Archive for the ‘Capturing the Word’ Category

Follow The Narrow Trail   Leave a comment

Ned's Nature Walk -- 01-1-09-13Follow the Narrow Trail (The Tucson Mountains) — Image by kenne

No Name Trails

My trails don’t always have a name.
They are the ones on which I roam
Gathering new views to capture
Sharing with others who read books
And write poems on the earth and sky.

— kenne

 

Early Morning In Alamos, Sonora   2 comments

Alamos Street (1 of 1)-HDR blogEarly Morning Street Sence In Alamos, Sonora — HDR Image by kenne

Alamos, Sonora
7 a.m caught
the eye of
a lone dog
standing
at the door
patient 
Mexican dog
not one to
chase bikes
laying against
the sidewalk.

only a few
high clouds
add contrast
against the 
blue sky
behind me
a truck
rattles by
carts pushed
toward the
plaza
no one
sleeping
on benches 
like in America.

some Mexicans
sitting on the
church steps
born destined
to work in the
cathedral of toil
looking old at 21
a woman leaves
morning mess
still believing in
the Guadalupe lady
painted on velvet —
I shell paint
a velvet Elvis.

— kenne

 

Cityscape — Mixed Media   Leave a comment

Vancouver Skyline (1 of 1)-2 Mixed Media blogCityscape — Mixed Media — Image by kenne

I am drifting as I listen to Purple Haze,
buildings reflect up from the water below.

Remember when we first saw the cityscape,
dreamy cosmic waves of mid-summer light?

Close your eyes, you will still see your body
drifting across the sky as the clouds move

through a matrix of lines and rainbow colors.
The edges of the skyline begin to drop as

the cityscape embraces and slowly enters
the maze of puzzles in the northern sky.

— kenne

East Texas Southern Magnolia   2 comments

Southern Magnolia Art DSC_2689 blogEast Texas Southern Magnolia — Image by kenne

Magnolias in My Blood

Now, everybody knows
I love the desert southwest
it’s tall saguaros and
sky island ponderosas — 
I found a home out here. 

Still, every once in a while
I need a fusion for my
born and bred
southeast blood —
magnolia blossoms will do.

— kenne

Windy Point Girl — Photo Essay   Leave a comment

Rock Climbing Mt LemonWindy Point Vista — Images by kenne

In August 2010 I took over 83 photos a young woman and two men climbing the rock spire at Windy Point Vista along Catalina Highway. It ended up being a fun unplanned project. I put a video together using the photos and also uploaded them to my Flickr account.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/kennetu/albums/72157624822900088

kenne

Climbing the Rock Spire at Windy Point Video

Here’s a link to a 360 view at Windy Point Vista:

https://www.360cities.net/image/windy-point-vista-tucson-az

Two Hairy Faced Men, Twits Not   2 comments

lummi-island-vancover_tom-kenne_0333-b-w-blogiiTom and Kenne Turner (October 2009)– Image by Joy

We are hairy men
who may be thought of a “Twit,”
but I dare say, are not.
Why you might ask?
If you  look closely, you will not see
tasty morsels in our beards,
while Twits upon close review
will have tiny little specks
of dried-up scrambled eggs.

So says Roald Dahl,
and he should know
of all the disgusting things
found in the beard of a twit,
but, no need to hold your noses.

So, what is it these hairy men
are trying to hide?
Is it an ugly face, you ask?
No, not really,
for we are two guys
possessing good thoughts,
which shone out of our faces
like sunbeams,
so we will always look lovely.

Again, Roald Dahl, should know:
‘If a person has ugly thoughts,
it begins to show on the face.
And when that person
has ugly thoughts every day,
every week, every year,
the face gets uglier and uglier
until it gets so ugly
you can hardly bear to look at it.’

Even so, on this sand grain day
in the bent bay’s grave
I celebrate and spurn
my driftwood seventy-sixth
wind turned age.

Yet, I remain steadfast
in Shakespeare’s fifth stage
in The Seven Stages of Man,
still acquiring wisdom,
enjoying the finer things in life
and remain very attentive of my appearance,
trying to live life to its fullest,
preparing for the final stages of life.
Shall seventy-six bells sing struck.

kenne

The above illustration is by Quentin Blake in Roald Dahl’s book, The Twits. Part of this posting contains copy from The Twits and  Dylan Thomas’ Poem On His Birthday.

I can’t let this pass without again sharing Dylan Thomas’ Poem On His Birthday.

Douglas Spring Trail Panorama   Leave a comment

Douglas Springs HikeDouglas Spring Trail Panorama Image by kenne

In the moment you feel a
belonging to an ancient time,
a time not seen, yet you feel it —

the dryness of a land
parched, dying of thirst. 
Soon the trail switches back

and forth around large boulders
where lizards live in the dust
sometimes seen atop a boulder

doing their daily pushups
in the bright sunlight
soon returning to a dark place.

Stand here in the moment,
take yourself down the trail
toward the distant mountains.

The trail is narrow and dusty,
so narrow there are hikers
in front of you and behind,

not to your side, this is not 
a shoulder to shoulder march,
this is a hike in single file.

Having entered this picture
you can stay till the poem ends 
and the magic fades away.

For me, the photographer,
a part of me remains
poised in the moment.

— kenne

 

Prickly Pear Fruit Still Life   1 comment

Prickly Pean Fruit (1 of 1) art blogPrickly Pear Still Life (August 3, 2015) — Computer Art by kenne

Yesterday, the blossoms of the barrel cactus, today the fruit of the prickly pear cactus.

Sisters   1 comment

Wedding Day 8.2.03 - 400 sisters B-W blog“Sisters” Joy and Jody (June 2, 2003) — Image by kenne

Sweet, crazy conversations full of half sentences,

daydreams and misunderstandings

more thrilling than understanding could ever be.

― Toni Morrison

Capturing The Moment — Desert Spring II   Leave a comment

Desert Museum-9840 blogDesert Spring II — Image by kenne

Bird 6 (Cactus Wren)

I make my nests among the desert cactus.
Several I will build.
One for my lady to lay her eggs in.
Others to confuse our predators.

I’m not shy, like others of my family.
My lady and I will both sing songs.
Though my Lady is the one who sits upon the eggs.
I will help feed the young just like any daddy should.

I am seven to eights inches long.
My head is brown, and I sport a white eye stripe.
My bill is slightly curved for digging for those bugs.
I’ll flash my spotted tail feathers and flap barred wings.

I hardly ever drink water, even when it there.
I get what I need from the things I eat.
I really love those ants, beetles and grasshoppers.
I will occasionally eat some seeds and fruits.

So if you travel to the deserts
down in the southwestern USA
Look among the cactus for a football nest.
There you might see us flying or at rest.

— wildfiredreamer

Cactus Wrens and Cactus Wren Nests Images by kenne (Click on any image to see slideshow.)

 

View From The Box Camp Trail On Mt. Lemmon   4 comments

Box Camp Trail 06-28-13View of Tucson from the Box Camp Trail on Mt. Lemmon (Click here to see more hiking the Box Camp Trail photos.)  — Images by kenne

Box Springs Trail

The ground we walk on,
the plants and creatures,
the clouds above
constantly dissolving
into new formations –
each gift of nature
possessing its own
radiant energy,
bound together by
cosmic harmony.

— Ruth Bernhard

Capturing The Moment — Sonoran Monsoon   Leave a comment

Low CloudsSonoran Monsoon — Image by kenne

Sonoran Monsoon

Earlier in the day
I was hiking in the sky
where it rained —

 the top of the world is greener.

Now I stand
below and dry
flagstone at my feet —

rubbing my dry eyes.

Trying to summon tears
signaling the clouds above
for more than a few drops —

impossible to talk
about the loneliness.

— kenne

 

Capturing The Moment — First Snow In The Santa Catalina Mountains   7 comments

First Snow On The Mountains 2012First Snow In The Santa Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne

 

Variations On Autumn, Red . . ., And Green — We Are Born Like This   1 comment

Variations On Autumn, Red . . ., and Green: We Are Born Like This  —  Image by kenne

Yes, we are born like this on such a dulling day — I think, don’t you?

Autumn Variations

I.
When the red flares of morning clouds
Turn to silver in the rising sunlight
The vaulting poplars and firs and pines

Along the traffic choked avenues
Turn an Autumnal red and gold
Light teaches liquidity to the arboreal

Autumnal red tail on a huge gum tree
Still point in the traffic of the day
Red tail gold eyes of the seasonal

The color of October maple leaves
Red tail with a perne in a gyre
Teach beauty to the sun blind trafficking

As I stagnate at the nexus of the day
Destiny teaches me to sit and see

II.
In the early October afternoon
Silver clouds streak pale turquoise
Gold light drenches the tall girl
Her lithe back and the dimples
Above her round denimed bun
Igniting a halo of blonde hair
Tumbling round her angelic face

The regulars are hauling chairs
From inside the Mad Café
Onto the broad sidewalk to sit
And luxuriate in afternoon sun
Each is caught in a sunset halo
Ringed in brightening yellow light
Around a deepening silhouette

III.
Pigeons wheel over the Park
Moved by the gyre of a raptor
A Girl wearing a tight black skirt
Sits and crosses her long pale legs
Willow, supple, saucy and soft
Sunset plays in wild brown curls
Tumbling around her Da Vinci smile

Gray utility poles and tarred pines
Bearing wires of the new reality
Gleam as their silhouettes deepen
Edged by light like embers brighten
A sun orange disc glances off
The polished rear of a passing car
Stabs the eye of the word blind poet

IV.
Lithe, the cat girl, in alligator pumps
With bright silver buckles, curls into
The long black chair as a soft breeze
Ruffles the gaudy feather in her hair
And the curves of her gold silk blouse.

It is early afternoon, Indian Summer,
Mazed in downtown San Francisco
Where we are caught in the sere:
Green leaves baked in noon turn ashy
And the grey tiled sidewalk white.

Eyeing the clouds of Summer cotton,
Young flesh shining through gossamer dresses,
I am storm tossed by the gales of ecstasies
I love early October in San Francisco.

V.
How high hangs the plate of cloud
How thickly does it sit upon the air
Pressing upon the atmosphere

So thickens air into syrup in the lung
And bending the light into the eye
So color is twisted into gray

A pigeon stands on a rooftop
Like a jewel of gold Roman glass
Iridescent slivers of feathers

Flashing through the grayness
Even in drear fog with tiger-eye fire
Color in the Garden of the Dead

But then the fog blows so thorough
Even the neck of a pigeon is subdued

VI.
Pigeons wheel over the meadow
Stirred by the gyring red tails hunting
And mating among the giant red gums

The wind twirls falling leaves of red gums
Through the bright blue Autumnal air
As the huge trees dance with the wind

Autumnal brown leaves litter Park paths
Crunch and crackle beneath the heal
Autumn in the City, music in the air

On the sidewalk outside the Mad Café
The Rasta boys and the Gucci girls
Dance under Apollo’s Tree of Prophecy

Unaware of the destiny of Daphne
They revel in the face of catastrophe

VII.
The sidewalk outside the Mad Café
Roils with Rasta boys and Gucci girls
Doc Martens and Free Tibet tees
And hand knitted panda caps

They’re drinking morning beers
And dancing unaware that
The puny laurel down the block
Planted in a pit in the sidewalk
Is Apollo’s Tree of Prophesy

And so it is the world burns on
Underneath the rolling sea clouds
Porous as any El Greco sky
Revealing great turquoise moments
Wounds of a Passion marking the firmament

VIII.
Ten thousand blank faces
Blink from the vast gray mask
Of the wind whistled sea
The dark secrets of a moment

So quickly are they gone
To be replaced by the others
By the sisters and brothers
Upon the acrimonious ocean

I’m drowning in a sea of thought
But what can I fathom
From the tongues of sea faces

To teach me a philosophy of lees
or is it all a poetry of seas
Meant to teach me liquidity

IX.
The sun ignites the colors of custom,
Red silks, blue nylon and yellow cotton:
At high noon on a clear October day
Every thing the sun enlivens it pales:

The falling leaves are burnt and gray,
But the pigeon burns with an opal fire:
I smell fresh ground coffee, sizzling flesh
Upon a mechanical rumbling of the air:

Staring at diaphane of summer dresses
Floating on shoulders like water on stone,
And the scurrying legs of the pretty girls
Dancing beneath searing sun like gazelles:

I question the Veritas of all as invention:
Am I not just another dreaming Endymion?

X.
Impress of the morning
Green turtles sunning
On a big scummy rock
In the middle of a lily pond

Lily sunbursts of yellow
Venus jewels of white,
Demur cloaks of purple
Animated by the wind

Thought molten Gauguin
And his golden goddess
With buds on her breasts
And blooms on her thighs

Thought back of a turtle
Greater than the Moon
Swimming in the eyes
Of a maenad steeping

Like dreamy Endymion
Inside many dream’s dreams
How many awakenings
Until a maenad can see

The agitations of atoms
And so be unfastened from
Just dreams of the world

XI.
Steeping in the shadow of the canyon
High rim sunlit ledges of chert succumb
To the darkness of the granite mountains
A red sign blinks through the window
A folk song reedily licks the savory air
As I kill time with the point of a pen
And a delusion for nothing stops time
The measure of the motion of atoms
I feel like a vegetable but bleed like meat
Is it anything but a bloody id dream heat
Like Alpine grandeurs in Beethoven’s ear
Or Shakespeare caught in light of Vermeer

XII.
Autumn is seeking the Winter coma
How quickly the years bud fades away
Bug ratty or Autumn burnt, singed
There are brown holes in Summer clothes
No longer green, they’re gone ash gray
A brumal vacuum inserts itself in the air
And how much of a seer must one be
To read Winter encroachment in all this
I can flip a coin and I cannot predict
Heads or tails with any accuracy but
I do know that the rising coin will fall
This much at least I can predict unerringly

XIII.
I am in love with the October skies
My lover’s a blue soul that licks at my eyes
And yet she will flee and leave me with stars
And the black icy dome and Venus and Mars
So I sit in the room of the wild mocha seas
Crashing on islands of chocolate and jade
I sit in the room of the coffees and teas
Dreaming of pleasures where poetry’s made
Or is it the girl with the long copper braid
With gardens tattooed on the backs of her knees
She has a mouth made of indigo shade
And a kiss that infects with the sweetest disease
So I sit in the room the Concerto of Sighs
Dreaming of how to make love with my eyes

XIV.
Late afternoon buttery light of early Autumn
Owl silhouette perched upon a peaked roof
It is made of clay so the ravens just ignore it
The yellow air is savory like flesh on a grill
The setting sun bursts through a wine glass

Many suns sinking through the wine glass
Now the sun is set. The twilight turns red
Strings of cloud ignite then fail into night
The sky deepens, from turquoise to indigo
And the round moon rises, shiny white bone

I sit and watch the young at play upon
Each other’s skins, tapestries of their passions
A Maenad drunk upon the late god’s liquor
A Maenad lusting after the late god’s Ichor
So lunatic she dances with an old fool satyr

I sit and I watch the foolish old satyr try
To dance with the girl for from her the honey
Of generation drips into music drenched air
Like dew from a passion flower this old satyr
Has long been addicted to
She snared him on
The promise of a kiss then danced away
Leaving him dangling upon her feral song
The hook through pursed and leathery lips
The young flay him like Apollo did Marsyas

XV.
Constant beads of golden light
Are strung across the white wall
Behind the depth of the window
Upon the third floor of the large
Dingy building across the street
Its peaked roof rakes the low fog
How quick the sun disappeared
Tonight it grew dark as if it was
When it is, the back half of October
Sun set brown hair a copper halo

O quiet night, be a quiet night
But no it is filled with the thump
The sounds of sunset sacrilege
Old eyes glance upon young thighs
Drenched in buttery golden light
In the doorway of the Mad Café
Twilight, deepening silver blue
Bird wavers along an invisible umbilical
To the thicket of its night nest

XVI.
This was the weekend
Yawning Autumn’s
Nocturnal abyss
Exhaled and shriveled
All of the maples
Brown leaves now litter
Dull cement sidewalks
On Friday the trees
Were hung with green
And today they’re empty
Trembling skeins like
So many bony hands

Yesterday clouds crept
Scudding from the south
And that can mean rain
First storm of Autumn
But this morning is clear
Not a cloud in the sky
Cold is now lurking
In the shadowy air
The cold of the chthonic
Sucks light from the sun
Winter is eating heat to
Fire the season of oblivion

SPMackin, October 2011

Capturing The Moment — Coloring My Sunset   Leave a comment

Monsoon Sunset, August 2012 — Image by kenne

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