Mailboxes in a Small New Mexico Town — Image by kenne
Each box is a story painted over rust—
names fading, but never gone.
Abuela still checks hers at sunrise,
like the sun might bring a letter from yesterday.
We are a people of waiting,
of holding onto envelopes like prayers,
addressed to hope.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Shadows on the Floor — Image by kenne
We mistake the shadow for evidence
when it is closer to fiction.
It proposes a structure
the room does not possess.
And yet, once seen,
it is difficult to return
to the unmarked surface
without feeling something has been lost.
— kenne
Like this:
Like Loading...
McCaws In The Amazon — Image by kenne
In the vast green breath of the Amazon,
three macaw travel together—
not by chance, but by trust.
The universe does not send
companions without reason.
It teaches us, through them,
how to journey without fear.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Anna’s Hummingbird — Image by kenne
tiny green body,
she hovers where stories live—
between what we say
Like this:
Like Loading...
Gila Woodpecker on the Patio Tree — Image by kenne
there he is again—
clinging sideways to the tree
like a bad decision
that won’t let go.
tap-tap-tap—
no rhythm, no apology.
and I laugh,
because that’s life, isn’t it?
just you
and your stubborn little beak
against something harder.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Image and Poem by kenne
Like this:
Like Loading...
Chipmunk on Prickly Pear Cactus — Image by kenne
Watch him long enough
and you begin to feel embarrassed—
all our tools, our gloves, our careful distance,
while he leans in bare-faced
to the red fruit of the Prickly Pear Cactus,
accepting risk like the weather.
A better citizen of this place
than most of us passing through.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Corvette Raffle at Sunset — Image by kenne
The sun lowers behind Tucson,
softening the edges of everything—
even hope.
Tickets crinkle in warm hands,
paper prayers folded small.
The Tucson Greek Festival hums—
music, language, memory—
while the car gleams,
a quiet altar
to chance.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Bolivian Grandma with Grandchild — Image by kenne
Your bowler hat sits
like a quiet defiance—
not loud, not pleading,
simply present.
The child leans into you,
a question not yet spoken:
Will I have to fight as you did?
You tighten the shawl—
your answer
is warmth.
— kenne
Like this:
Like Loading...
Rose Lake in the Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne
No fish yet.
Just ripples
counting time.
He listens—
water against water,
nothing wasted.
Line in,
mind out,
both drifting.
— kenne
Like this:
Like Loading...
Roadrunner On Patio Wall — Image by kenne
There is something mildly suspicious
about the way he freezes mid-stride,
as if someone has pressed pause
on a very small documentary.
Then—click—
he resumes,
like a thought returning
after wandering off
to check on something
it didn’t quite trust.
I imagine his mind full of notes:
check under rock,
avoid hawk,
ignore human with camera.
A tidy philosophy,
really.
— kenne
Like this:
Like Loading...
Nude On the Deck — Sketch Art by kenne
there’s a strange relief
in having nothing left to hide behind—
no fabric excuses,
no polite disguises.
you feel the air touch everything,
like truth finally got tired of knocking
and kicked the damn door in.
they’ll call it indecent.
hell, they call everything real indecent.
— kenne
Like this:
Like Loading...
Pressing Against The Limits — Image by kenne
One does not “understand” this.
Understanding would reduce it,
make it manageable.
Instead, it asks for duration—
for the discipline
of staying with excess.
What emerges
is not a resolution
but a sharpened awareness
of how much
we need things
to mean one thing
at a time.
— kenne
Like this:
Like Loading...
Entrance to Jackson Station (10/19/02) — Image by kenne
October in Double Bayou
puts a sort of easy wisdom in the air.
The water moves slowly,
the herons mind their own business,
and the road to Jackson Station
looks like it has carried
more stories than pickups.
A man would be a fool
to hurry through such a place.
— kenne
Like this:
Like Loading...
White Clouds Under a Cloud Cover — Image by kenne
No drama in this sky,
no thunder, no blaze—
just a quiet occupation
of white under gray.
The mountain breathes slowly
under its coverlet of cloud.
And something in me
loosens,
as if certainty were never
the point at all.
— kenne
Like this:
Like Loading...
