March 2021 Sunset Paintings — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The desert winds
are blowing
Dust in the air
A haze on the horizon
Is it today, tomorrow
Or the end of time?
I’m an old man taking
A look at my life
At seasons through eyes Still chasing the rabbit
So I will ask Alice
Where will I be tomorrow?
Tomorrow can be a long time I don’t care anymore Just responding To life’s facades Looking for an answer Have I been deceived?
Not knowing for sure Will not cease exploring In time arriving at a place Which was the beginning Will there be knowledge of The place for the first time?
We walk on an unsilvered mirror, a crystal surface without clouds. If lilies would grow backwards, if roses would grow backwards, if all those roots could see the stars and the dead not close their eyes, we would become like swans.
The great thing is not having a mind. Feelings: oh, I have those; they govern me. I have a lord in heaven called the sun, and open for him, showing him the fire of my own heart, fire like his presence. What could such glory be if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters, were you like me once, long ago, before you were human? Did you permit yourselves to open once, who would never open again? Because in truth I am speaking now the way you do. I speak because I am shattered.
Red Sky at Sunset –“Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light.” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.”
Sunset Near Tanque Verde Wash (09/15/11) — Image by kenne
Such a beautiful tree — so representative of life. Yet, we often see beauty only in the foliage and blossoms nature provides in one of life’s stages. Why?
Beauty is everywhere — there is beauty in death, marking the stage so important in the cycles of life.
This tree (image of) is amazing, a sculpture in the face of the sun, containing the shapes we use to design our places in this world.
What image do you present in the face of the sun? Does it add? Does it subtract?
In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls Across the open field, leaving the deep lane Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon, Where you lean against a bank while a van passes, And the deep lane insists on the direction Into the village, in the electric heat Hypnotised.
— from Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot
Tom’s Signature
Eliot’s Four Quartets rests on my desk not only because I love his poetic masterpiece but because my first copy was given to me by my brother, Tom, who wrote “. . . I’ve become obsessed with it . . . with time . . . with memory . . . with language, all of which are concentrated in this work. It has become such a part of me.”
Tom went on to write — “To use a few of Eliot’s words; ‘As we grow older the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated . . . ‘ Complications, ambiguities, non sequitur I keep searching for clarity . . . lucidity, and I know each time I seek that, I’ll become more entangled. No. I’m not bored—just Scarred. I’m moving toward a sort-of silence . . . I know what you’re thinking: ‘Bull-shit!’ Since the significant things, I want to say have the wrong inflections, intonations for most arenas of conversation; I ramble on into oblivion. A series of non sequitur.” (7/27/84)
Golden Columbine — Image by kenne
Sunset — Image by kenne
Almost Missed Yesterday’s Sunset — Image by kenne
