Archive for the ‘Existential Moment’ Tag
Image by kenne
I am an old man
Each day sheltering in place
The damage is done.
Early morning walks
Many new walkers pass by
No stopping to talk.
Coronavirus
Still on a stubborn plateau
We fight off the stress.
In a new normal
Public places restricted
Times are abnormal.
Zoom and Facetime
The way we stay connected
Your time is my time.
— kenne
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Image by kenne
see this picture
a pandemic picture
not really
it’s not clear
so little information
not able to reason
observation void
or is it
some will reason
based on blind faith
indifferent to the truth
yet people believe
it is the truth
rather than asking
is it the truth
coronavirus exist
fed on indifference
to the truth
prompt with careless moods
minus the circumstances
left to question
only at death
a pandemic where
warriors stand
and truth died in
presidential updates
no longer accepting
only asking
is it the truth
— kenne
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“Know When To Fold’em” — Source: Pinterest
“You’ve got to know when to hold ’em
Know when to fold ’em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you’re sittin’ at the table
There’ll be time enough for countin’
When the dealin’s done”
— Kenny Rogers
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Mountain Cabin — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Night, and I travelling.
An open door by the wayside,
Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.
A whiff of peat-smoke;
A gleam of delf on the dresser within;
A woman’s voice crooning, as if to a child.
I pass on into the darkness.
— Joseph Campbell
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Thomas 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 Route 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?"
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Tom Turner in an Existential Moment — Image by kenne
“If thought corrupts language,
language can also corrupt thought.”
— George Orwell
He gazes through the
rained soaked window
into his confused mind.
Lonely in the moment
turning his head away
from my open hand.
He was not prepared
to be rejected and
broken up by life.
— kenne
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“Dark In The Sunlight” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
