Climate Change by kenne
The sky in the painting
wears a bruise of smoke,
a dark reminder
of what burns beyond the frame.
Archive for the ‘Photo-Artistry’ Category
Clemate Change Leave a comment
The Photographer 2 comments
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 3 comments
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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Home Sweet Home Leave a comment
Image by kenne
Autumn Still Life
Multicolored corn dried on the cob,
gourds huddle like friends in conversation—
their skins rough, their colors honest.
We gather, too,
carrying the years in our faces,
the joy in our hearts.
Outside, the wind shifts—
a hush before winter.
For a moment,
everything feels painted
in the same theme:
the harvest,
the stories,
the tender ache
of being here again.
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Self-Portrait Titled Intellectual Ignorance 4 comments
Self-portrait (07/30/10,11:36:01 PM)
Self-Portrait Titled Intellectual Ignorance
yeah,
that’s what I called it.
sounded clever at the time—
like I knew something
about the world.
I had read Sartre and Camus,
underlined all the wrong lines,
and drank enough cheap bourbon
to mistake despair for wisdom.
I thought too much,
said too little,
wrote like a man digging
with a spoon.
the mirror didn’t care.
it just looked back—
same tired eyes,
of a life pretending
to be deep.
call it what you want,
a portrait,
a confession,
a joke—
hell, maybe I got it right after all:
it is intellectual ignorance
to think I could ever
paint myself true.
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Fall Colors Become Artificial Leave a comment
Photo-artistry by kenne
Mt. Lemmon’s fall colors become artificial near the fenceline
By the time you reach the fenceline,
where the last maples lean against the fence
and the ground tilts toward Tucson,
the color has gone plastic—
a red too red, a yellow borrowed
from a gas station sign.
The trees remember what’s expected of them,
how the tourists need their postcard.
A kid poses for her mother’s phone,
and the mountain obliges,
spilling out one last bit of October
for the algorithm.
You stand by the fence—
the smell of sap and exhaust mingling
and think of the men who built
the road you drove up on.
Their sweat staining the stone still,
their laughter lost somewhere
between true color and paint.
The wind tries to speak again,
but no one listens.
The leaves keep shining
in their counterfeit glory,
each one a small rebellion
already fading.
— kenne
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Golden Columbine Leave a comment
Golden Columbine — Image by kenne
Late September
You shouldn’t still be here.
The cold has already taken the others.
Frost waits in the dark.
I stop, look at you.
A mistake,
outlasting your season.
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Sunglasses Leave a comment
Sunglasses Reflect the World — Photo-artistry by kenne
Sunglasses
I keep looking at your sunglasses,
not at you exactly,
but at the little universe
spilled across those mirrored lenses.
It makes me wonder
how many lives are passing by—
whole afternoons playing out
in the dark curve of your glasses,
while you sit calmly,
eyes hidden,
as if you were listening to music
I cannot hear.
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Artifacts Leave a comment
Still Life Image by kenne
Artifacts
We didn’t mean to make a museum—
it just happened.
Years stacked themselves in frames and shelves,
the way dust does, quietly,
without asking permission.
Now the walls speak:
my stubbornness pressed into a spine
of half-read philosophy.
We’ve kept the things that define us,
as if permanence could be persuaded
with enough sentiment and shelving.
It’s funny—
how a life becomes evidence.
The art we hung to express us,
the photos that swore we were young,
the books that pretended to explain us—
all of it now a kind of proof
that we were here,
fumbling toward meaning,
sometimes touching it
in the half-light between arguments
and morning coffee.
Getting on in life,
we walk through this quiet archive—
two curators of our own becoming,
grateful,
bewildered,
still hoping the next chapter
won’t forget to be kind.
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A Ghost In The Sunset 2 comments
The Ghost of Brother Tom At Sunset — Image by kenne
Brother Tom at Sunset
Long white beard—
ghost in the low light,
edges blurred,
dust lifting from stone.
He stands quiet,
as if listening
to the earth breathe.
Sky bleeds orange,
then violet—
a spirit walking
the shore line.
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Canyon Last Light 1 comment
Grand Canyon, Last Light — Image by kenne
Canyon, Last Light
Gold runs
over stone’s edge—
the gorge split,
river burning,
already gone.
Shadow climbs,
slow & certain,
taking what
the sun leaves.
The sky cracks,
silent furnace
cooling.
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Ashamed, yeah — 4 comments
Photo-artistry by kenne
ashamed, yeah—
to be american,
to watch the lies crawl
out of every tv set,
to see men with soft hands
wave flags
while kids go hungry.
this isn’t a dream,
it’s a bad hangover
that won’t end.
still,
I light up a smoke,
watch the sun drag itself
over the busted horizon,
and wonder
how much longer
before the whole damn thing
goes up in flames.
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Two Pods On A Pin Cushion Cactus Leave a comment
Two Fruit Pods On A Pin Cushion Cactus — Image by kenne
Two Fruit Pods
Two red pods
bursting out
the pin cushion cactus—
bright as tongues,
bright as blood,
bright against the gray.
They lean together
like gossip,
like twins whispering
a secret the desert
already knows.
All around them—
a crown of black hooks,
barbed & bent,
curved like questions,
like the hard hands
that guard sweetness.
Still those pods shine—
two small suns
no thorn can hide,
fruit pulled
from a bed of needles,
offered up anyway.
— kenne
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My Stardust Dreams Leave a comment
My Stardust Dreams — Grunge Art by kenne
My Stardust Dreams
Past, resisting replay,
but for the stardust of yesterdays—
yesterdays imparting
their quiet time and place,
gently massaging forgotten dreams.
Dreams giving clues
to stardust memories,
memories fading for now,
yet reborn in imagination.
Imagination touching the soul,
engaging new moments—
moments steeped in rapture,
in the joy of our love.
Love, living yesterday’s stardust,
the music of today’s legends—
legends lighting our essence,
the fragile flame
upon which the future rests.
— kenne
The taboo against nakedness is an obstacle to a decent attitude on the subject of sex.
— Bertrand Russell; Marriage and Morals; 1929
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Shades Of Gray 3 comments
Shades of Gray — Computer Painting by kenne
In Spinoza’s eye
the body is not carved in light
or swallowed in darkness,
but lives in shades of gray—
a continuum of motion,
substance unfolding
without division.
No soul above,
no flesh below,
only parallel lines
where thought and body
trace the same curve.
Each gesture,
each ache,
each quiet breath—
a necessary note
in the gray music
of existence.
