Archive for the ‘Photo-Artistry’ Category
Water Lily Painting by kenne
The scene feels almost meditative—
water lilies glowing
against the cool pond surface,
inviting you to linger a little longer.
— kenne
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Patio Nightlight — Image by kenne
A solar jar sits glowing on the patio,
quiet as a candle,
turning leftover daylight
into a soft evening companion.
— kenne
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Aging by kenne
A beard teaches patience:
days become weeks,
weeks become memory.
You learn what it means
to grow slowly,
and not mind the uneven parts.
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Hands in Soil (2005) by kenne
Hands in soil,
the old language returns—
shared labor,
shared laughter,
the first vines trembling in their beds of earth.
This is how belonging begins:
not in words,
but in what we choose
to plant together.
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Smiling Sun On the Wall — Photo-artistry by kenne
At solstice, the shadow holds still,
a perfect exposure.
The wall remembers the sun
not as warmth,
but as form—
enduring, exact, and silent.
— kenne
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Street Musician — Portrait by kenne
A cowboy with a ukulele—
hell, I’ve seen stranger things.
He’s strumming “Blue Moon”
like it’s the last beer in town.
The mustache curls like smoke—
every note a small mercy
for a world gone rough.
Kids stare,
a dog yawns,
the street sways a little
in the rhythm of don’t care.
— kenne
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Front Range Snow On the Catalinas — Image by kenne
Sun breaks over the Rincons,
throws gold sideways
onto Catalina snow.
Raven rides a thermal
rising from bare rock,
circle over circle—
energy borrowed
from sun,
stone,
air,
everything.
Nothing mystical—
just earth doing
what earth does.
And me,
lucky to stand in it.
— kenne
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Boat On a Mountain Lake — Photo-artistry by kenne
Beached Boat On Calm Lake
A small boat, half on land, half in dream—
the bow kissing mud, stern still drifting
in a lake so still it remembers everything.
The forest leans in, studying itself,
pines doubled in the water,
each trunk a question about what’s real.
No wind, no engine, no men with plans—
just the slow breath of morning
and the smell of wet cedar and rust.
This is how the world looks
when it forgets we’re watching—
balanced between use and surrender.
— kenne
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Image by kenne
This morning I read an article by Jorge Guerra Pires on the question of whether the universe requires a supernatural designer often centers on the idea of “fine-tuning.” Proponents of the Strong Anthropic Principle (SAP) argue that the delicate balance of cosmological and physical constants provides “irrefutable proof of a creator God”. This argument posits that life-prohibiting universes are vastly more probable than ours, suggesting that our existence — which mathematician Roger Penrose calculated rests on odds of $1$ in $10^{10^{123}}$ possible states — is “wildly improbable” by chance.
Rather than responding directly on the fine-tuning argument, I decided to write a poem:
At the edge of the observable,
light runs out of breath.
Beyond it waits
either an architect
whose blueprints were constants,
or a vast ensemble
of unseen realms
rolling cosmic dice.
Both are grand.
Both are unprovable.
Yet here we are—
a thin film of consciousness
spread across a pale planet
that shouldn’t exist
and yet does.
The mystery is not which answer is correct.
The mystery is that
we were given the question.
— kenne
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Three One-Mast Boats — Art by Katie Turner Bailey
Drifting In Time
Three masts pierce the dying sky.
One carries fire.
One carries shadows.
One carries nothing—
yet the sea claims all.
Time leans close.
The horizon burns.
And we hear,
from somewhere deep,
their slow, doomed song.
— kenne
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Thanksgiving Image by kenne
Today I praise the harvest of living—
not only the corn and squash,
but the laughter, the bruises healed,
the hands that worked, the feet that carried us.
I give thanks for every face
that has leaned toward mine in kindness.
To the great republic of souls,
I celebrate you all.
— kenne
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Climate Change II by kenne
From space, the planet cracks—
thin blue seams opening
like a whispered grief
the universe can finally hear.
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Climate Change by kenne
The sky in the painting
wears a bruise of smoke,
a dark reminder
of what burns beyond the frame.
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Photo-artistry by kenne
The Photographer
He lifts the camera
as if confessing—
the lens a small mercy
between himself and beauty.
Each click
is a way of saying I see you,
and also I can’t bear to lose you.
In the mountains,
he photographs what he loves,
and what he knows
will never belong to him.
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Rainbow with a Tucson Flare — Image by kenne
Rainbow with a Tucson Flare
It arrived like a verdict—
that rainbow—
arched over Tucson’s broken breath,
a spectrum laid upon a land
too used to drought
and good intentions gone brittle.
People came out with phones,
hungry for wonder,
proof that heaven still had
a marketing department.
The rain had barely quit falling,
and already
the city’s thirst began again—
for color,
for meaning,
for something to share.
Out by the wash,
the saguaros
kept their arms raised,
not in praise,
but interrogation.
Each thorn a question
no sermon could answer.
The rainbow lingered,
a flag without allegiance,
a bruise across the sky.
Then—
light slipped,
the air forgot its promise,
and Tucson returned
to its long work
of surviving beauty.
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