A Proud Father With His Children, Dave and Kate, on This Father’s Day and Kate’s 48th Birthday, 2025
Archive for the ‘Dylan Thomas’ Tag
Her Driftwood Forty-Eighth Wind Turned Age Leave a comment
On My Birthday 8 comments
Digital kenne On His Birthday
He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood eighty-forth wind turned age
— lines from Poem On His Birthday by Dylan Thomas
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Low Clouds In The Catalina Mountains Leave a comment
Low Clouds In The Santa Catalina Mountains Panorama — Image by kenne
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
— from Fern Hill Dylan Thomas
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We Walk Into The Trees Leave a comment
Autumn Trees On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Being But Men
Being but men, we walked into the trees
Afraid, letting our syllables be soft
For fear of waking the rooks,
For fear of coming
Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries.
If we were children we might climb,
Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,
And, after the soft ascent,
Thrust out our heads above the branches
To wonder at the unfailing stars.
Out of confusion, as the way is,
And the wonder, that man knows,
Out of the chaos would come bliss.
That, then, is loveliness, we said,
Children in wonder watching the stars,
Is the aim and the end.
Being but men, we walked into the trees.
— Dylan Thomas
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Grilling On New Year’s Day Leave a comment
Kenne David Turner Grilling On His Birthday, January 1st — Image by kenne
“This sandgrain day in the bent bay’s grave
He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood forty-eighth wind turned age;
Herons spire and spear.”
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Foggy Morning Birthday On Tanuri Ridge 1 comment
Foggy Morning Birthday On Tanuri Ridge — Image by kenne
This sandgrain day in the bent bay’s grave
He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood eighty-second wind turned age;
Herons spire and spear.
— An age modification from Poem On His Birthday by Dylan Thomas
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Petal Wings Leave a comment
Petal Wings — Photo-Artistry by kenne
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
— Dylan Thomas
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American Snout Butterfly Leave a comment
American Snout Butterfly — Image by kenne
“A good poem helps to change the shape and significance of the universe,
helps to extend everyone’s knowledge of himself and the world around him.”
—Dylan Thomas
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Gray Heron 1 comment
Gray Heron (Benson Sculpture Garden) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
―
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“Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light.” Leave a comment
Red Sky at Sunset –“Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light.” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
— Dylan Thomas
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Anything Can Happen Here Amigo 1 comment
Image by kenne
“I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me,
and my enquiry is as to their working,
and my problem is their subjugation and victory,
down throw and upheaval,
and my effort is their self-expression.”
— Dylan Thomas
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Duck Standing On Water Leave a comment
Duck Standing On Water In October — Image by kenne
My birthday began with the water- Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name Above the farms and the white horses And I rose In a rainy autumn And walked abroad in shower of all my days High tide and the heron dived when I took the road Over the border And the gates Of the town closed as the town awoke. A springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill's shoulder, Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly Come in the morning where I wandered and listened To the rain wringing Wind blow cold In the wood faraway under me. -- from Poem In October by Dylan Thomas
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Variegated Fritillary Butterfly — Like a Dream 3 comments
Variegated Fritillary Butterfly — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.”
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A Tucson Sunset 1 comment
A Tucson Sunset — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Do not go gentle into the night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
— Dylan Thomas
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Tom Turner, Shall Seventy-Seven Bells Sing Struck 4 comments
Tom and Kenne Turner (Tom would have been 77 today.)
POEM ON HIS BIRTHDAY
We are hairy men
who may be thought of a “Twits,”
but I dare say, are not.
Why might you ask?
If you look closely, you will not see
tasty morsels in our beards,
while Twits upon close review
will have tiny little specks
of dried-up scrambled eggs.
So says Roald Dahl,
and he should know
of all the disgusting things
found in the beard of a twit,
but no need to hold your noses.
So, what is it these hairy men
are trying to hide?
Is it an ugly face, you ask?
No, not really,
for we are two guys
possessing good thoughts,
which shone out of our faces
like sunbeams,
so we will always look lovely.
Again, Roald Dahl should know:
‘If a person has ugly thoughts,
it begins to show on the face.
And when that person
has ugly thoughts every day,
every week, every year,
the face gets uglier and uglier
until it gets so ugly
you can hardly bear to look at it.’
Even so, on this sand grain day
in the bent bay’s grave
I celebrate and spurn
what would have been
brother Tom’s driftwood
seventy-seventh wind turned age,
shall seventy-seven bells sing struck.
— kenne
(Some lines in this poem are from Dylan Thomas’ poem, Poem On His Birthday. My brother loved quoting lines from Dylan Thomas’ poems.)
