Author Archive

Letter to a Ghost   1 comment

This poem is one I felt a need to share even though it may be in a box on a desk.

O at the Edges

box2

Letter to a Ghost

Had I not dreamed your death, I would have praised this day.
Your name rests in a wooden box on a desk

in a room far away and twice as old as we were then.
My penance in this phase: to continue.

I gather words close and refrain from admissions.
The clock on the wall seldom chimes,

like one whose vows circumvent convenience, or
a shade allowing the barest sliver of light

through the window. That tock preceding
a long silence. Snow blanketing the mounded earth.

Your scent never lingers past sleep, where you remain.
At last I no longer covet those sheets you’ve shared.

Your name rests in a box. I gather words and refrain.

ghost

“Letter to a Ghost” last appeared herein 2017.

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Posted November 16, 2019 by kenneturner in Information

Cartoon Du Jour — If You Are Not, Then You Are Dead   2 comments

76794033_23843863021640067_4394636800992215040_n.pngnearlywildcamping.org

If you are not, then you are dead!

— kenne

 

Lost Universe   Leave a comment

Turkey Creek TrailLost Universe — Abstract Art by kenne

“Our wills and fates do so contrary run/That our devices are overthrown:/
Our thoughts our ours, their ends none of our own.”

–William Shakespeare

Live Jazz In The Old Pueblo   Leave a comment

Old Pueblo  9724 - 2010-08-01-art-72.jpgLive Jazz In The Old Pueblo — Photo-Artistry by kenne

The Weary Blues

— Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
     I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
     He did a lazy sway . . .
     He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
     O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
     Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
     O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
     “Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
       Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
       I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
       And put ma troubles on the shelf.”

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
     “I got the Weary Blues
       And I can’t be satisfied.
       Got the Weary Blues
       And can’t be satisfied—
       I ain’t happy no mo’
       And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.

 

Cartoon Du Jour — What In Hell Is Happening?   4 comments

What In Hell Is Happening?

CARTOONCOLLECTIONS.COM

In June of this year, George Booth passed away. Like so many people, especially
readers of The New Yorker, I love his cartoons. For the last three years, this one I
look at every day and shout, “What the hell is happening?” 

But, more importantly, for several years starting in the early 2000s, my brother
Tom placed the cartoon in the upper right corner of copy paper he used to write
letters to me, always written in large capital letters. His letters, sometimes unable
to read without having a dictionary nearby, were always informative. 

He once wrote:

“OOOOOPS . . . LOST MY FOCUS . . . (WHAT A HOOT!) I’VE BEEN, AS OF LATE,
DWELLING UPON THE YIDDISH IDEA OF DRECK . . . “MATTER” WHICH PRESENTS
ITSELF AS NOT WHOLLY RELEVANT (OR INDEED, AT LL RELEVANT . . . WHATEVER
‘RELEVANCE’ IS!) . . . BUT WHICH CAREFULLY ATTENDED TO CAN SUPPLY A KIND
OF ‘SENCE’ OF WHAT-IS-GOING-ON. THIS ‘SENCE IS NOT TO BE OBTAINED BY
READING THE WORDS, THINGS . . .  SORT OF NON-SEMANTIC STUFFING OR
‘SLUDGE’ WHICH ARE EASILY CONFUSED FOR CONDUITS OF COMMUNICATION . . .
BUT PERHAPS OBTAINED BY CHECKING OUT THE INTERICES OF THE DRECK . . .
SPACES SURROUNDING THEM.”

Events are always perceived
with reference to a particular
frame; in another system of
coordinates, the ‘same’ events
are not the same.

— kenne

Posted November 15, 2019 by kenneturner in Cartoon du jour, Information

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The Blast of The Self   1 comment

Aspen Draw Fall Colors 2013-8364 blog IIAn Aspen Fall — Photo-Artistry by kenne

In a letter dated 4/26/03, by brother Tom wrote:

“I am in the midst of ‘trying’ to memorize a poem . . .
‘Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour’ by Wallace Stevens . . .
never mind why . . .
although the exercise was triggered by a piece by
George Steiner in which he wrote:

‘The danger is that the text or music will lose what physics
calls its ‘critical mass,’ its implosive powers within
the echo chambers of the self.'”

Tom was aware that what is committed to memory
and susceptible to recall constitutes  “The Blast of  The Self,”
an intensity of outward attention — interest, curiosity,
a healthy obsession was a motivation stronger
even than love or hatred or fear.

— kenne

Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour

Light the first light of evening, as in a room 

In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one…
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

— Wallace Stevens

Unfoldment   1 comment

Tucson From The Ridge (1 of 1)-3-72Tucson Basin Sunset — Image by kenne

Each idea planted
yet not the first
is a new beginning
forming the orientation
for the next step
without direction
creating a path
with each step
of unfoldment.
Each step
like an idea
leads to another.
— kenne
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