Eastern Bluebird — Photo-Artistry by kenne
He had a blue wing tattooed on his shoulder
Well, it might have been a bluebird, I don’t know
but he’d get stone drunk and talk about Alaska
The salmon boats and 45 below
Well, he got that blue wing up in Walla Walla
and his cellmate there was a Little Willy John
and Willie, he was once a great blues singer
so Wing & Willie wrote him up a song
— from Blue Wing by Tom Russell
Another Glass Of Wine My Dear (April 5, 2007) — Image by kenne
Have Some Medeira, M’dear
She was young, she was pure, she was new, she was nice
She was fair, she was sweet seventeen.
He was old, he was vile, and no stranger to vice
He was base, he was bad, he was mean.
He had slyly inveigled her up to his flat
To view his collection of stamps,
And he said as he hastened to put out the cat,
The wine, his cigar and the lamps:
Have some madeira, m’dear.
You really have nothing to fear.
I’m not trying to tempt you, that wouldn’t be right,
You shouldn’t drink spirits at this time of night.
Have some madeira, m’dear.
It’s really much nicer than beer.
I don’t care for sherry, one cannot drink stout,
And port is a wine I can well do without…
It’s simply a case of chacun a son gout
Have some madeira, m’dear.
Unaware of the wiles of the snake-in-the-grass
And the fate of the maiden who topes,
She lowered her standards by raising her glass,
Her courage, her eyes and his hopes.
She sipped it, she drank it, she drained it, she did!
He promptly refilled it again,
And he said as he secretly carved one more notch
On the butt of his gold-headed cane:
Have some madeira, m’dear,
I’ve got a small cask of it here.
And once it’s been opened, you know it won’t keep.
Do finish it up.
It will help you to sleep.
Have some madeira, m’dear.
It’s really an excellent year.
Now if it were gin, you’d be wrong to say yes
The evil gin does would be hard to assess..
Besides it’s inclined to affect me prowess,
Have some madeira, m’dear.
Then there flashed through her mind what her mother had said
With her antepenultimate breath,
“Oh my child, should you look on the wine that is red
Be prepared for a fate worse than death!”
She let go her glass with a shrill little cry,
Crash!
Tinkle! it fell to the floor;
When he asked,
“What in Heaven?”
She made no reply,
Up her mind, and a dash for the door.
Have some madeira, m’dear.
Rang out down the hall loud and clear
With a tremulous cry that was filled with despair,
As she fought to take breath in the cool midnight air,
Have some madeira, m’dear.
The words seemed to ring in her ear.
Until the next morning, she woke in her bed
With a smile on her lips and an ache in her head…
And a beard in her lug ‘ole that tickled and said:
Have some madeira, m’dear!
—Flanders and Swann
Ye Vagabonds LP
I love British folk music — enjoy.
Old Man — Image by kenne
A Man’s a Man for a’ That
Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that;
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that.
Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.
Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that,
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that,
The man o’ independent mind,
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.
A Prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that!
But an honest man’s aboon his might –
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities, an’ a’ that,
The pith o’ Sense an’ pride o’ Worth
Are higher rank than a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth
Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s comin yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man the warld o’er
Shall brithers be for a’ that.
—
Rainbow Images (December 10, 2020) by kenne
After several months to little to no rain,
we received about one-quarter inch with some beautiful rainbows.
We are thankful!
— kenne
Rainbow Connection — Willie Nelson
Jabberwocky Moon Over the Tumtum Tree — Abstract Art by kenne
Jabberwocky
Houston’s Trudy Lynn (October 24, 2002) at Houston’s Photofest — Image by kenne
David Hidalgo, Los Lobos Guitarist — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Pala Casino, Spa and Resort Pool Area — Images by kenne
Since moving to Tucson ten years ago, we have annually spent Thanksgiving
with Joy’s family in southern California. However, because of COVID, this year,
we will be staying in Tucson.
Instead of the usual big family get together (as many as 25 people), we decided
to meet two of Joy’s sisters (Jody and Jeri) at a neutral location, and of course, for them,
it would have to be a casino.
So, last Wednesday, we drove to Pala Casino, Spa, and Resort, which is located in
the mountains northeast of San Diego. Since I’m not into gambling, I spent time
around the pool, took photos of oranges, and listen to live music in the casino.
During past visits, I usually spent time walking the 1.5-mile Pala Band of Indians
Cultural and Nature Trail behind Pala Spa. This time it was closed.
We returned to Tucson last Friday.
(During this time of COVID, we have found casino resorts to be relatively safe, keeping everything clean, requiring social-distancing and masks, except when eating and drinking.)
— kenne
Tom Turner (08/29/09) — Image by kenne
With so much of my knowledge of literature I was taught by my brother, Tom. In an April 26, 2003 note from him, he wrote:
“Hey . . . you
Metaphysical degenerates . . .
Bantered alone by impulse . . .
Here I am attempting to essay a few
coherent thoughts . . . God it’s risky!
‘God and the imagination are one.’
I am in the midst of trying to
memorize a poem . . . ‘Final Soliloquy
of The Interior Paramour’ by
Wallace Stevens . . . never mind why.”
Tom goes on to write about a piece by George Steiner
on memorization amid the technological revolution
where media is ubiquitous:
“The danger is that the text or music will lose
what physics calls its ‘critical mass,’ its implosive
powers within the echo chambers of the self.”
He continued — “I can really be in awe of
Shakespearean stage people in recitation
of exact lines!! Read closely . . .”
Our wills and fates do so contrary run
that our devices still are overthrown:
our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
(The Player King’s Crucial Speech in the Play
Within the Play — Act 3, Scene 2, 183-209-Hamlet)
I probably don’t need to tell you that Tom
never memorized the Wallace poem.
Final Soliloquy Of The Interior Paramour
— Wallace Stevens
Van Morrison — Source: Ryan H. Walsh
“Into the Mystic” in Van Morrison’s 1970 Moondance Album
We were borne before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won
As we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic
And when that foghorn blows
I will be coming home
And when the foghorn blows
I want to hear it
I don’t have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And magnificently we will flow into the mystic
When that fog horn blows
You know I will be coming home
And when that fog horn whistle blows
I got to hear it
I don’t have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will flow into the mystic
Come on, girl
Too late to stop now
“Into the Mystic” — the words and melody ethereally flowing together as one —
is about a spiritual quest. But over the years the song has become much more —
an affirmation of life for me, and I would like to think for my generation,
as well, should we choose to embrace its sentiments, an anthem of lives
lived as we float down that stream, merrily or otherwise, after leaving
this mortal coil. I am honored that my path intersected with friends departed,
and I am a better person because it did. The fog horn has blown for them
and they will be coming home.
It is indeed too late to stop now.
CJ Woodard, Santa Catalina District Ranger
On Friday, September 18, 2020, District Ranger conducted a guided tour for Partner members ahead of the Scheduled Reopening of Sabino Canyon Recreational Area on September 21, 2020. Fifteen Partner members, five each from:
Friends of Sabino Canyon
Sabino Canyon Volunteer Nationalists
Santa Catalina Volunteer Patrol
In addition to the following video, images of the Drive-thru are in this Flickr Album.
In 2010 we experience our first Sonoran Desert monsoon season. There was lots of rain, wind and lightning.
This year’s monsoon season has been a nonsoon! So far we have had only 2 inches of rain.
This weekend’s forecast was for heavy rains and flash flooding — somebody stole our rain!
So, for this monsoon season the best I can do is revisit an August 31, 2010 posting. — kenne
Catalina Foothills, Tucson, Arizona — image by kenne
During this summer’s rainy season, many storms have provided much-needed rain to southern Arizona. However, when it comes to rainfall, not all areas are treated equally. We had received little rain till the other evening, so when the rain began, it was a time to rejoice. So much is special about the desert. I wrote a poem and produced a video. You can read the poem below and/or in the video.
Desert’s Rainy Season
Desert’s rainy season is
A product of summer highs
Mixed with atmosphere lows
Bringing a refreshing brief break
To her blue-skied summer heat
Desert’s wide-open spaces
Provide panoramic views
Showcasing threatening clouds
Only too often breakup
Before reaching your sky
Welcoming rains come
Only at Desert’s well
Playing havoc with forecasters
Never seeming to learn
She does not keep time
Wind shaking the trees,
Olive, palo verde and mesquite
Shadowed by rains wetness
Shining with each lightning flash
While drinking of life’s fountain
Olives falling from twisted branches
Rolled by wind over wet flagstones
Pounding rain leaving behind puddles
As rainwater exits through openings
In old pueblo walls
Wind chimes dance wildly
Ringing out in nervous joy
Desert’s unlocked sounds
Composing a melodic refrain
Proclaiming Desert’s delight
— kenne
One of the things I love about living in the Tucson area is its biodiversity. Being in a desert surrounded by mountains (Sky Islands) with different forest biomes.
In the summer we spend time hiking in nearby mountain forests. However, this summer has been a little different because of the pandemic and forest fires.
Sabbaths 1999, VII
Again I resume the long
lesson: how small a thing
can be pleasing, how little
in this hard world it takes
to satisfy the mind
and bring it to its rest.
With the ongoing havoc
the woods this morning is
almost unnaturally still.
Through stalled air, unshadowed
light, a few leaves fall
of their own weight.
The sky
is gray. It begins in mist
almost at the ground
and rises forever. The trees
rise in silence almost
natural, but not quite,
almost eternal, but
not quite.
What more did I
think I wanted? Here is
what has always been.
Here is what will always
be. Even in me,
the Maker of all this
returns in rest, even
to the slightest of His works,
a yellow leaf slowly
falling, and is pleased.
— Wendell Berry
Since I write and share poetry nature, I was not surprised to receive a Wendell Berry poem from one of my hiking buggies, Deborah. She wanted to know if I had posted it in the past, having not it gave me good reason to do so along with the video, “The Women Who Planted Trees,” by Emily Barker.
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