Archive for the ‘Photo-Artistry ’ Tag
Female Phainopepla In Sabino Canyon — Photo-artistry by kenne
Whenever we need to make a very important decision it is best to trust our instincts, because reason usually tries to remove us from our dream, saying that the time is not yet right. Reason is afraid of defeat, but intuition enjoys life and its challenges. — Paulo Coelho
Nets and Floaters On the Dock (Juneau, Alaska) — Image by kenne
Floaters on the Dock
Orange floaters knocking like monk’s bells in a tide-slow chant. Nets coiled— a bright tangle of the year’s labor. The net knows this— every line holding
a memory of the deep. A quiet holiness in stacked gear, boots drying, the diesel tang of the day. I sit on an overturned bucket and breathe. Even here, the tide pulls a little. — kenne
Backlot props — Image by kenne
I wander the dusty backlot of Old Tucson where a broken wagon wheel leans against a wall the color of old adobe. A sign reads Props, but really, who can tell? Everything here looks equally retired— the wooden crates, the tin stars, the barrel with no bottom. I stand there wondering if this is what happens to a life too: all our moments stored behind a door labeled with someone else’s handwriting. — kenne
Sandhill Cranes at Waterwater Drew — Image by kenne
The cranes croak and rattle in the dawn like rusty hinges on the world’s back door. I like their honesty— no pretense, no apology. Just hunger, cold feet, long flight, and the ancient duty of returning. The desert approves. So do I. — kenne
Photo-artistry by kenne
There is a thin, vibrating line between breaking and becoming. Every life presses against it. In the quiet, you can feel your own edges— the places where you diminish, the places where you bloom. Fragility is the instrument, transformation the music, survival the performance no one applauds yet everyone enacts. — kenne
Raven In the Storm — Image by kenne
The raven grips the crooked limb as if the whole sky might slip away. Clouds bruise the distance. Wind tugs at every loose thing— except this raven, who has already made a pact with the storm. — kenne
Duende speaks without permission — Image by kenne
Duende can’t be rehearsed it blooms suddenly— dark, luminous, and real , flooding the room with soul. — kenne
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vI72kyy2Ius&list=RDvI72kyy2Ius&start_radio=1
Gila Woodpecker — Photo-artistry by kenne
Gila Woodpecker
comes in loud, like a drunk at noon, runs the little birds off, takes what isn’t his— sweet red from the humminbird glass.
I don’t blame him. world’s built that way— noise wins, beauty keeps its distance.
still, I raise my coffee, to the bastard.
— kenne
Water Lily Painting by kenne
The scene feels almost meditative— water lilies glowing against the cool pond surface, inviting you to linger a little longer. — kenne
Patio Nightlight — Image by kenne
A solar jar sits glowing on the patio, quiet as a candle, turning leftover daylight into a soft evening companion. — kenne
Aging by kenne
A beard teaches patience: days become weeks, weeks become memory. You learn what it means to grow slowly, and not mind the uneven parts.
Smiling Sun On the Wall — Photo-artistry by kenne
At solstice, the shadow holds still, a perfect exposure. The wall remembers the sun not as warmth, but as form— enduring, exact, and silent. — kenne
Street Musician — Portrait by kenne
A cowboy with a ukulele— hell, I’ve seen stranger things.
He’s strumming “Blue Moon” like it’s the last beer in town.
The mustache curls like smoke—
Kids stare, a dog yawns, the street sways a little in the rhythm of don’t care.
— kenne
Front Range Snow On the Catalinas — Image by kenne
Sun breaks over the Rincons, throws gold sideways onto Catalina snow. Raven rides a thermal rising from bare rock, circle over circle— energy borrowed from sun, stone, air, everything. Nothing mystical— just earth doing what earth does. And me, lucky to stand in it. — kenne
Boat On a Mountain Lake — Photo-artistry by kenne
Beached Boat On Calm Lake
A small boat, half on land, half in dream— the bow kissing mud, stern still drifting in a lake so still it remembers everything. The forest leans in, studying itself, pines doubled in the water, each trunk a question about what’s real. No wind, no engine, no men with plans— just the slow breath of morning and the smell of wet cedar and rust. This is how the world looks when it forgets we’re watching— balanced between use and surrender. — kenne
