Through Harold’s Lens:
Clouds of dust flying from the pounding hoofs of the galloping horse, the macho moustached Gaucho rips across the rich Argentina plain known as La Pampas.
A spooked wild animal tears ahead of him!
Rapidly swinging the bolas throwing weapon above his head, the Gaucho lets the bolas fly entangling the captured animal’s legs.
Made by braiding leather cords and attaching balls at the end of the cords, a bolas is a throwing weapon most famously used by gauchos in South America.
“Fierce Ball”
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ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
Tune in to Club Atletico Boca Juniors!
A fierce professional football team in the La Boca neighborhood in Buenos Aires.
One of the most popular and most successful football teams in Argentina, and one of the most successful in the world, having won 43 official titles.
A Club with a tough history founded over 105 years ago by five Italian immigrants.
If you can even find a ticket, get it.
Grab a hard hat.
Gear up with combat clothing.
Grasp a cold beer
Grasp a case.
Climb into Boca’s home stadium’s trenches for another rough rivalry game.
Boca Juniors Game Day!
Bloody nose
to
Bloody nose time!
“Pizazz!”
ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:
Feel the energy!
Sense the style!
Grasp the colors!
Sway to the rhythms!
Ahead of you
Behind you
Under you
Over you
Magical Buenos Aires.
Through Harold's Lens 