Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
Joy Shopping in Nogales, Mexico — Image by kenne
You walk past the stalls,
shirts, saints, silver rings—
everything waiting to be chosen.
But it’s the shadows
that cling to you,
as if they know your name.
— kenne
Abstract Art Created Two Decades Ago by kenne
Squares, circles, planes of color—disciplined, contained. The frame is not neutral; it domesticates abstraction. What once might have provoked now decorates. The eye registers order, but the mind asks: order toward what end?
— kenne
Cocklebur Art by kenne
In the wide austerity of the Sonoran Desert
even weeds should have some dignity.
But cockleburs—
they cling, they crowd, they conquer
without grace.
I admire their tenacity,
then curse it,
then carefully walk by.
— kenne
Clouds Over the Desert — Image by kenne
Clouds roll lazily over the desert sky,
late light bending low—
like Bob Dylan humming
through an iPhone.
Nothing to hold on to
but the way the day lets go.
— kenne
Two Couples On the Edge — Image by kenne
Tourists whisper,
ravens circle.
Four figures at the rim,
two arm in arm
above the wide breathing earth.
Even here, at the Grand Canyon,
love tries to hold the horizon.
Click.
The photograph holds them
for a moment.
— kenne
Early Morning in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
Morning spills gold through the canyon.
A cactus lifts its arms
as if remembering a prayer.
I walk beneath it and hear
the quiet voice of Rumi:
The road you walk
is walking you home
— kenne
Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw — Image by kenne
All winter the valley
held their voices.
Now the wind opens a door
and thousands rise—
long necks, slow wings,
syllables of change.
Somewhere north
a river bends
and already expects them.
Migration is simply
love moving
toward its next body.
— kenne
Sandhill Cranes Preparing to Migrate North — image by kenne
The marsh holds them a little longer,
a shallow mirror of sky and bone-colored light.
They stand in the water
like thoughts that haven’t resolved,
tall, uncertain,
beautiful in their hesitation.
Even migration
has its hour of doubt.
— kenne
Marine Blues On Moist Rocks Near a Mountain Stream — Image by kenne
Butterflies on moist rocks,
suddenly the world makes sense.
Color speaking to color,
wing touching wind.
Yes, I think—
this is how things work.
Then, the butterflies lift,
vanish off the rocks,
and the rocks stand alone
with their quiet question.
I get it.
Then I don’t.
— kenne
Broadbilled Hummingbird — Image by kenne
You say,
“It’s just another hummingbird day.”
But look—
a small green flame
hovering in the air
like a thought the world is having.
Every morning
the universe practices this trick:
wings faster than worry,
a heart beating like a tiny drum of praise.
Tell me again
what you mean
by ordinary.
— kenne
Bluebird Preening on a Limb — Image by kenne
A bluebird, occupied with itself—
feather drawn through beak,
a ritual of care.
The image slips out of focus.
What should be a failure
is kept—
because the blur records
a life unwilling to be stilled.
— kenne
Fiery Skipper Butterfly — Image by kenne
A butterfly no bigger
than a thumbprint
arrives in the yard
carrying sunlight
on its shoulders.
It rests on a flower
as the earth whispers:
Pay attention.
Even the smallest flame
was sent
to remind you
how to live.
— kenne
Abstract Art by kenne
There is something endearingly human
about the need to measure, compare,
and quietly panic.
Nature, however,
is uninterested in your tape measure.
It built the mechanism
for function, not for applause—
though applause, historically,
has been enthusiastically sought.
— kenne
Common Green Darner Dragonflies — Image by kenne
two green helicopters
hooked together
like they don’t give a damn
who’s watching.
the pond water barely moves.
a red-wing blackbird mouths off.
life keeps doing
what life does—
no speeches,
no apologies.
— kenne
(In November of 2012, Tom Markey and I posted an article, Ecocide Arizona Style — The Cow That Ate The West.
The article was about the disappearing water in the San Simon Valley in southeast Arizona. This poem suggest the verdict is in.)
Ecocide Arizona Style
The west is dying of thirst.
You can hear it in the cracked riverbeds,
in cottonwoods gone skeletal,
in the silence where frogs used to sing.
The Colorado staggers,
a vein opened too long,
bled for lawns,
for swimming pools,
for another desert empire of cul-de-sacs.
This is not drought—
this is the verdict.
We were warned,
and we kept on building
as if the sky were infinite.
Mark it well:
when the last drop dries,
sand covers the southwest,
the desert will not mourn us.
It will simply
take itself back.
— kenne
