Dancing to the Blues in Houston (3/9/08) — Image by kenne
A slow blues drifts through the club.
The dancers move closer together,
letting the rhythm do the work.
Around them, the city stretches for miles—
freeways, refineries, neighborhoods, and histories—
all somehow finding their way into the music.
For a few minutes,
the whole of Houston
seems to be keeping time.
Sunrise — Image by kenne
Morning Path
Life begins at dawn,
the world does not ask
where you have been.
It asks only
whether you are ready
to take the next step.
Shades of Red Sunset — Image by kenne
A red sunset
rests upon Tucson
like a hand
on an old friend’s shoulder.
The mountains listen.
The ocotillo stands still.
Even the wind
seems content to wait.
Then slowly,
almost tenderly,
the color fades,
leaving the desert
richer for having held it.
We Share A Moment In The Texas Hill Country — Image by kenne
The sun slips down
behind the live oaks.
We raise our glasses
to nothing in particular—
which turns out
to be everything.
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
