San Remo and Bow Bridge

sanremoandbowbridge

Manhattan, A Photographer’s Journey by Henry Barnard

My Story

 

Digital download of the JPEG file for this photograph.

If you buy this photograph, I will be sending you an email in a day or two with a link to its JPG file. You will then download the file into your computer in its Download or Picture folder or whichever folder you choose. You can use it on your PC as you will, just to look at now and then or as a screen saver after you configure your computer to use it as such. Up to you.

$2.00

Anti-Russia Hysteria

So now we see what the net result is of all the anti-Russia hysteria in Congress and the country — war games carried out jointly by Russia and China.  We have just driven the Russians into the arms of the Chinese.  Very smart foreign policy on our part — duh.  Tell me again, how was this in our interest?

My Story

What do you get for a one dollar contribution? My gratitude.

If you enjoyed the post, you can help me keeping blogging along with just a one dollar contribution. You can contribute more by increasing the quantity — each increase by 1 is an additional dollar. Thanks for your support in this blog-eat-blog world.

$1.00

Door, Midtown Cellar

door

Manhattan, A Photographer’s Journey by Henry Barnard

My Story

What do you get for a one dollar contribution? My gratitude.

If you enjoyed the post, you can help me keeping blogging along with just a one dollar contribution. You can contribute more by increasing the quantity — each increase by 1 is an additional dollar. Thanks for your support in this blog-eat-blog world.

$1.00

Not Even A Whisper

Henry Barnard's avatarHenry's Views

First Love First Love

Vulnerable alone.

So the mind casts back in time
And finds you.

But there is no face,
And no hand,
No heart.

What I would do
For a few moments together…
Just a few.

What would I say?
I miss you, oh, I miss you so – yes.

I miss the we that we were,
Once upon a time…
Stars in my eyes.

I would, yes I would,
Cling to those moments
Before they slip away.

But there are no moments,
Flown long ago…
Not even a whisper.

Vulnerable alone.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

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