Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Modern Woman   Leave a comment

 Modern Woman — Photo-Artistry by kenne

When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

— Maya Angelou, Phenomenal Woman

A Grassy Meadow Known As Thimble Flat   Leave a comment

A Grassy Meadow Known as Thimble Flat  (Thimble Peak On the Left) — Image by kenne

Thimble Flat

We gathered early one November morning,

now we were going to turn words into action 

by hiking six miles to climb Thimble Peak.

Starting at the Gordon Hirabayashi Campground, 

we hiked the Sycamore Canyon trail to the

Bear Canyon trail, then leaving the trail at a flat

grassy meadow called Thimble Flat to traverse

around a deep gulley, making our way through rocks

and brush to the base of Thimble Peak, where we paused

to determine the best way to climb this pinnacle on a

mountain ridge, overlooking Tucson known as Thimble Peak.

— kenne

Canyon Hymn   1 comment

Canyons Near Moab, Utah — Image by kenne

A Canyon Hymn 

My place of worship has sandstone walls
Arches are altars and ledges become pews.
There are rafters of gnarled cottonwood limbs
Hidden alcove gardens are my inner sanctum.
Gods send messages down the aisles
In raging flash floods and down-canyon breezes.
After-storm rainbows are my stained glass
And potholes are the tadpole’s baptismal fonts.
Scriptures are revealed in images pecked and painted
On rock surface patina and sheltered cliff faces
While holy water seeps clear or flows blood red.
My collection plate is passed around by the BLM
And I stuff it with permit fees
At the end of each guiding season.

— Vaughn Hadenfeldt

 

Where Are We?   Leave a comment

Where Are We? (Doubtful Canyon) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

One hazel lost a leaf of gold
From a tuft at the tip, when the first voice told
The other he wished to know what ’twould be
To be sixty by this same post. “You shall see,”
He laughed—and I had to join his laughter—
“You shall see; but either before or after,
Whatever happens, it must befall,
A mouthful of earth to remedy all
Regrets and wishes shall freely be given;
And if there be a flaw in that heaven
’Twill be freedom to wish, and your wish may be
To be here or anywhere talking to me,
No matter what the weather, on earth,
At any age between death and birth,
To see what day or night can be,
The sun and the frost, the land and the sea,
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,—
With a poor man of any sort, down to a king,
Standing upright out in the air
Wondering where he shall journey, O where?”
 
— from The Sign-Post by Edward Thomas
 

Desert Beauty — Drafting In The Moment   2 comments

Desert Beauty — Image by kenne

The drifting sands

hug and cover the cactus

showing only its light

not letting me see

its shadows embracing

my passions intensely.

— kenne

Where The Water Runs Dry — Revisited   Leave a comment

Santa Cruz River South of Tucson — Image by kenne

We live in a land

where the water

runs dry,

the supply 

no longer sustainable

from the sky.

There was a time

when nature

met the need

until it met

the adversary,

greed.

— kenne

No Passage   Leave a comment

No Passage (Doubtfull Pass In Doubtfull Canyon)– Image by kenne

At one time

a stagecoach route.

Now, no passage 

without a key —

private property,

keep out,

no hunting,

call this number —

really, out in the 

middle of nowhere.

— kenne

 

Wildflowers On Esperero Trail   Leave a comment

Esperero Trail Wildflowers In Sabino Canyon (Spring 2013) — Image by kenne

What lies in the heart

of a hiker is that a

spiritual landscape exists

within the visual landscape

something fleeting in the land,

a moment when shape, color,

and movement intensify

revealing something sacred

leading to another level of reality.

— kenne

Twisted Wire In Doubtful Canyon   Leave a comment

Twisted Wire In Doubtful Canyon — Image by kenne

Southwest Ridge
 
When the sun rises over the mountains,
the air is still cool,
                   meaning that by the end of the day,
                                          when the sun has crossed
                         the main ridge and gives light to
                                    the other side the air is hot
                                                             ­    and dry.
                   This means that trees growing on the
                                         northeast face of any given
                         mountains flourish, while the southwest face
                                                        is generally left barren-

              there are, however, always a few brave
                                    tufts of foliage
                         who dare to challenge the
                                                       infernal heat
                                        and survive.

                                                       ­                                      so too,
                                                            ­                        with people.

— JC Lucas

Homebound — Pandemic Art   Leave a comment

‘Homebound’ — Pandemic Art  by kenne

The Days Blur

The days blur as we self-quarantine, to make less work for others.
The days blur, the spot on the floor next to my bed, my feet land with a thud
and I am IT director, chef, housekeeper, nurse, and tele-worker all before 9am.
The days blur, my hand on backs, foreheads, my ears alert for coughing,
thermometer at the hip like a gunslinger.
The days blur, I touch my husband, so I don’t forget what it feels like.
The days blur from rain or crying, the world a watery vision framed by window panes.
The days blur until it’s midnight, 1am—I’ve waited out the cacophony
of children for a silence smothered in anxiety. Privilege is a house,
the hum of a deep freezer, a steady job.
The days blur and my waistband expands as my mind frays, needing a hem.
The days blur and the wound I am oozes, the scab yet to start.
The days blur and racists fight for the right to be served—humanity is a bauble
and capitalism has slashed the price.
The days blur as COVID types its initials on a new high score and doctors adjust the margins.
The days blur and when I finally walk out my door, the world will be less, not more.

Teri Ellen Cross Davis

Days Of Drought In April   Leave a comment

Coyote Fence — Photo-Artistry by kenne

  April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
 
— from The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot
 
 

Rock Hibiscus On Hope Camp Trail   2 comments

Rock Hibiscus on Hope Camp Trail — Image by kenne

A Rock Hibiscus

Almost abandoned by spring

Lonely on the trail.

— kenne

 

Coyote Fence Corral   Leave a comment

Coyote Fence Corral In Doubtful Canyon — Images by kenne

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
                                           If there were water
   And no rock
   If there were rock
   And also water
   And water
   A spring
   A pool among the rock
   If there were the sound of water only
   Not the cicada
   And dry grass singing
   But sound of water over a rock
   Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
   Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
   But there is no water

— from The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot 

Shopping In Nogales   Leave a comment

Shopping in Nogales — Photo-Artistry by kenne

A walk through the shops

You can find most anything

Very organic.

— kenne

Spring — Bees On A Thistle   2 comments

Bees On A Thistle — Image by kenne

Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know.

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

The spikes of the crocus.

The smell of the earth is good.

It is apparent that there is no death.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay 

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