Ken Hartke

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I'm retired and living solo "out west" in the New Mexico desert. I've been an observer and blogger for years and usually have four or five blogs going but wrote for myself or for friends. A lot of it was travel stories or daily random postings -- but it was good experience. Red Room allowed me to share things on a wider scale and with its demise I (maybe) found a more public voice.

The Shadowed Wall

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Shadowed Wall

What lives were once protected
behind these shadowed walls?
What joys were shared and hopes declared
and private pains endured?
What voices spoke to say a prayer or
comfort childhood fears?
What buttons sewed?
What wondrous weavings wove?
What feasts enjoyed?
What cheerful toasts proposed?
What missing friends or long-lost parents mourned?
Like brushstrokes on canvas, these past lives
paint shadowed lines on old
forgotten walls.

 

 

Recent comment in this post
Rosy Cole
In many of your posts, the reader can sense the space and timelessness of New Mexico, a landscape and environment for reflection o... Read More
Wednesday, 21 December 2016 08:22
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1 Comment

One Thousand Desert Winters

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The calendar on the wall kept watch alone


for one thousand desert winters


and one thousand desert summers.


Faithfully measuring out the seasons.


The rabbits and rock doves had their own calendars.


The coyotes took note of every moonrise.


Lizards were thankful for the morning sun.


Years passed, stars fell and crickets chirped


but no one watched the calendar.



Someone once kept a holy vigil.


They watched the calendar and the changing seasons.


That was long ago and for reasons we can only guess.


Things change slowly here in the desert. One can lose track.


Was it a secret place? Was it a sacred place?


This space of discourse between sun and stone


was witnessed by a silent scribe.  Watch closely…take note.


Each morning was important – day in, day out.


The morning sun sent its dagger deeper, striking out the


old season and bringing forth the new.

 

 

 

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
Love this, Ken! It's limpid as running water, full of imagery and wonder about the universe. Makes me think of the Psalmist: wha... Read More
Thursday, 08 December 2016 18:31
Ken Hartke
I live these wild and deserted places..... The Shadowed Wall What lives were once protected behind these shadowed walls? What ... Read More
Thursday, 08 December 2016 18:49
Rosy Cole
Did you write this? It's a lovely reflection, picturesque and nostalgic.
Thursday, 15 December 2016 11:24
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4 Comments

Cranberry Redemption

 

    

 

     I have a confession to make. I’ve never been a fan of cranberry stuff at Thanksgiving – not sauce, relish, whatever. It seemed like some sort of Holy obligation — I had to eat some because of the sacred tradition.  My mom always opened a can and dumped it on a plate like some sort of  gelatinous cylinder…festive, flavorful, and to me, kind of industrial looking. It would be passed around the table like communion and folks would take a spoonful and deposit it on the side of their plate but not let it touch any of the other food…it was something apart.

 

     Now there are many ways to prepare cranberries and my mom experimented with different recipes but she had her hands full with everything else. We knew that it was best to stay out of the kitchen. I recall one year when there were flames roaring out of the oven and my mom and my aunt were franticly throwing stuff in the oven to put out the turkey. Another year the turkey lurched out of the oven and bounced across the floor. She picked it up and crammed it back in the oven and the look on her face said…”I dare you to say anything…it will be the last thing you ever say.”  So the little plate with the cranberry cylinder was fine.

 

      The cranberry plant has an odd life. It is sort of a vine-like shrub   that lives in a sandy, wet bog in rather cold climates — a very acidic environment. The common North American version (Vaccinium Macrocarpon) is somewhat different from the European variety but I have no idea what that difference is. We have several varieties or species of cranberries that have some differences in growing requirements or berry color but Vaccinium Macrocarpon is the one that seems to be widely cultivated. The Indians loved cranberries and probably introduced them to the hungry Pilgrims. I suspect you have seen the commercials with the two guys standing hip deep in a pond extolling the wonders of cranberries. The berries float so the farmers flood the bogs with enough water to float the berries above the submerged plants and then harvest the floating berries. The bogs are then drained after the harvest and the plants get ready for next Thanksgiving.

 

      As I said, I’m not a fan of Thanksgiving cranberry stuff. I generally like the flavor of cranberry juice and I like dried cranberries. There are lots of cranberry relish recipes all over the internet. The recipes seem almost like a desperate attempt to make something out of cranberries. Some have nuts, some have a mixture of other fruit, some have lemon peel, some attempt to replicate the same stuff that comes out of the can. None of the pictures look like anything I would want to eat much of. A chopped up cranberry mixed with other things that I can’t identify is not very inviting. My mom’s experiments with real cranberries didn’t seem to be an improvement over the convenience of opening a can while the smoke poured out of the oven.

 

      My days of big Thanksgiving dinners are behind me. I live 1,000 miles from most of my relatives so it is just me and my daughter  — who lives a short distance away —  conjuring up some sort of plan for the holiday. Neither one of us want a great deal of leftovers so we keep it small. This year we decided to forego cooking all together and made reservations at a local restaurant for the whole parade of traditional Thanksgiving  delicacies…including cranberry relish. Even in this situation, the cranberry concoction was served up in it’s own little Holy sepulcher …not part of the main attraction.  It was of the chopped or minced variety…not the semi-transparent gelatinous form. I pondered it for a minute or so. My plate was full of turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing (all drenched with turkey gravy) and green beans and candied sweet potatoes plus a basket of warm bread. That little dish of red stuff peered back at me…”Try me” it said, almost winking.  This seemed like too public a place to partake of the cranberry sacrament. Well…nobody was looking…I made a run for it and discreetly took a sample….and behold(!), I saw that it was good!  I tried some more…I was not deceived. It was quite good…very good.  It was clearly some sort of marriage of cranberry and orange marmalade.  Maybe I’ve been deprived all these years but I never considered those two flavors working well together. We enjoyed our dinner. My daughter also enjoyed the cranberries which I considered a good sign….it wasn’t just me. Perhaps the spell has been broken — we have reached cranberry redemption!  Shout Hallelujah!!!

 

 

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Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
A comic and informative discourse on Thanksgiving and the humble cranberry! Very entertaining! Thank you, Ken. Have to say, I do... Read More
Monday, 28 November 2016 14:39
Katherine Gregor
Very funny. I only eat cranberry sauce when I make it myself because then I can have it with minimal sugar. Again, with cranberr... Read More
Monday, 28 November 2016 14:52
Katherine Gregor
Delicious!
Monday, 28 November 2016 16:29
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5 Comments

The Poplar Tree

 

It’s a windy day, blue and sunny.

 

I have a head cold and sit in the sun

 

hoping to bake it out of my skull.  

 

The sun tries its best with warming rays.

 

But the wind intervenes. It’s October.

 

The warm days of summer are behind me

 

and I pull on a sweater.

 

 

 

I can still feel the heat of the sun even

 

with the autumn wind.

 

Almost dozing, I surrender to the present...

 

the sun, the wind, the sounds, and the smells...

 

I have a chicken boiling in the pot. Soup is in my future.

 

I see the treetops swaying in the wind.

 

That takes me back to other windy days.

 

 

 

Years, a lifetime,  ago there was a singular

 

Poplar tree on the edge of a forgotten cornfield;

 

abandoned with old stubble and rabbit tracks,

 

and sometimes snakes when the weather was right.

 

That tree – not an old rigid tree – was

 

almost thirty feet tall and straight and strong

 

but still flexed nimbly in the wind.

 

 

 

The Poplar came equipped with low branches

 

perfect for an eight-year-old to climb.

 

An Adventurer, a Sailor, a Flying Wallenda!

 

It could be anything but on windy days

 

it was a Pirate ship and I was up in the rigging

 

swaying back and forth as the ship bounded

 

through the waves. 

 

 

 

Squinting toward the horizon,

 

I search for unsuspecting Galleons full of treasure;

 

full of spices, gold, jewels and who knows what else.

 

Maybe even a damsel or two?

 

Yo-Ho and Ahoy!!  Avast me hearties!!

 

Hold fast and turn her about! What do I spy?

 

It’s my mother – the chicken soup is ready.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recent Comments
Stephen Evans
It was so easy to dream at that age. For me I think it was space, and dinosaurs.
Saturday, 08 October 2016 21:21
Ken Hartke
I think I saw a pirate movie about that time...late 1950s.
Monday, 10 October 2016 23:20
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2 Comments

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