All women are wounded
Who gather berries, dibble in mottled light.
Turn white roots from humus, crack nuts on stone
High upland with squinted eye
or rest in cedar shade.
Are wounded
In yurt or frame or mothers
Shopping at the outskirts in fresh clothes.
Whose sick eye bleeds the land,
Fast it! thick throat shields from evil,
you young girls
First caught with the gut-cramp
Gather punk wood and sour leaf
keep out of our kitchen.
Your garden plots, your bright fabrics
Clever ways to carry children
Hide
a beauty like season or tide,
sea cries . . .
If there were no words, no way to speak I would still hear you If there were no tears, no way to feel inside I’ve still feel for you
And even if the sun refused to shine Even if romance ran out of rhyme You would still have my heart until the end of time You’re all I need my love, my valentine
All of my life I have been waiting for all you give to me You’ve opened my eyes And shown me how to love unselfishly
I’ve dreamed of this a thousand times before In my dreams I couldn’t love you more I will give you my heart until the end of time You’re all I need my love, my valentine
La la la la la la
And even if the sun refused to shine Even if romance ran out of rhyme You would still have my heart until the end of time ‘Cause all I need is you, my valentine Oh, you’re all I need my love, my valentine
“In a world ruled by photographic images, all borders (“framing”) seem arbitrary. Anything can be separated, can be made discontinuous from anything else: all that is necessary is to frame the subject differently.”
Last weekend, as I stood in front of those attending the celebration of life services for my brother Tom, I couldn’t help but notice the tears on the face of a dark-haired women among those attending. I had not yet met this beautiful women, so I had no idea who she was.
Knowing that some of Tom’s former students would be in attendance, I was not surprised when she came up to me after the service, with tears still in her eyes, and introduced herself — Ana Claudia, one of Tom’s former students. We embraced with the affection of dear friends seeing one another after years of being apart. For Ana, I was channeling Couch Turner, something that is second-nature for me since my brother and I are kindred spirits. We talked, drifting from the present to the past and back, her tears of joy still on her face.
As we talked and hugged, Ana shared something she had posted on Facebook after the death of Coach Turner:
I don’t often share my feelings on here,
but today I have a good reason to do so.
I’ve often thought about how blessed I am
for having had tough but kind coaches
and mentors throughout my life.
I am grateful beyond words
that good-hearted people took time
to help keep a poor immigrant kid from the hood
on a path towards a positive life
that included the desire to give back or pay it forward.
I know most of you didn’t know him but in honor of him,
I want to say that among all of those good people
none made more of a difference
in my life than this good man — Coach Turner.
He passed away yesterday and now,
here I sit openly weeping still, smiling,
and remembering him not only as a coach,
but also as a mentor, a defender, a family friend, and even a father.
I’ll never forget you Coach Turner. Thank you from my heart.
— Ana Claudia
I have no doubt that her words are shared by so many of his former students. He was a special man who liked using the power of his vocabulary to impress those around him, but for Tom his ability to share his feeling was more powerful the words. Like all of us, he had his demons, but above all, “Bobby”, my little brother, knew the value of caring and sharing.
In the form of a elegy, I share the last two stanzas from Federico Garcia Lorca’s, “A Dream of Life”:
No one knows you. No one. But I sing you — sing your profile and your grace, for later on. The signal ripeness of your mastery. The way you sought death out, savored its taste. The sadness just beneath your gay valor.
Not soon, if ever, will Andalusia see so towering a man, so venturesome. I sing his elegance with words that moan and remember a sad breeze in the olive groves.
(CLICK ON ANY OF THE FOLLOWING IMAGES TO VIEW SLIDESHOW FORMAT.)
This past Sunday, in a drizzling chilly rain, I was with my nieces Vanessa and Lisa scattering their dad’s ashes at Meydenbauer Beach Park where they often spent time with their dad. Joy and I first visited the park in the mid-eighties and with the passing of time the park has changed — then a more rustic park with a lot more trees and shrubs. Either way, it’s still a beautiful park on Meydenbauer Bay on Lake Washington. Among the stories the girls shared as we walked together in the park was of their dad running from their home in Bellevue to the park — running directly into the water, which sounds a lot like Tom.
Knowing that we would be with Vanessa and Lisa as they scattered their dad’s ashes, Joy and I traveled to Seattle with some of Grandma Agnes’s aches so they would be scattered together. Since we had an “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner” ceremony Saturday in the Main Hall at Camp Long in West Seattle, there was no formal scattering of ashes ceremony — just Vanessa and daughter Violet, Lisa, Joy and me. Vanessa’s husband Jon was home with son Henry, and Lisa’s husband Mike home with son Austin. The scattering of ashes at Meydenbauer Beach Park was the way Tom would have wanted it, intimate and personal.
This coming May 23 we will be remembering Tom’s birthday with the Dylan Thomas line he always sent to me on my birthday:
“…High Among Beaks and Palavers of Vultures He Celebrates and Spurns His Driftwood SEVENTY-THIRD Wind Turned Age…”
In your honor, Tom, we will keep searching for clarity . . . lucidity.
kenne
Walking down to the beach
View from beach
Joy and Vanessa
Vanessa, Kenne and Lisa
Vanessa, Kenne and Lisa
Violet, Vanessa, Kenne and Lisa
Vanessa, Lisa and Kenne
Lisa with her dad’s ashes
Kenne with Tom’s ashes
Violet and Vanessa
Vanessa, Kenne and Lisa
Leaving Meydenbauer Beach Park
The following poem ended Saturday’s “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner” ceremony.
A Clear Midnight
by Walt Whitman
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.
(Go To kenneturner.com to see all the “Becoming is Superior to Being” Postings.)
Thomas R. Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
Today we are flying to Seattle to be with my brother’s daughters, Vanessa and Lisa and their families and friends to celebrate his life in words that communicate thoughts and feelings manifested in knowledge, experience and love.
My brother often shared and laughed about the closeness to home the following Woody Allen quote was for us:
“It reminds me of that old joke – you know, a guy walks into a psychiatrist’s office and says, hey doc, my brother’s crazy! He thinks he’s a chicken.
Then the doc says, why don’t you turn him in?
Then the guy says, I would but I need the eggs.
I guess that’s how I feel about relationships. They’re totally crazy, irrational, and absurd, but we keep going through it because we need the eggs.”
Saturday’s celebration of Tom’s (aka, Bobby) life will include a “sharing” program, because we need the eggs!
You may call me Tommy, you may call me Jimmy
You may call me Bobby, you may call me Zimmy
You may call me T.R, you may call me Ray
You may call me anything but no matter what you say.
You’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed You’re gonna have to serve somebody, Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord But you’re gonna have to serve somebody.
— minor changes to Bob Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody”
Click to see a pdf file of “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner.” Tom’s Celebration
Shoot em Up, Texan! (French Quarter, December 27, 2014) — Image by kenne
It is scientifically proven that the sight of red makes you hungrier than any other color. For me, the sight of orange makes me want to drink more than any other color — and run in the other direction.
Thomas R. Turner, On The Waterfront (June 2, 2006) — Image by Mary Ann
Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It’s abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we’ll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you?
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.
Kate and Jaxon — Image by kenne
Fairy Duster (February 9, 2015) — Image by kenne
“Sisters” Joy and Jody (June 2, 2003) — Image by kenne
Tear Drops Keep Falling — Image by kenne
Ana Claudia 
Coach Turner
Turner with some of his track students
Panorama View of Meydenbauer Bay, Bellevue, WA 
Thomas R. Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
How much longer before we will be there?
I’m not having fun! I’m tired! I’m hunger! Let’s stop now!
This is not where I wanted to eat! I don’t like the food! 
I will disrupt others trying to eat. Time for a selfie.
Shoot em Up, Texan! (French Quarter, December 27, 2014) — Image by kenne
Christmas Coach — Photo-Artistry by kenne
A Newly Found Trophy — Image by kenne
Thomas R. Turner, On The Waterfront (June 2, 2006) — Image by Mary Ann
