Long Lenses and Flowers

At times there is the need to go, From lens of Macro use

Extension Tube attach up 'fro, The flowers to confuse.

One taketh lens of long reach thus, And plug in then that ring

And brand right bought, A/F a plus, your long lens makes it sing.

The tube I use to shoot the shot, Of long lens and such sort

Kenko DG, that one I've got, A/F and meter, sport!

A thing I do when shooting long, And lens it bears it's weight
Please use support, you're not that strong, Your pics will seal your fate.

The least to do is use a pod, the type of leg just one
A tripod too, it gets my nod, But most times mono, do.

The focus thing it can be tough, a tip then for you say
Go gentle, shy, n'er be so rough, And pod then slowly sway
And see the image while compose, in focus slowly come
Your patience in your pic it shows, And focused bad too, some

The thing I like about lens, long, Is how backgrounds compress An attribute I yearn for strong, It renders huge success.
So when you are in framing view, Alert be all the time
Incor-porate distractions few, Your final pic be fine

Winters' Woes, some Bleed, in Prose

Perilous Propellers:

Where others left, yet hold they on, These stragglers, left behind
The friendship circle, broken, gone, The winter has been kind.

Decay:

With form deformed and toll being took, And natures path, led way
The remnants of what once had look, Now dangles in decay.

Twisted Torture:

A cry for help, a last ditch made, Attempt to reach the skies
Alas, too late, soon good-bye bade, One more of Winters' cries

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Desolation:

A barren twig, a branch now light, It's weight robbed by the sun
And dry, and heat, and nature's plight, Left standing, none, but one

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Delicate Danglers:

Off-set against a carpet green, And veils of white, so bland
A last ditch effort can be seen, For pride to take it's stand

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Winters' Woes of 2007

In Winter time, when voids exist, Of colour, life mundane,
The macro lens, it does persist, To render yet, t' inane.

In Erect Defect, the poor stand proud, A Splash of greens persist.
It shouts it's fame, and does quite loud, While others hence, resist.

The Ghosts of Summers Past all dance, To song of hues, await
They fade into the distance, trance, And wait upon their fate.

The Colour Void, it bears no soul, No witness of it's prey.
Suspended sport, the patient hole, They wait for such fine day.

The promise of new life, prevails, In Ochre Ovaries.
And as it's been, it never fails, Nature ne'er to "freeze".

Our Spiral Spawns, upward it goes, It looks toward it's right.
At reach of end, upon tip toes, It one day flourish, might.

In Chroma Creep, amidst it's dull, and lifeless carpet holds.
A pose so grand, of untold wealth, Inherent beaut', unfolds.

The Kiss of Green, it sends the thought, To those that are behind.
Of promise, colour, all not nought, One day they will have shined.