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.
―
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
Image by kenne
— Dylan Thomas
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
Variegated Fritillary Butterfly — Photo-Artistry by kenne
A Tucson Sunset — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Do not go gentle into the night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
— Dylan Thomas
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.)
(Click on any of the tiled images for larger in a slide format.)
Thomas Robert Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
I love you, Bobby!
Click On Tom’s Celebration pdf
Richard Burton Reading, And Death Shall Have No Dominion
Mushrooms On A Log — Computer Art 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.
— from “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas
Two-tailed Swallowtail Butterfly Grunge Art by kenne
— Dylan Thomas
Tom and Kenne Turner (October 2009)– Image by Joy
We are hairy men
who may be thought of a “Twit,”
but I dare say, are not.
Why you might 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
my driftwood seventy-sixth
wind turned age.
Yet, I remain steadfast
in Shakespeare’s fifth stage
in The Seven Stages of Man,
still acquiring wisdom,
enjoying the finer things in life
and remain very attentive of my appearance,
trying to live life to its fullest,
preparing for the final stages of life.
Shall seventy-six bells sing struck.
kenne
I can’t let this pass without again sharing Dylan Thomas’ Poem On His Birthday.
View from the Green Mountain Trail with Thimble Peak & the Tucson Basin in the Background.
— Adapted from “Poem of October” by Dylan Thomas
Panorama View of Meydenbauer Bay, Bellevue, WA
(CLICK ON ANY OF THE FOLLOWING IMAGES TO VIEW SLIDESHOW FORMAT.)
This past Sunday, in a drizzling chilly rain, I was with my nieces Vanessa and Lisa scattering their dad’s ashes at Meydenbauer Beach Park where they often spent time with their dad. Joy and I first visited the park in the mid-eighties and with the passing of time the park has changed — then a more rustic park with a lot more trees and shrubs. Either way, it’s still a beautiful park on Meydenbauer Bay on Lake Washington. Among the stories the girls shared as we walked together in the park was of their dad running from their home in Bellevue to the park — running directly into the water, which sounds a lot like Tom.
Knowing that we would be with Vanessa and Lisa as they scattered their dad’s ashes, Joy and I traveled to Seattle with some of Grandma Agnes’s aches so they would be scattered together. Since we had an “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner” ceremony Saturday in the Main Hall at Camp Long in West Seattle, there was no formal scattering of ashes ceremony — just Vanessa and daughter Violet, Lisa, Joy and me. Vanessa’s husband Jon was home with son Henry, and Lisa’s husband Mike home with son Austin. The scattering of ashes at Meydenbauer Beach Park was the way Tom would have wanted it, intimate and personal.
This coming May 23 we will be remembering Tom’s birthday with the Dylan Thomas line he always sent to me on my birthday:
“…High Among Beaks and Palavers of Vultures
He Celebrates and Spurns His Driftwood
SEVENTY-THIRD Wind Turned Age…”
In your honor, Tom, we will keep searching for clarity . . . lucidity.
kenne
The following poem ended Saturday’s “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner” ceremony.
A Clear Midnight
by Walt Whitman
(Go To kenneturner.com to see all the “Becoming is Superior to Being” Postings.)
Tom and Kenne Turner — Image by joy
We are hairy men
who may be thought of a “Twits,”
but I dare say, are not.
Why you might 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
my driftwood seventy-first
wind turned age.
Yet, I remain steadfast
in Shakespeare’s fifth stage
in The Seven Stages of Man,
still acquiring wisdom,
enjoying the finer things in life
and remain very attentive to my appearance,
trying to live life at its fullest,
preparing for the final stages of life.
Shall seventy-one bells sing struck?
kenne
I can’t let this pass without again sharing Dylan Thomas’ Poem On His Birthday.
Bob Dylan — Image by kenne
I am a child of the forties, a rebel of the fifties,
becoming a native of the sixties.
Each decade saw the influence of art;
not as the creator, but in me,
the person listening and seeing what the creator sent along.
Together we have traveled as companions,
moving along and being moved.
Now, in my driftwood seventieth wind-turned age,*
“I am of the old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise.”**
An age whose troubadour companions have included:
Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Paul Simon, George Clinton, Paul McCartney,
Aretha Franklin, Carole King, Brian Wilson, Lou Reed, Jimi Hendrix and Jerry Garcia.
Whether a mere coincidence with others, I am ever grateful —
each having moved me to thought in the course of my daily life.
Often alone with my thoughts, each shaped by others in a sea of music,
I picture an image, one I might take with my camera.
Knowing the words and images don’t come out of nowhere,
but are the result of shared paths for my feet to use,
I always keep an eye on my traveling companions,
and people down the road who might bring a fresh breath of air,
making me younger than I am now – he said, pausing with reflection.
“May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.”***
kenne
(This posting is deticated to all those born in 1941. We are traveling companions.)
*Dylan Thomas — Poem On His Birthday
** Walt Whitman — Leaves of Grass
*** Bob Dylan — Forever Young
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