Archive for the ‘Grunge Art’ Category

Wildflower Art   Leave a comment

Golden Columbine — Grunge Art by kenne

Gold on the mountain
With two weeks of monsoon rains
In sea of deep green.

— kenne

Desert Chicory Bouquet   4 comments

Desert Chicory-1303 art blogDesert Chicory Bouquet — Computer Art by kenne

For they spring fresh as the mountain flower
From the heart as pure and free
To my lips, and die for a word of power,
That would tell their depths to thee.
But like the flowers on the mountain side
That bloom through the wind and rain.
I will constant prove, whate’er betide,
Dear friend, though our paths are twain.

— from Mountain Flowers by Louisa Lawson

Cactus Wren Grunge Art   Leave a comment

Cactus Wren Grunge Art-0297 blogCactus Wren Grunge Art by kenne
Art tries to create
     creates 
many possible futures
     futures
in each moment 
     moments
of existence
     existences
choosing reality
     realities 
from our experience
     experiences.

-- kenne


House Wren — An Artistic Technique   Leave a comment

House Wren-0294 art blogHouse Wren — Grunge Art by kenne

“. . . an artistic technique is discipline in spontaneity and spontaneity in discipline.”

— Alan W. Watts

 

In The Moment   Leave a comment

Columbine-1941 Art blogYellow Columbine — Grunge Art by kenne

“The only way we can be free in each moment
is to become what each moment is.”

— Steve Hagen

 

Barn Owl Grunge Art And Words To The Wise   Leave a comment

Barn Owl-0995 art blogBarn Owl — Grunge Art by kenne

Somebody should tell us,
right at the start of our lives,
that we are dying.
Then we might live life to the limit,
every minute of every day.
Do it! I say.

Whatever you want to do,
do it now!

There are only so many tomorrows.

— Pope Paul VI

The Ghosts of Monsoons Past   Leave a comment

Control Road to Crystal SpringGrunge Art by kenne

 

Human Misery

The clock that strikes five before the sun –
A dark horror grips lonely people,
In the evening-garden bleak trees swish,
The dead one’s countenance stirs at the window.
Perhaps this hour stands still.
Before dull eyes blue images flutter
To the rhythm of the ships, which rock in the river.
At the wharf a row of nuns blows by.
Pale and blind girls play in the hazel bush,
Like lovers, who embrace in sleep.
Perhaps flies sing around a carcass there,
Perhaps also a child weeps in the mother’s lap.
From hands asters sink blue and red,
The youth’s mouth slips away strange and wise;
And eyelids flutter fear-confused and quiet;
Through fevered blackness a scent of bread blows.
It seems one also hears horrible screaming;
Bones shimmer through decayed walls.
An evil heart laughs loudly in beautiful rooms;
A dog runs past a dreamer.
An empty coffin gets lost in the darkness.
A room wants to light up palely for the murderer,
Meanwhile, lanterns are smashed in the night’s storm.
Laurel adorns the noble one’s white temple.

— Georg Trakl

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