Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Big Bubbles — Photo Essay   Leave a comment

Big Bubbles (Balboa Park, San Diego, June 21, 2017) — Images by kenne
(Click on any image for a larger view in a slideshow format.)

Chasing big bubbles

You can look but not touch

Art and pretty girls.

— kenne

Sunrise In Lake Charles — Down On The Bayou   Leave a comment

Lake Charles Sunrise-2742 blog

Lake Charles Sunrise-2716 blogSunrise In Lake Charles (May 22, 2017) — Images by kenne

Down On the Bayou

The cypress swamp around me wraps its spell,
With hushing sounds in moss-hung branches there,
Like congregations rustling down to prayer,
While Solitude, like some unsounded bell,
Hangs full of secrets that it cannot tell,
And leafy litanies on the humid air
Intone themselves, and on the tree-trunks bare
The scarlet lichen writes her rubrics well.
The cypress-knees take on them marvelous shapes
Of pygmy nuns, gnomes, goblins, witches, fays,
The vigorous vine the withered gum-tree drapes,
Across the oozy ground the rabbit plays,
The moccasin to jungle depths escapes,
And through the gloom the wild deer shyly gaze.

— Mary Ashley Townsend

Desert Marigold   1 comment

Desert Maragold-2753 blog

Desert Maragold-2756 blogDesert Marigold in Our Yard (June 19, 2017, Tucson, Arizona, 115 degrees)– Images by kenne

Four months without rain
Wildflowers have come and gone
Tell this wildflower.

— kenne

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

Upper Butterfly Trail Panoramas   1 comment

Butterfly Trail Panorama blog-

Butterfly Trail Panorama--3 blog

Butterfly Trail Panorama--2 blogUpper Butterfly Trail in the Santa Catalina Mountains — Panoramas by kenne

Mountains dry and hot

Hot for the Catalinas

Bring on the monsoon.

— kenne

Hotel St. Michael Window   Leave a comment

Prescott-1830 Hotel Window Art blogHotel St. Michael Window (Prescott, Arizona) — Computer Painting by kenne

Window Facing Mine

I look at the window across from my window
seeing nothing inside the hotel walls,
yet I wonder what’s going on in there?

Is somebody or something in there
looking back at me from deep inside
the room with the half-pulled curtain?

I’ve been told of ghosts living here
but I don’t believe in shadows that
move in dark spaces of dark rooms.

Yet, I find myself asking questions
of something I don’t believe — maybe
it’s because I do believe in the shadows.

How many times have I said,
“Only the shadow knows?”
Is it a belief or just an expression?

Ah, those old radio shows have a way
of coming back to haunt me, like brain
droppings making noise when stepped on

as I back away from my window
wondering if I should partially close
the curtains adding to the mystery.

. . . but then, only the shadow knows.

kenne

Soleri Figure Geometriche   1 comment

Arcosanti -1812 art II Soleri Figure Geometriche blogSoleri Figure Geometric — Computer Art by kenne

When Earth’s Last Picture Is Painted

When Earth’s last picture is painted,
And the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colors have faded,
And the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it —
Lie down for an eon or two,
‘Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy
They’ll sit in a golden chair;
They’ll splash at a ten-league canvas
With brushes of comet’s hair;
They’ll find real saints to draw from —
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They’ll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us,
And only the Master shall blame;
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It.
For the God of Things as They Are!

— Rudyard Kipling

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