Wildflowers In The Catalina Foothills — Image by kenne
Catalina foothills—
poppies flare in the gravel wash,
lupine stitching nitrogen
back into the lean soil.
Rock, root, bee—
no wasted motion.
Wind off the Santa Catalinas
combs the grass
and the flowers bow
without complaint.
— kenne
San Carlos, Sonora Sunset — Image by kenne
We become a silhouette in each other’s arms
as the sun goes down behind us in San Carlos—
the light withdrawing slowly
like a hand from a blessing.
All afternoon the Sea of Cortez
glittered without mercy.
I can’t see your face anymore,
only the outline of us—
two dark figures pressed together
against the last blaze of day.
It feels ancient, this vanishing—
as if love is something
the sun teaches by leaving.
— kenne
Gray Hairstreak on Desert Marigold — Image by kenne
So small—
and yet the marigold bends
as if honored.
The butterfly’s tail
flickers a blue ember.
I have lived long enough
to know
that such brightness
arrives without warning
and leaves the same way.
Still, it is here.
That is enough.
— kenne
This was Dave’s first half-marathon, with the goal of running the distance in two hours or less.
The race organizers provided pacesetters, so Dave began his half-marathon staying with the 2:00 hour pacesetter.
About halfway through the race, he picked up his pace, running the race in 1:55.20.
Finish Line
Sitting on his tailgate at the end of the race.
Mission Accomplished.
Shoes on pavement,
a metronome of doubt.
Still, the body insists—
one more mile
into light.
I created the blog posting using the photos Dave provided. I was only there vicariously.
#######
AFTER THOUGHT
The friend who asked Dave to run the half-marathon with him didn’t show up.
Then—
I thought the mountain
was something to climb.
Now—
I sit and let it
enter my breathing.
What changed?
A few decades of work
tire tracks on my clothes,
children grown.
Call it life
if you need a word.
— kenne
Bluebird in Flight Abstract by kenne
the bluebird
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there,I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
ants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep…
do you?
— Charles Bukowski
Cooper’s Hawk in the Patio Olive Tree Near the Bird Feeder– Image by kenne
— kenne
Saguaro Sunrise — Image by kenne
Saguaro cactus at sunrise—
you say endurance,
beauty against all odds.
I see a drunk saint
full of needles
hoarding water like secrets.
The sun bleeds out behind it
without apology.
If there’s a lesson there,
it’s that even the harshest thing
knows how to bloom
when it has to.
— kenne
On the Outer Banks of North Carolina
I keep the cigar lit
long enough to feel dangerous.
The whiskey glows
like a small sunset
I can hold.
But when the glass is empty
and the scene is still there,
I know—
it was always theater.
— kenne
Black and White Sunset — Image by kenne
— kenne
Cactus Wren Waits for the Dust from a Desert Storm to Move On — Image by kenne
— kenne
Mother In Hospice (08/26/06)
Every photograph of suffering
proposes a contract:
you may look,
but you must not
turn away too quickly.
The stages of pain—
shock, endurance, vacancy—
are flattened into a single frame.
Time is arrested,
yet the body continues
beyond the border
of the image.
— kenne
Male Phainopepla — Image by kenne
He is so high in the mesquite
I must squint—
An ace of spades caught in thorns.
Yet I feel the small red spark
of his eye
fasten to me.
The branch yields, does not surrender.
My grandmother said
real strength makes no announcement;
it simply remains.
He falls—
a swift stroke of black—
and rises again
to the same waiting limb.
Nothing altered, it seems.
But the desert keeps a breath
between his leaving and return,
and in that held silence
my heart shifts,
quiet as sand
after the wind.
— kenne
Hazy Morning Sun In Sabino Canyon — Silhouette Image by kenne
— kenne
Abolish ICE Demonstration In Armory Park (07/01/18) — Image by kenne
There is something about grass in Tucson—
it feels like a miracle you can sit on.
We stood on that miracle,
raising our voices.
Armory Park once trained soldiers.
That day,
it trained witnesses.
A little boy climbed
up into a jacaranda tree
and shouted a chant down at us,
his voice high and fearless.
We answered him.
Because every movement begins
with someone small enough
to believe it might work.
— kenne
