Pipevine Swallowtail Butterfly On A Bearded Penstemon — Image by kenne
Thinking about a poem I’ll never write. With gut on wood and hide, and plucking thumb, Grope and stutter for the words, invent a tune, In any tongue, this moment one time true Be wine or blood of rhythm drives it through— A leap of words to things and there it stops. Creating empty caves and tools in shops And holy domes, and nothing you can name; The long old chorus blowing underfoot Makes high wild notes of mountains in the sea. O Muse, a goddess gone astray Who warms the cow and makes the wise man sane, (& even madness gobbles demons down) Then dance through jewelled trees & lotus crowns For Narihira’s lover, the crying plover, For babies grown and childhood homes And moving, moving, on through scenes and towns Weep for the crowds of men Like birds gone south forever.
Goal: Clean air, clean clear-running rivers, the presence of Pelican and Osprey and Gray Whale in our lives; salmon and trout in our streams; unmuddied language and good dreams.
Pusch Ridge Wilderness, Santa Catalina Mountains — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The path to Han-shan’s place is laughable, A path, but no sign of cart or horse. Converging gorges – hard to trace their twists Jumbled cliffs – unbelievably rugged. A thousand grasses bend with dew, A hill of pines hums in the wind. And now I’ve lost the shortcut home, Body asking shadow, how do you keep up?
My home was at Cold Mountain from the start,
Rambling among the hills, far from trouble.
Gone, and a million things leave no trace
Loose, and it flows through the galaxies
A fountain of light, into the very mind—
Not a thing, and yet it appears before me:
Now I know the pearl of the Buddha-nature
Know its use: a boundless perfect sphere.
After a day of rain in the Tucson basin and snow on Mt. Lemmon, Tom, John, Jim and I hiked the Wildhorse Trail in the Saguaro National Park-East.
Click Here To See More Wildhorse Trail Images by kenne
Some critic tried to put me down —
“Your poems lack the Basic Truth of Tao”
And I recall the old-times
Who were poor and didn’t care.
I have to laugh at him,
He misses the point entirely,
Men like that
Ought to stick to making money.
The Path to His Mountain Place — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The path to Han-shan’s place is laughable, A path, but no sign of cart or horse. Converging gorges — hard to trace the twists Jumbled cliffs — unbelievably rugged. A thousand grasses bend with dew, A hill of pines hums in the wind. And now I’ve lost the shortcut home, Body asking shadow, how do you keep up?
It started just now with a hummingbird Hovering over the porch two yards away then gone, It stopped me studying. I saw the redwood post Leaning in clod ground Tangled in a bush of yellow flowers Higher than my head, through which we push Every time we came inside — The shadow network of the sunshine Through its vines. White-crowned sparrows Made tremendous singings in the trees The rooster down the valley crows and crows. Jack Kerouac outside, behind my back Reads the Diamond Sutra in the sun.
Time To Rest The Feet (FotoFest 10/24/02) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
View West From Blackett’s Ridge Across Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
Snow In the Santa Catalina Mountains — Images by kenne
Honey Bee On Elegant Lupin — Image by kenne
Sabino Canyon, Santa Catalina Mountains — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Snow On Mountain — Image by kenne
The Path to His Mountain Place — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Anna’s Hummingbird — Image by kenne
