Life and Death in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
First/Last Meditation
— Federico Garcia Lorca
Desert Foggy Morning (January 14, 2015) Image by kenne
— From ‘Morning’ by Federico Garcia Lorca
Sonoran Winter Sunset — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Crossroad
On, what sorrow to have
poems off in the distance
of passion, and a brain
all stained with ink!
Oh, what sorrow not to have
the happy man’s fantastical
shirt—a tanned skin,
the sun’s carpet.
(Flocks of letters
wheel round my eyes.)
Oh, what sorrow the ancient
sorrow of poetry,
this sticky sorrow
so far from clean water!
Oh, sorrow of sorrowing
to sip at the vein of lyric!
Oh, sorrow of dried-up fountains
and mills without flour!
Oh, what sorrow to have
no sorrow, to spend life
on the colorless grass
of the hesitant lane!
Oh, the deepest sorrow:
the sorrow of joy, a plow
Cutting furrows for us
where weeping bears fruit!
(The cold moon rises
over a paper mountain.)
Oh, sorrow of truth!
Oh, sorrow of the lie!
— Federico Garcia Lorca
Oak Creek Bridge North of Sedona, Arizona — Photo-Artistry by kenne
And Then
The labyrinths
that time creates
vanish.
(Only the desert
remains.)
The heart,
fountain of desire,
vanishes.
(Only the desert
remains.)
The illusion
of dawn and kisses
vanish.
Only the desert
remains.
Undulating desert.
The illusion
of dawn and kisses
vanish.
Only the desert
remains.
Undulating desert.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
The Six Strings
The guitar
makes dreams weep.
The sobs of lost
souls
escape through it’s round
mouth.
And like the tarantula
it weaves Large star
to trap the sighs
floating in it black
wooden cistern.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
Image by kenne
“Death” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
— from Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias by Federico García Lorca
Seashell Still Life — Image by kenne
Seaside Prints
— Federico García Lorca
The last Sabino Canyon Volunteer Naturalist (SCVN) Lizard took place on October 12th.
It was a perfect fall morning for a lizard walk. However,
some lizards may have not agreed since the number of sightings were low.
Still, it was a beautiful morning for a nature walk.
Naturalists Tom Skinner and Fred Heath welcome the walkers in front of the Sabino Canyon Visitor Center.
Everyone gathers near lizard spotter off the trail,
a common side-blotched lizard.
Naturalists Bill and Lousie Kaufman share information on the common side-bloched lizard.
— Images by kenne
In the parched path I have seen the good lizard (one drop of crocodile) meditating. With his green frock-coat of an abbot of the devil, his correct bearing and his stiff collar, he has the sad air of an old professor. Those faded eyes of a broken artist, how they watch the afternoon in dismay! -- from "The Old Lizard" by Federic Garcia Lorca
Copacabana, Bolivia On Lake Titicaca — Image by kenne
(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.)
In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.
And at the evening’s end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.
Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.
Cattle Skulls, Nogales, Sonora– Photo-Artistry by kenne
— Federico García Lorca
“Boy Painting In The Woods” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
―
Two-Tailed Swallowtail Butterfly — Grunge Art by kenne
Landscape Seen with the Nose
— Federico Garcia Lorca
“The Guitar” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The Guitar
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
Wineglasses shatter
in the dead of night.
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
It’s useless
to hush it.
It’s impossible
to hush it.
It weeps on monotonously
the way water weeps,
the way wind weeps
over the snowdrifts.
It’s impossible
to hush it.
It weeps for things
far, far away.
For the sand of the hot South
that begs for white camellias.
Weeps for arrows without targets,
an afternoon without a morning,
and for the first dead bird
upon the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart gravely wounded
by five swords.
— Federico García Lorca
Deer By Water Photo-Artistry by kenne
The goblets of dawn are smashed. The weeping of the guitar begins. Useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it.
-- from The Guitar by Federico Garcia Lorca
Water Lily Blossom Photo-Artistry by kenne
And the song of water
is a thing eternal.
— from the poem “Morning” by Federico Garcia Lorca
