Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Tag

Jabberwocky Moon Over The Tumtum Tree   Leave a comment

Jabberwocky Moon Over the Tumtum Tree — Abstract Art by kenne

Jabberwocky

 
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
 
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
      The frumious Bandersnatch!”
 
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
      Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
      And stood awhile in thought.
 
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
      And burbled as it came!
 
One, two! One, two! And through and through
      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
      He went galumphing back.
 
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
      He chortled in his joy.
 
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
 
— Lewis Carroll 
 

Dragonfly On Twisted Pair   1 comment

Dragonfly On Twisted Pair — Photo-Artistry by kenne

I’m the dragonfly rising on the wings

of unlocked dreams

on the verge of magical things.     

— Aimee Stewart

 

Dramatic Storm Clouds In The Desert at Sunset   Leave a comment

Dramatic Storm Clouds In the Desert at Sunset (Tanuri Ridge) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

— W. B. Yeats 

What’s the connection between the photo and the Yeats poem? None, other than they are both dramatic. — kenne

 

 

Cabin In The Woods   1 comment

Cabin In The Woods (Mt. Lemmon) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

I wish I could escape to that cabin in the woods,
Where the trees have a face like no other.
And those trees play songs,
with the breeze sweeping through their branches.
I wish I could hear their songs.
Not just hear, but to actively listen
Because they fill their chords with notes of love.
I want their tunes to brush my ear
and their leaves to gently cover me from above.
The leaves that don’t crunch or wither or die.
The leaves are full of ever-increasing life.
When the fallen leaves have touched my skin
Chills cover my flesh and shoot me with a sensation.
I have been touched by this gracious life.

— from Cabin In The Woods by Little.Bird

Ladybug, Ladybug   Leave a comment

Ladybug Highway — Image by kenne

Ladybug, ladybug
Where are you going?
How long will you crawl
before you fly away?

— kenne

Leading the Way   3 comments

American Woman — Photo-Artistry by kenne

She is woman
Leading us through
Unknown challenges
If only we would follow.

— kenne

Lake Robbins Bridge — A Flashback   1 comment

Lake Robbins Bridge — Photo-Artistry by kenne

Lost
 

Drawn within its midst
Are signs that could be comprehended
The same signs I thought I could interpret
These signs seem to be nothing
They could mean something
Still in these unknown dreams

It’s snippet visions of flashback
Clicking like the camera’s shutter
Blindsided by the flash
Surrounded by a support swarm of bees
Hope and dream maybe it’s own fantasy

Could be the dreams that I thought of
The dreams that I could have wished
A dream that could be a tell-all tale
This dream could be just a fantasy
Maybe a fate of its own destiny
If I could only get its true impact

This interpretation could be crossroads
A crossroad that could answer it all
It could free me or imprison me
Could be the downfall or success
Maybe an ending with sorrow or joy
Might be answered in my next lifeline

— Sarah Mutabari

Clouds Over The Mountains   1 comment

Clouds Above the Santa Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne

This is the second time I have posted,
I wandered lonely as a Cloud,
on this blog, the first time was September 21, 2013.
This image caused me to post this beautiful Wordsworth poem again. 
 
 

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
   That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
   A host of golden Daffodils;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
   And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
   Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
   Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:—
A Poet could not but be gay
   In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
   In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

— William Wordsworth

Corner Store Window Display   Leave a comment

New Orleans Corner Store Window Display (October 6, 2001) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

The Moon

Wrapped in her shaw
she turns the knob,
says she’ll be back in five minutes–

and whether she means a toe
for a moment, or fifteen days,
I know she’s good for it–
if only all others
were the same–

if I could hitch a ride
and be back in good time,
I know I’d find
Neptune again–
and roll an eye
at Venus along the way–
she’s always late.

But the Moon–five minutes.

— Abi Mott 

Rio de Janeiro Favela   Leave a comment

Rio de Janeiro Favela (2001) — Abstract Art by kenne

In the Favelas

‘Slum tourism’
sneered a moralising friend.

I thought of this
as our small group
trekked through alleys,
deep in the favelas,
climbed interminable steep small stairs,
gazed curiously at faces
that stared back indifferently.

Their world, ruled by drug lords,
Crime bosses, poverty and need …
How do these people of Rocinha,
see us, the dilettante tourists,
stepping carefully on broken ground?
Don’t wear your rings or watches!
Leave your wallets back at the hotel!
Cautiously, we pick our way,
cameras snapping at the sight
of tangled wires for stolen power,
of deep canals that take
the sewerage to the sea,
of grinding cycles of a poverty
that no one can escape.

And we who walk among them,
do we have the right to drive away,
return to luxury hotels,
download our photos
for display to friends back home,
while shaking heads in wonder
that anyone can live like this?

My friend was right, for we have been,
to our eternal shame,
‘Slum tourists!’

Valerie Volk

In The Darkness Of A Full Moon — Halloween 2020   Leave a comment

A Dead Saguaro in the Darkness of a Full Moon — Image by kenne

The Listeners

Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

— Walter de la Mare

Female Phainopepla Photo-Artistry   Leave a comment

Female Phainopepla — Photo-Artistry by kenne

“I look at the bird and only slowly over the years see it /

who has seen me from the first”

— from Hen Harrier Poems by Colin Simms

 

Mexican Hat Wildflower   Leave a comment

Mexican Hat Wildflower (White Mountains, Arizona) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

“The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.”

— Wallace Stevens

AI Wasteland   Leave a comment

 Human Condition — Abstract Art by kenne

We are doomed
if we can meet
only by Zoom

spending each day
looking at some device
sighing in dismay

being told to stand
from a heart alert
in this AI wasteland.

— kenne

Staggerlee Wonders   1 comment

Abstract Art by kenne

I always wonder
what they think the niggers are doing
while they, the pink and alabaster pragmatists,
are containing
Russia
and defining and re-defining and re-aligning
China,
nobly restraining themselves, meanwhile,
from blowing up that earth
which they have already
blasphemed into dung:
the gentle, wide-eyed, cheerful
ladies, and their men,
nostalgic for the noble cause of Vietnam,
nostalgic for noble causes,
aching, nobly, to wade through the blood of savages—
ah—!
Uncas shall never leave the reservation,
except to purchase whisky at the State Liquor Store.
The Panama Canal shall remain forever locked:
there is a way around every treaty.
We will turn the tides of the restless
Caribbean,
the sun will rise, and set
on our hotel balconies as we see fit.
The natives will have nothing to complain about,
indeed, they will begin to be grateful,
will be better off than ever before.
They will learn to defer gratification
and save up for things, like we do.

Oh, yes. They will.
We have only to make an offer
they cannot refuse.

(Click here to read the complete poem.)

— from Staggerlee wonders by James Baldwin

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