Archive for the ‘Capturing the Word’ Category
A Framed Copy of an Article in the Community Section of the Houston Chronicle, October 2006
What began as the “Reading Series” at Montgomery College in 1993 evolved to become the “Writers In Performance” series
conducted by the Montgomery County Literary Arts Council (MCLAC). Over the years, many local poets, as well as national
poets, have read their poetry at Montgomery College. Since moving to Tucson 12 years ago, I haven’t had too many
opportunities to attend the series, which continues under the leadership of Cliff Hudder and Dave Parsons.
— kenne
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Cooper’s Hawk in Mesquite Tree — Painting by kenne
“For those of us who portray wildlife . . . our decision to persist in our quest for excellence is almost always based
on a love affair,
a fascination with the creatures of our planet, and a need to share this feeling the best way we know how.”
— Bob Kuhn (Wildlife Artist, One of the Tucson 7)
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Tom Taking A Moment to Rest Before Setting Up Camp on Mica Mountain (April 2012) — Image by kenne
Remembering So Much, Yet So Little
We walked together as brothers
His a shuffled pace totaling
Many unnumbered miles
Remembering so much, yet so little
Have known him for the last ten years
Reminding me of my brother,
It seemed like a lifetime
Remembering so much, yet so little
When we first met
We were in a hiking group
For me, all were strangers
Remembering so much, yet so little
He had that something
We all feel but can’t explain
As with the wistfulness of used books
Remembering so much, yet so little
Hiking dusty trails, stirred only by our steps,
A soft breeze unable to lift
The dust above our boots
Remembering so much, yet so little
Sharing a love of the wild
To hear sounds, see vistas
In the desert and sky islands
Remembering so much, yet so little
He was born with a feel for the moment
Making use of the incidentals
Whether invited or not
Remembering so much, yet so little
An eye for beauty and form
Where nothing is perfect
And everything is perfect.
Remembering so much, yet so little
Always ready to go farther afield
Looking for new trails – such as
The Hidden Pasture Trail
Remembering so much, yet so little
Meticulously researching new adventures
Was a hobby driven by the belief
One knows the country through direct contact
Remembering so much, yet so little
Possessing a diverse love of life
Sharing stories of youthful conquests
As the sunsets only to be replaced by a full moon
Remembering so much, yet so little
Dare not wave the punctual tissue of farewell
He would reply with an insouciant shrug
Therefore, I drink to you, my brother
Remembering so much, yet so little
For this is a path we will all take
On the Hidden Pasture Trail
It’s all part of nature’s plan
Remembering so much, yet so little
— kenne
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George Carlin — Source: The Milwaukee Independent
“I don’t know how you feel, but I’m pretty sick of church people. You know what they ought to do with churches? Tax them. If holy people are so interested in politics, government, and public policy, let them pay the price of admission like everybody else. The Catholic Church alone could wipe out the national debt if all you did was tax their real estate.”
— George Carlin
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Photo-Artistry by kenne
Expectations
Who are you,
you who share
my very existence
with your expectations,
sometimes calling them
traditions,
placing more value
on the worth
of your expectations,
unwilling to understand
neither the what
nor the why
of my very being.
Who am I,
I who share
your very existence
with my expectations,
sometimes calling them
logical
placing more value
on the worth of my expectations,
unwilling to understand
neither the what
nor the why
of your very being.
Who are we,
we who share
a finite existence
with our expectations,
sometimes calling them
unconditional
placing more value
on the worth of our expectations
unwilling to understand
neither the what
nor the why
of a finite being.
Who are they,
they who share
our very existence
with their expectations,
sometimes calling them
laws
placing more value
on the worth of their expectations
unwilling to understand
neither the what
nor the why
of our very being.
Who are We
We who share
an infinite existence
with our expectations,
sometimes calling them
spiritual
placing more value
on the worth of all expectations
willing to understand
both the what
and the why
of a universal being.
— kenne
(. . . He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood eighty-first wind turned age;
Herons spire and spear.*)
*Dylam Thomas, “Poem On His Birthday”
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August 19th, 1936 — Federico García Lorca dies. Andalusian poet/dramatist/artist. Murdered by Franco’s fascists.
Accused of subversive activity, however evidence today suggests that it was a hate crime in response to his homosexuality.
His writings remained censored until Franco died in 1975. Despite this, Lorca became one of the
most widely read writers in the world.
Gacela of the Dark Death
I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries,
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas?
I don’t want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don’t want to learn of the tortures of the grass,
nor of the moon with a serpent’s mouth
that labors before dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
awhile, a minute, a century;
but all must know that i have not died;
that there is a stable of gold in my lips;
that i am the small friend of the West wing;
that i am the intense shadow of my tears.
Cover me at dawn with a veil.
because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me.
and wet with hard water my shoes
so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.
For i want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to learn a lament that will cleanse me of the earth;
for i want to live with that dark child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
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Creosote Seed Pod — Image by kenne
If the blue sky is a fantasy,
what will become of innocence?
What will become of the heart
if Love has no arrows?
And if death is death,
what will become of poets?
and things in a cocoon
which no one remembers?
Oh sun of hopes!
Clear water! New moon!
Dull souls of stones!
Today I sense in my heart
a vague tremor of stars
and all roses are
as white as my sorrow.
— from Autumn Song by Federico García Lorca
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Hutch’s Pool — Two Images Merged in Photoshop by kenne (11/18/11)
Image by Phil Bentley as I Was Photographing Around Hutch’s Pool (11/13/15)
“A man who dares to waste one hour of time
has not discovered the value of life.”
― Charles Darwin,
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“. . . and once more saw the stars.”
— from Inferno by Dante Alighieri
Memorial image created from the names of COVID-19 victims for #WeGrieveTogether.
— Image: Elizabeth Perez
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Nais Metalmark Butterfly — Image by kenne
There are several species of small butterflies with an orange-brown base color, marked with black,
white and brighter orange. The metalmarks such as this one also have some metallic-looking specks
that are visible with changing light angle.
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Follow 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
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Early 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
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50 Years Ago June 5, 1968 BULLETIN (AP)
(LOS ANGELES) – AN ASSAILANT – APPARENTLY STANDING AT POINT-BLANK RANGE GUNNED DOWN NEW YORK SENATOR ROBERT KENNEDY AND FOUR OR FIVE OTHER PERSONS EARLY TODAY IN LOS ANGELES. KENNEDY HAD JUST CLAIMED VICTORY IN THE CALIFORNIA DEMOCRATIC PRESIDENTIAL RACE OVER SENATOR EUGENE MCCARTHY. HE WAS STANDING IN AN ANTI-ROOM OF THE AMBASSADOR HOTEL WHEN THE GUNMAN CUT LOOSE WITH A VOLLEY OF SHOTS. KENNEDY WAS SHOT IN THE HEAD – ALTHOUGH FIRST REPORTS SAID HE WAS SHOT IN THE HIP.
This is the actual copy from an AP Teletype machine just to the right of the one I was working in the STRACOM tech control room, Sukiran, Okinawa, 4:35 PM J.S.T., June 5, 1968. Like many, I had been following the primary closer and was shocked by what I was reading. A few hours later, the following came over the AP Teletype:
AP38
BULLETIN
LOS ANGELES – SENATOR KENNEDY DEAD. . .
AP38
MORE BULLETIN
AN AIDE OF THE NEW YORK SENATOR ANNOUNCED AT 5 A-M (EDT)
THAT KENNEDY DIED AT 1:40 A-M (PACIFIC TIME).
HE WAS 42 YEARS OLD.
WITH KENNEDY AT THE TIME OF HIS DEATH WAS HIS WIFE, ETHEL AND OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY
AP40
-CORRECTION–
KENNEDY DEATH AP38 MAKE TIME OF DEATH 1:44 (NOT 1:40).
R.F.K. “Each time a man stands up for an ideal or acts to improve the lot of others. Or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope.”
“Whatever people may say and whatever history may write about Bobby, and whatever history may write about Bobby, he had a genuine compassion, a real love of people, humble people, poor people – I think the word now, is underprivileged people – not in a pompous or pedantic way, but genuine.” The words of former Prime Minister Harold Macmillan (74 at the time) have appeared on television
History shows that Richard Nixon went on to be elected president and we only speculate what the last forty years would have given us if Bobby Kennedy had been elected. Would we have chosen faith in people over fear? Would we have required sluggish bureaucracies to respond more rapidly to social needs? The following is shared from June 14, 1968, Time Essay:
“John W. Gardner put it best at Cornell’s commencement earlier this month when he imagined himself as a 23rd-century thinker. He had discovered, he said, that ‘20th-century institutions were caught in a savage crossfire between uncritical lovers and unloving critics. On the one side, those who loved their institutions tended to smother them in an embrace of death, loving their rigidities more than their promise, shielding them from life-giving criticism. On the other side, there arose a breed of critics without love, skilled in demolition but untutored in the arts by which human institutions ate nurtured and strengthened and made to flourish. Between the two, the institutions perished.”
Content in this posting first appeared on the 40th anniversary of his death. At that time I ended the posting with this:
“Now, forty years later Joy and I are getting ready to travel to Austin to attend the Texas Democratic Party Convention at another historical time in American political history. Hopefully, this will in time be looked back upon as a time in our nation’s history when emotion conquered reason.”
(The items contained in this posting are from scrapbooks I kept during 1967-68.)
— kenne
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Cityscape — 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
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![Zographus regalis cuprea [Cameroon]](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/52783978513_e3da275118_s.jpg "Zographus regalis cuprea [Cameroon]")
Becoming is Superior to Being 