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Street 21
Street 21
Yangon, Myanmar
By Timothy M. Leonar...
Photo book
Amazon Associate

Entries in street photography (5)


Banlung Poem

Her New World Order
t-shirt danced past...

a woman with basket of bread
a woman gently slicing then chopping bacon
a woman scaling silver fish

a woman dividing coconuts
an old woman negotiating passages with her begging bowl
a man carrying bananas on his thin back
a woman fingering REAL notes

lost humans inspecting hope despair laughter and song

girls doing a pedicure
a woman polishing red apples

shadows dancing with impermanence
spoons stabbing ice
glittering silver stars on a headscarf

reflecting elegant universe

Grow Your Soul


Take Amazing Risks

After Ankara he’d accepted a new adventure in Bursa. This shocked everyone in the capital lower case. They assumed he’d stay with them forever. Students and teachers celebrated his transition with a sparkling cake. Women cried sadness and joy.

“We are not here for a long time, we are here for a good time,” said Sappho the poetess.

One adult student who’d articulated her desire to move to Constantinople during the Ottoman Empire seeking an educational engineering job in a quality control factory school producing obedient robotic idiot children and live with her boyfriend cowered behind her futile quest for independence from over-protective parents. “My father won’t let me.”

“Take control of your life. Get a grip. Let go. Jump. Discover courage and your wings on the way down.”


“To do amazing things you have to take amazing risks and suffer greatly,” said Zeynep, his five-year old genius friend in Bursa, Turkey.

 “Here,” she said, “many a-dolts stay with their mothers forever and a day because they are afraid of freedom and accepting responsibility for their lives.

“They eat fear morning noon and night. They are afraid to speak their honest feelings, to express their innate desire for independence.

“They are willing victims of traditional conservative attitudes and values. Free will is a foreign language. They are scared of taking risks, letting go and growing. I may grow old but I’ll never grow up. If I grow up I die.”

“I feel the same way.”

One day while sharing lunch and drawing in notebooks, he said, “When I was 9 I was going on 50. Now I am 50 going on 9. I exist outside adult time.”

“We are passing through,” said Zeynep, lighting a candle in darkness.

Weaving A Life (V4)

The Language Company


Northern Laos


Hanoi Poem

Humans need less suffering and more love.

Little Man's voice releases streams of anger, bitterness and frustration allowing him to relax, expend and expand the sound. 

He is startled to hear the sound of his own particular voice ricochet off substandard cold molten gray interior monologue of Hanoi cement or is Ha Noise the block wall?

His life is one long cold cement wall. Echoes dance through his brain like little sugarplum fairies.
He knows the echo because he made the WALLS.

He stacked red crumbling bricks, mixed the fine sand gemstones and quick dry cement.

He slathered it over broken red bricks with coherent circular logic fulfilling an abstract desire creating a work of realist art

lasting forever which is how he remembered it the day he trow welled the paste.

His voice manifestation expresses human primitive guttural sounds in a tight enclosed space near his gigantic liquid plasma television.

It is permanently implanted on a blank wall blaring news propaganda and perpetual adolescent dancing drama shows about life next door where the family sits on cold red floral tiled floors

hunched over with spinal deficiencies slurping from cracked rose bowls shoveling steaming rice and green stringy vegetables into lost

desperate mouths yelling over each other in tonal decibels competing with their gigantic plasma television featuring dancing bears and uniformed military pioneer patriots devouring acres of rubber plantations,

palm trees, teak forests, beach front property and farmland with a double bladed axe singing in a high Greek-like chorus their national anthem about land, sea, air, water and big profit with piano concertos.

Everyone’s being played.



In the meadow Lao men
Slaughter a cow

Apocalypse Now
Tribal feast
Beast of burden
A sledgehammer on skull
Gut it clean simple
Light streaks sky with low murmurs
No songs or musical instruments
Men hack skin tendons muscles
Women stoke fires
Tribes gather for the feast

Shadow of white butterfly
Voices ebb and flow
Cuticles trimmed
Floating world’s river
Mercenary butterfly shadows
River language

Grow Your Soul


Grow Your Soul

Grow Your Soul, a new book of poems and esoteric magic is now on Amazon.

Paperback and Kindle editions. Transcribed from a journal Sept 2016 - August 2017.

Live broadly, write boldly.

Enjoy the ride. You're on it once.