My place of worship has sandstone walls Arches are altars and ledges become pews. There are rafters of gnarled cottonwood limbs Hidden alcove gardens are my inner sanctum. Gods send messages down the aisles In raging flash floods and down-canyon breezes. After-storm rainbows are my stained glass And potholes are the tadpole’s baptismal fonts. Scriptures are revealed in images pecked and painted On rock surface patina and sheltered cliff faces While holy water seeps clear or flows blood red. My collection plate is passed around by the BLM And I stuff it with permit fees At the end of each guiding season.
When the sun rises over the mountains, the air is still cool, meaning that by the end of the day, when the sun has crossed the main ridge and gives light to the other side the air is hot and dry. This means that trees growing on the northeast face of any given mountains flourish, while the southwest face is generally left barren-
there are, however, always a few brave tufts of foliage who dare to challenge the infernal heat and survive.
Arches National Park lies north of Moab in the state of Utah. Bordered by the Colorado River in the southeast, it’s known as the site of more than 2,000 natural sandstone arches, such as the massive, red-hued Delicate Arch in the east. Long, thin Landscape Arch stands in Devils Garden to the north. Other geological formations include Balanced Rock, towering over the desert landscape in the middle of the park.― Google
Coyote Fence Corral In Doubtful Canyon — Images by kenne
Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water
I have said the soul is not more than the body, And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, And nothing, not God, is greater to one that one’s self is, And I say to any man or women, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.
Mirror, Mirror On The Wall — Photo-Artistry by kenne
I saw her coming. The version of myself I wanted to see, I saw her in the corners of my eyes, I felt her shouting at me from the future, So loud I heard it through another dimension, I felt her overwhelming confidence and Clear sense of direction shaking the ground as I pass by her image So much so that I forget about the past; It melts away with her words, at her resurrection As I make her come alive time after time, My Alter Ego. She lies within me and sometimes, if you look closely You can see her within the cracks of my skin, Beneath the fragments of my broken heart when, Against all odds, I must find strength.
“One day I’m going to write a book about osprey . It has really gotten deep into my bloodstream. So when you ask what else I do, I feel like this is part of what I do … is to watch these birds.”
Houston’s Little Joe Washington (April, 2008) — Image by kenne
“Personal inconvenience, experience, and environmental impact notwithstanding, a willingness to drive all over and beyond Harris County has its rewards for the Houston blues aficionado wanting to make the rounds. Not only is that travel necessary to access the various widely separated business establishments featuring live performances on a weekly basis, but for those in the know, it’s also the key to experiencing some unique presentations of the music — both of which evoke an earlier era.”
— Roger Wood (Down in Houston: Bayou City Blues, 2003)
Finding the Way Through Doubtful Pass– Image by kenne
“Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time.”
