Archive for the ‘Photo-Artistry’ Category
Backlot props — Image by kenne
I wander the dusty backlot of Old Tucson
where a broken wagon wheel leans
against a wall the color of old adobe.
A sign reads Props, but really,
who can tell?
Everything here looks equally retired—
the wooden crates, the tin stars,
the barrel with no bottom.
I stand there wondering
if this is what happens to a life too:
all our moments stored behind a door
labeled with someone else’s handwriting.
— kenne
Sandhill Cranes at Waterwater Drew — Image by kenne
The cranes croak and rattle in the dawn
like rusty hinges on the world’s back door.
I like their honesty—
no pretense, no apology.
Just hunger, cold feet, long flight,
and the ancient duty of returning.
The desert approves.
So do I.
— kenne
Photo-artistry by kenne
There is a thin, vibrating line
between breaking and becoming.
Every life presses against it.
In the quiet,
you can feel your own edges—
the places where you diminish,
the places where you bloom.
Fragility is the instrument,
transformation the music,
survival the performance
no one applauds
yet everyone enacts.
— kenne
Raven In the Storm — Image by kenne
The raven grips the crooked limb
as if the whole sky might slip away.
Clouds bruise the distance.
Wind tugs at every loose thing—
except this raven,
who has already made a pact
with the storm.
— kenne
Duende speaks without permission — Image by kenne
Duende can’t be rehearsed
it blooms suddenly—
dark, luminous, and real,
flooding the room with soul.
— kenne
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vI72kyy2Ius&list=RDvI72kyy2Ius&start_radio=1
Gila Woodpecker — Photo-artistry by kenne
Gila Woodpecker
comes in loud,
like a drunk at noon,
runs the little birds off,
takes what isn’t his—
sweet red from
the humminbird glass.
I don’t blame him.
world’s built that way—
noise wins,
beauty keeps its distance.
still,
I raise my coffee,
to the bastard.
— kenne
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
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
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.
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.
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
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
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
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
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
