Vermillion Cliffs National Monument — Image by kenne
Boots in desert sand,
a hidden canyon opens—
stone shaped into waves.
Hand upon the curve,
motion carved into stillness,
time becomes the tide.
Heat of noon above,
I stand inside the silence,
carried by the earth.
Monsoon Clouds Over The Catalinas — Image by kenne
Over the Catalinas,
monsoon clouds rise like mountains
upon the mountain—
rolling, swelling, breaking light
into silver and shadow.
In black and white,
the desert’s colors fall away,
yet the drama deepens:
every ridge sharpened,
every fold of stone
wrapped in the storm’s unfinished script.
The sky is restless charcoal,
the peaks a pale bone line—
between them
the promise of rain,
the hush before thunder speaks.
Old Man In Morning Sunlight — Image by kenne
— kenne
Artist In Sabino Canyon by kenne
— Jan Blencowe
A New Orleans Moment (12/27/14) — Image by kenne
— Bob Dylan
Alamos, Sonora Farmers Market — Black & White Image by kenne
— kenne
Old Abandoned House (Alamos, Sonora, January 28, 2016) — Image by kenne
— kenne
Mexican Village General Store (January 28, 2016) — Image by kenne
Morning is Bright — B&W Image by kenne
— kenne
Black and White by Man In A Room
Grilling Flatbread (Alamos, Sonora, January 27,2016) — Images by kenne
— kenne
Treetop Morning Clouds (January 31, 2015) — Image by kenne
— kenne
“Time present and time past . . .” — Image by kenne
— T. S. Eliot
Tom Turner (Seattle, June 12, 2000) — Image by kenne
Poverties, Wincings, and Sulky Retreats
Ah poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats,
Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me,
(For what is my life or any man’s life but a conflict with foes,
the old, the incessant war?)
You degredations, you tussle with passions and appetites,
You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds the
sharpest of all!)
You toil of painful and choked articulations, you meannesses,
You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shallowest of
any;)
You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother’d
ennuis!
Ah think not you finally triumph, my real self has yet to come
forth,
It shall yet march forth o’ermastering, till all lies beneath me,
It shall yet stand up the soldier of ultimate victory.
— Walt Whitman
Tom sent this Whitman poem to me the day before my 65th birthday — “I knew you would like it.”
He was correct!
The Arches of Del Sol — Image by kenne
— kenne
Dead Tree In A Black And Gray Box Window — Image by kenne
— kenne
