Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home — #1   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the first of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Rough and the Title of a Blues Album.)

Standing above me in Smith's room 
Awkwardly looking down through a clipped hesitancy 
Our lives came together. 
TURNER 
With all the ambiguity that last name usage implies 
Was what she called me. 
Mannerisms of ingenuousness and a tendency toward the atypical 
Bespoke your ambiance  
                                     (Ineffably I wanted Her) 

That voice - 
Falsetto 
Laced in bursts of Peter's guffaws 
Seemed contrived with a dreamed-of authenticity.  

                                      (Your mouth, my love,the
                                       thistle in the kiss?) 

From within mutually cancelling 
Vignettes of naturalness and gender-cliche' 
She kissed through closed lips of 
Pristine openness. 
Innocently I loved. 

Through summer notes of vulnerability 
Together we embraced an entangled growth of uncertainty  

                                       (Our fictions were tempered in
                                        a painful and inward time) 

Desperate needs equivocated against ordained directions and 
Dead-end holdings of night-bakery-work. 
Even then yours wasn't other-directed but 
A need to keep the Self-absorption of your Ann Arbor soul on a 
Pedastal of conforming difference. 
Eliptically we lived in the interstices 
Between an illusion of  
Fulfillment and letters etched with 
"Know what?"

 

Welcome Home   1 comment

Welcome-72-2.jpgWelcome Home– Image by kenne

And as I turn home where
I know you are already awake,
Wandering slowly through the house
Searching for me, I can suddenly
Hear my own footsteps crunching
The simple astonishing news
That we are here,
Yes, we are still here.

— from “Dawn Walk” by Edward Hirsch

 

Butterfly Photo-Artistry   1 comment

Butterfly-art-72.jpgPainter Lady — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This painted lady
Flying over the landscape
Found me attractive.

— kenne

 

I-10 In West Texas   1 comment

I 10 B-W (1 of 1)-72I-10 In West Texas — Image by kenne

I-10 —
A road
That never leads
To nowhere.

— kenne

Wondering What’s Next   1 comment

Bug Springs Panorama IMG_2665-72Tucson Basin As Viewed From The Bug Springs Trail In The Santa Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne

Looking back on time
Sharing beautiful vistas
Wondering what’s next.

— kenne

Bougainvilleas: Love/Hate Relationship   Leave a comment

Bougainvia-72Bougainvillea — Image by kenne

We all love the beautiful Bougainvillea blossoms. They add a lot of color to the Tucson landscape. However, maintaining them can be very frustrating. For starters, they have very long thorns, so pruning must be done very carefully, and they will die at the first frost, which can happen easily since we live near a wash allowing the cold night air to drop lower than the surrounding areas.

He loves bougainvilleas
but hated the thorns.
He wanted to know
why all beauty came
with such pain and
was it as answer less as
where eggs came from
when life is all about the eggs,
“because we need the eggs.”

— kenne

 

Aspen Colors On Mt. Lemmon   Leave a comment

Aspen Draw Fall Colors-8406-72.jpgAspen Colors On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne

LEAVES

Dearly beloved, we are gathered
here together today to look into
the face of the river.
One of us has stayed at home
to rake the leaves,
gathering those poor tears
shed for the rest of us.
If there is one among you
who sees in the face of the river
your own, please step forward
and identify the source of your
wealth. If not, can you give us
a thumbnail sketch 
of the important philosophers
in Golden Greece?

An old cedar stood  by,
simply thankful she existed.
And a young fox, who had
neither dreams nor feelings
in the French.
And the one at a distance
raking the leaves did not
think of them as tears,
but as simple toil, conducted
without compromise.
In the sweet fresh morning
how good it was to be alone
with potato paring filling
his mind. To whom should he speak?
There was no one but the leaves
and the leaves did not feel
he had anything worth saying.

— Mary Ruefle

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