Image by kenne
The sun descends behind
the western mountains,
yet leaves behind
a kingdom of light.
Clouds become banners
of gold and scarlet.
The desert floor glows softly,
as though illuminated
from within.
Not just another sunset—
but a Tucson evening,
where earth and sky
exchange their vows once more
before the coming night.
Japanese School Boy in Okinawa (1967) — Image by kenne
Northern Okinawa.
A schoolboy sits
beside the road.
My camera clicks
takes his image,
but not the sound
of insects,
not the warmth
of the island air,
not the generations
who walked these roads
before him.
Still—
for an instant,
his life
and mine
cross paths
through a lens,
and the mountains
witness both.
What the Desert Keeps — Image by kenne
Tonight the desert is orange
from mountain ridge to wash,
as though the day
had broken open
and spilled its last handful of gold.
The creosote keeps its dark leaves.
The saguaro keeps its scars.
The old cottonwood keeps its shadow.
Nothing asks to be rescued.
The land has learned
what we are slow to learn:
to receive the light,
to give it back,
and to remain.
Collage by kenne (2/1/04)
When I look closely
at this collage,
I see more than faces.
I see stories
crossing like trails
through a forest.
Agnes—
the beginning of many things.
Kate—
a branch reaching outward.
Katelyn—
a blossom opening
to its own season.
The years separate them,
yet they will always be one
as naturally as trees
sharing the same earth.
Perhaps this is what photographs
are trying to teach us:
that time moves on,
yes—
but love keeps gathering,
adding one more face,
one more memory,
one more hand
to hold.
And if we are fortunate,
someone will someday
look at our picture
and feel the warmth
still shining there.
Sonoran Sunset -- Image by kenne
The mountains darken, but above them
red, orange, and yellow gather
like old spirits around a fire,
warming the vast desert silence
one final time before night.
I’m eighty-five—
though the number sits beside me
more than inside me.
Some mornings I rise feeling sixty,
still curious, still willing to wander.
At night I dream in the language of thirty,
doors still opening, roads still unnamed.
And sometimes—without apology—
seventeen returns, grinning.
Sonoran Blue Sky — Image by kenne
Bolivian Grandma with Grandchild — Image by kenne
— kenne
Rose Lake in the Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne
— kenne
Pressing Against The Limits — Image by kenne
— kenne
Early Morning in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
Morning spills gold through the canyon.
A cactus lifts its arms
as if remembering a prayer.
I walk beneath it and hear
the quiet voice of Rumi:
The road you walk
is walking you home
— kenne
The Old Rhythm Room, Houston’s Washington Street (09/13/03) — Image by kenne
If you knew Houston blues, you knew that Washington Street had its share of stories. On that night twenty-two years ago, Mark May’s set was another chapter. In the dim light, you could see The Blues Hound and Jimmy “T-99” Nelson, figures who had witnessed the scene shift from the Chitlin’ Circuit days to modern club stages, still holding onto the music.
— kenne
(In November of 2012, Tom Markey and I posted an article, Ecocide Arizona Style — The Cow That Ate The West.
The article was about the disappearing water in the San Simon Valley in southeast Arizona. This poem suggest the verdict is in.)
Ecocide Arizona Style
— kenne
Moon Over The Double Bayou — Image by kenne
Moon over the bayou—
cypress knees listening
to slow water.
Somewhere, a night bird
knows the old stories
and keeps them.
Couples turning slowly
under crooked rafters.
Pete Mayes’ band doesn’t rush—
blues knows better.
Every chord says
the night’s still young
if your heart
can hold the rhythm.
— kenne
A Night At The Dance Hall — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Storm Clouds Over The Mountains — Image by kenne
Thunder far away
like a drum
warming up.
The desert waits—
patient as stone—
for the first drop
to strike the dust
and turn it
into hope.
— kenne
