Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Tag
Sabino Creek — Ash From The Bighorn Fire — Image by kenne
It happens that I get tired
of revolutionary cafes
and peacock poets
of narcissistic reflexives
and the songs of the deaf.
It happens that I am terrified
by this hardened generation
that rushes out in search of absolutes
fashions names and blasphemies,
doctrinizes on the pros and cons
of armed struggle,
and meditates, with a beer in its hand
and a sour cry on its lips
on the cadavers of others
Who are we?
Those same parishioners perhaps
who come and go indifferent
along the streets
on the Day of the Dead
with our hands full
of death’s-head cakes
and our hearts in ashes.
— from Day of the Dead In June by Lucha Corpi
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Rainy Morning in Sabino Canyon — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Rain
Sybilline heiress
Droplight
Lightning water
air prison
heart sugarcane
Song crystal
word song
a promise
a lie
in drops of sand
hidden.
— Lucha Corpi
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Purple Sunset — Photo-Artistry by kenne
About the time
I’m feeling high
I start acting funny
But don’t know why
Today becomes the day after today
Or is it the end of time
Only to be floating in
An ocean of deathless life
Feeling gratitude for God’s gift
Awaking the soul
Becoming void as I was
When I was not yet
“Turn from gazing after.”
To kiss the sky
Devoid of all
Foreign images
Only to be
Born again
From inside the outside
Looking in
Jimi had a spell
On his brain
Purple in color
Inspired by a Haze
Deluded by doubt
“Am I happy or in misery?”
To be answered not in the words
But the color of the font
— kenne
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Katelyn Turner (03/15/14) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The Eyes Tell You
Little girls have a mysterious power,
But not all can feel it – when she does,
You can see it in her eyes.
As she matures, she’s driven
To climb the tower of perfection,
Always resisting her indifference.
Her enigmatic power is needed
To stir the artist inside,
To triumph over the unenlightened.
In her way, she will find something new,
Something never before encountered
Placing art in a world void of feeling.
Inventive, she will act,
Sometimes seeking out failure
To turn it into a triumph.
Once her power is transformed
By the magical virtue of art,
Loving and understanding become simpler.
# # # # #
Now that they return home, I ponder —
Children and grandchildren
are the beautiful mysteries
that drive our emotions
stirring each moment we share,
not knowing if the same emotions
transcend each communication in the moment,
ending in emotional question marks.
— kenne (07/07/14)
Kenne David, Katelyn and Kenne (07/06/14)
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Southern Dogface — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, — both what they half-create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
— from Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour by William Wordsworth
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Cholitas Woman — Images by kenne
It’s a short boat ride
connecting two peninsulas
in Lake Titicaca.
Wrapped in a woolen shawl
she proudly holds her
velvet bowler hat.
Her family waits
in the plaza next to
an Inca God statue
where family members
line up for picture taking
with grandma holding baby.
Until a decade ago
Cholitas women were
banned from public places.
— kenne
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Balsa Wood Rafting On The Tuichi River In The Bolivian Amazon (8/21/19) — Image by kenne
The fog was beginning to lift,
one hour after breaking camp
on our first full day on the river.
I’m sitting in front with my camera,
Matt paddling behind me as Padro
stands in the rear, steering the raft.
Except for our companion balsa raft,
the river is our’s, stopping only for
fishing and exploring the jungle line.
Padro has promised us that we will
see a jaguar at least once during
time in the Amazon on the Tuichi River.
— kenne
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Texas Crescent Butterfly — Image by kenne
I like writing about where I am,
where I happen to be sitting,
the humidity or the clouds,
the scene outside the window—
a pink tree in bloom,
a neighbor walking his small, nervous dog.
And if I am drinking
a cup of tea at the time
or a small glass of whiskey,
I will find a line to put it on.
— from In the Room of a Thousand Miles by Billy Collins
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Bike Rack, Granville Island, Vancouver (08/30/09) — Image by kenne
To live is so startling
it leaves little time
for anything else.
— Emily Dickinson
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To the Moon
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,—
And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
— Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Imagine . . .
pictures not seen
words not read
voices not heard
skins not touched
. . . now, imagine seeing the future.
Imagine . . .
artists not painting
poets not writing
singers not singing
lovers not embracing
. . . now, imagine seeing the future.
Imagine . . .
a rush of wind coming down
from the mountaintop –
if you listen,
you can foretell the future
. . . now, imagine seeing the future.
Imagine . . .
staring at a canvass
brush in hand
listen to yourself
you will paint the future
. . . now, imagine seeing the future.
Imagine!
— kenne
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Joshua Tree — Image by kenne
“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes
of others only a green thing that stands in the way.
Some see nature all ridicule and deformity…
and some scarce see nature at all.
But to the eyes of the man of imagination,
nature is imagination itself.”
— William Blake
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A Full Moon Night In The Sonoran Desert — Photo-Artistry by kenne
A Clear Midnight
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best.
Night, sleep, death and the stars.
— Walt Whitman
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Waste Land — Image by kenne
The Waste Land: Five Limericks
I
In April one seldom feels cheerful;
Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;
Clairvoyantes distress me,
Commuters depress me–
Met Stetson and gave him an earful.
II
She sat on a mighty fine chair,
Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;
She asks many questions,
I make few suggestions–
Bad as Albert and Lil–what a pair!
III
The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;
Tiresias fancies a peep–
A typist is laid,
A record is played–
Wei la la. After this it gets deep.
IV
A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
About birds and his business–the lot,
Which is no surprise,
Since he’d met his demise
And been left in the ocean to rot.
V
No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,
Then thunder, a shower of quotes
From the Sanskrit and Dante.
Da. Damyata. Shantih.
I hope you’ll make sense of the notes.
— Wendy Cope
(The author was inspired by T. S. Eliot’s, The Waste Land.)
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Tucson Mountains — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Truth Never Dies
Truth never dies. The ages come and go.
The mountains wear away, the stars retire.
Destruction lays earth’s mighty cities low;
And empires, states and dynasties expire;
But caught and handed onward by the wise,
Truth never dies.
Though unreceived and scoffed at through the years,
Though made the butt of ridicule and jest,
Though held aloft for mockery and jeers,
Denied by those of transient power possessed,
Insulted by the insolence of lies,
Truth never dies.
It answers not. It does not take offense,
But with a mighty silence bides its time.
As some great cliff that braves the elements
And lifts through all the storms its head sublime,
It ever stands, uplifted by the wise,
And never dies.
As rests the Sphinx amid Egyptian sands;
As looms on high the snowy peak and crest;
As firm and patient as Gibraltar stands,
So truth, unwearied, waits the era blest
When men shall turn to it with great surprise.
Truth never dies.
— Anonymous
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