American White Pelicans White Over in East Texas — Photo Gallery by kenne
Lakes, marshes, salt bays. In breeding season mostly inland, nesting on isolated islands in lakes and feeding on shallow lakes, rivers, marshes.
Feeding areas may be miles from nesting sites. Also breeds locally on coastal islands. Flocks in migration stop on lakes, rivers.
Winters mainly along coast, on shallow, protected bays and estuaries, also on large lakes in warm climates. Source: audubon.org
Swampy Area of East End Park, Kingwood, Texas (December 28, 2022) — Image by kenne
— from The Old Painter on a Walk Adam Zagajewski
Ken and Mary Dancing to Porterdavis (October 2007) — Image by kenne
You Don’t Have to Go
Two Years Later, Porterdavis was back in Porter, Texas, at The Ken & Mary Blues Project Doing A Muddy Waters Cover, “Can’t Be Satisfied.”
Great Blue Heron on the Shores of Lake Houston (May 27, 2022) — Image by kenne
— kenne
The Musician — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The musician talks to you with
rhythm, and words that find their way
into the secret places of your soul
turning on the truth of being human.
— kenne
East Texas Sunset — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Growing up, I recall an old-timer
Who was poor, but knew the truth
The difference between right and wrong
Telling me to take whatever comes,
Moving on down the river
Like a drifting boat —
Drift on my friend, drift on.
— kenne
Spider In Its Web — Image by kenne
“Said the cunning spider to the fly, “Dear friend, what shall I do,
To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?
I have within my pantry good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome; will you please to take a slice?”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.”
— from The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt
— Billy Gibbons
Images and Video by kenne
Jill’s Roses (May 20, 2017) Images by kenne
— kenne
Wine for Two in East Texas — Computer Art kenne
Wine for Two
Picture this,
the setting sun
beaming streams of light
through the trees.
Occasionally moving
with the breeze,
sending beams dancing
across the glass tabletop.
Captured for the moment
in two glasses of wine,
only to be released forever
to the hearts of each lover.
A visual of the mind
Seeking a mindless void
For each heart to fill
but a fragment of the matrix
The new field of vision
Changing the way things are seen.
The glasses in the picture
are forever changed to one.
kenne
Ray Bonneville at Ken and Mary’s Blues Project, November 18, 2009 — Images and video by kenne
I believe that all the little things in life add up to one’s life. So, it’s important to get them right, otherwise nothing else matters. 
I’m here to tell you that Ken and Mary Harris have been getting it right for a long time.
They love people and they love the Blues, and for years now have been doing a lot of little things that have been adding up in the form of the “Blues Project.”
Several times a year, Ken and Mary open their home to friends and their guests to experience the best in blues music this side of Texas. Sadly, many have no idea what they are missing, and sometimes it can get lonely in the promise land by yourself.
One of the many musicians who have appeared at Ken and Mary’s Blues Project is Ray Bonneville. Just as Ray may write about a place he has lived, e.g., New Orleans, he is not from there. He is a traveler in other people’s reality, writing stories that serve as a portal to his existence.
“Firefly comin’ this way
a flickering light is to say
time ain’t but this long
here tonight, tomorrow gone.”
— from “Goin’ By Feel”
As a fellow traveler in the reality of others, I hope our paths will cross again soon.
kenne
Ed Folsom presenting “Counting from One to a Million, Whitman and the Civil War Dead” — Image by kenne
For the 24th year the Writers in Performance series at Lone Star College – Montgomery celebrated the birthday of Walt Whitman. For the last several years the celebrations has been in two parts, one a lecture on campus in the afternoon, the second part an evening gathering of poets at a local pub or cafe.
This year’s lecture featured Dr. Ed Folsom recognizing the sesquicentennial of the publication of Dram Taps, most of which Whitman wrote while serving as a hospital volunteer tending wounded and dying soldiers. Whitman felt that a poet’s voice was needed to document the war and help make sense of such a travesty.
This year’s Birthday Celebration for Walt Whitman took place May 7th, which I thought would be appropriate to delay posting till this Memorial Day, 2015. (Post Note) — The holiday originally was called Decoration Day and was a day of remembrance for Union soldiers who died in the American Civil War.
kenne
The Gathering of Poets at Dosey Doe Music Cafe, Conroe Texas — Images by kenne
The following passage from Dram Taps includes the longest sentence ever written by Whitman.
The Million Dead, Too, Summ’d Up — The Unknown (from Memoranda During the War)
THE DEAD in this war—there they lie, strewing the fields and woods and valleys and battle-fields of the south—Virginia, the Peninsula—Malvern hill and Fair Oaks—the banks of the Chickahominy—the terraces of Fredericksburgh—Antietam bridge—the grisly ravines of Manassas—the bloody promenade of the Wilderness—the varieties of the strayed dead, (the estimate of the War department is 25,000 national soldiers kill’d in battle and never buried at all, 5,000 drown’d—15,000 inhumed by strangers, or on the march in haste, in hitherto unfound localities—2,000 graves cover’d by sand and mud by Mississippi freshets, 3,000 carried away by caving-in of banks, &c.,)—Gettysburgh, the West, Southwest—Vicksburgh—Chattanooga—the trenches of Petersburgh—the numberless battles, camps, hospitals everywhere—the crop reap’d by the mighty reapers, typhoid, dysentery, inflammations—and blackest and loathesomest of all, the dead and living burial-pits, the prison-pens of Andersonville, Salisbury, Belle-Isle, &c., (not Dante’s pictured hell and all its woes, its degradations, filthy torments, excell’d those prisons)—the dead, the dead, the dead—our dead—or South or North, ours all, (all, all, all, finally dear to me)—or East or West—Atlantic coast or Mississippi valley—somewhere they crawl’d to die, alone, in bushes, low gullies, or on the sides of hills—(there, in secluded spots, their skeletons, bleach’d bones, tufts of hair, buttons, fragments of clothing, are occasionally found yet)—our young men once so handsome and so joyous, taken from us—the son from the mother, the husband from the wife, the dear friend from the dear friend—the clusters of camp graves, in Georgia, the Carolinas, and in Tennessee—the single graves left in the woods or by the road-side, (hundreds, thousands, obliterated)—the corpses floated down the rivers, and caught and lodged, (dozens, scores, floated down the upper Potomac, after the cavalry engagements, the pursuit of Lee, following Gettysburgh)—some lie at the bottom of the sea—the general million, and the special cemeteries in almost all the States—the infinite dead—(the land entire saturated, perfumed with their impalpable ashes’ exhalation in Nature’s chemistry distill’d, and shall be so forever, in every future grain of wheat and ear of corn, and every flower that grows, and every breath we draw)—not only Northern dead leavening Southern soil—thousands, aye tens of thousands, of Southerners, crumble to-day in Northern earth.
And everywhere among these countless graves—everywhere in the many soldier Cemeteries of the Nation, (there are now, I believe, over seventy of them)—as at the time in the vast trenches, the depositories of slain, Northern and Southern, after the great battles—not only where the scathing trail passed those years, but radiating since in all the peaceful quarters of the land—we see, and ages yet may see, on monuments and gravestones, singly or in masses, to thousands or tens of thousands, the significant word
UNKNOWN.
(In some of the cemeteries nearly all the dead are unknown. At Salisbury, N. C., for instance, the known are only 85, while the unknown are 12,027, and 11,700 of these are buried in trenches. A national monument has been put up here, by order of Congress, to mark the spot—but what visible, material monument can ever fittingly commemorate that spot?)
Kenne philosophizing on becoming the next president of the Sabino Canyon Volunteer Naturalists (SCVN),
after returning from visiting friends and family in east Texas.
no leaders, please
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself
don’t swim in the same slough.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself
and
stay out of the clutches of mediocrity.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can
never
categorize you.
reinvigorate yourself and
accept what is
but only on the terms that you have invented
and reinvented.
be self-taught.
and reinvent your life because you must;
it is your life and
its history
and the present
belong only to
you.
— Charles Bukowski
“Happy Hour” — Image by kenne
Two for the long drive
Leaving Kingwood headed west
Looking for sunshine.
— kenne
Becoming is Superior to Being 