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
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Old Farm Junk By a Shad in Willowsprings, AZ — Painting by kenne
The shed door sighs open,
its hinges trembling
with a worn vibrato—
a reed instrument fashioned
from stubborn wood and time.
That wavering note
brushes my chest,
and something inside
loosens, answers.
I step into the dim interior
where shadows keep company
with the tools no longer needed,
and I feel the strange comfort
of being admitted again
to the places I’ve outgrown.
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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
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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
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Rock Musician — Painting by kenne
His face is half-shadowed,
half-light,
like he’s straddling the truth
of every song he ever wrote.
You can feel the old road in him—
the miles, the mistakes,
the sweet redemption of a single clean riff
cutting through the dark.
— kenne
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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
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Monsoon Rain Clouds as Soon from Our Patio (August) — Image by kenne
Across the wide expanse, the sky darkens,
not with threat but with blessing.
The desert tilts its face upward,
ready to drink the slow blue thunder
of monsoon rain.
— kenne
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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
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Kenne David & Kenne George in Bryan, Texas, Many Years Ago
We watched our children grow old
the way you watch a city rise around you,
street by street, believing you are standing still.
Their faces sharpened, then softened.
They learned the weight of names,
the cost of leaving,
the strange relief of returning.
We were busy loving them—
that constant labor—
tying shoes, lifting boxes,
listening for footsteps in the dark.
Meanwhile, time passed through us
like a second language we were learning
without knowing it had a grammar.
One afternoon we caught our reflection
in the glass of their lives
and saw it clearly:
the quiet accumulation,
the patience etched into bone,
the years carried without ceremony.
We had grown old
the way a house does—
slowly, while sheltering others—
until one day the light fell differently
and revealed what had always been there.
— kenne
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Image by kenne
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Image Source: Etsy (Palestine Watermelon United Hope)
I Know the Reason
I know the reason you left the rind on the melon—
you wanted the bite to hold both worlds.
You said the green makes the red redder,
that perfection’s a kind of lie.
I just nodded, took another slice,
and thought how love is like that too—
sweet at the center,
but always holding on to something hard.
— kenne
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Front Range of the Santa Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne
Winter rain—
desert floor darkens,
mountains hold the clouds
like old agreements
finally kept.
— kenne
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Exploding Seedpod on the DeAnza Trail — Image by kenne
Exploding Seedpod — De Anza Trail
Dry wind—
the pod cracks,
a small thunder of life.
Seeds scatter
into dust and sunlight—
each one a prayer
the earth will remember.
— kenne
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Sabino Canyon at Sunrise — Image by kenne
I walk into the new year
as one walks in the desert—
not to conquer,
not to hurry,
but to notice.
By the seventh day
the path is still open,
and I am still learning
to say thank you.
— kenne
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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
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