clunking down the stairs [youth’s uncommitted changes]

foot prints crinkled on glass became engraved

with the crack and snap of every step;

for every promise never made, or ever kept.

 

unable to sit still, push and pull had nothing to yield.

like a new suitcase with old clothes making another roll,

clunking behind me down the stairs.

 

i am afraid, I have made changes equal to a reupholstered chair.

both, may look different, but, it’s the same old framework

hidden under there.

 

mistakes in chaos spins from flower to seed,

 whether from garden or weed.

all is to be released from the wind of time,

hoping not to drop on stone

or any memory, we leave behind.

 

Bits and Pieces [The Legend Of an Old Man and the Balloon Popper]

You could tell by his long thinning hair below his bowler hat

Strings pulled and floating behind him

Was an old man, holding within shaking hands,

All sizes of brightly colored balloons; embossed in abstract bold print

Announcing all of his life’s successes and failures.

Strolling along the streets,  skipping past the alleys,

Looking up at his balloons,

He would speak to himself in a loud but timid pitch;

“Free! Life’s balloons! 

Pick a color. Go ahead, pick a size above the strings,

Pick anyone you please.”

 

No one ever did. Bits and pieces in his pace as he slowly moved,

In constant pursuit with purpose, holding his balloons.

              

***

Carrying a large white plastic handbag

Strapped between sagging breasts and tucked behind aging wings,

Carrying bulging contents that peeked in-between striding elbows,

Was an old Angel with a dull Halo; suspended above short cropped bluing grey hair.

With systematic jerks of her head looking up and down the streets,

She would give directions to her wings like a bird of prey.

A determined hunter; for that old man she did seek.

 

Her search begins in the dampness of dawn.

Always walking on the opposite side of the street ready to cross if need be.

She never stops looking, never stops shaking her head.

 

Gripped with white knuckles in one hand

Unable to be released, were bits and pieces

That glittered on the copper needle she carried.

               ***

Day of enlightenment almost caught up with the old man.

But, it did not. He was ambushed yesterday,

In the blur of wings and a redemptive screech,

Every balloon he carried was popped.

          ***

The old man continues to walk in a crushed cap,

Carrying  strings over his shoulder, begging

“Free! Sturdy strings! Free well tugged twine.

Have this one, please take this one,

I have had them now for much too long.”

i gaze at my reflection at  bits and pieces, starfish,

crabs, and broken shells in a shallow

tidal pool

Written on Star Island,Portsmouth,NH on a writers retreat..rev.2020

 

a rose on snow

fall vapor catches and thaws the last standing rose;

on dew turning into a frost greeting –

 

caught in my last breath of summer,

i linger in between that space

understanding the rose —seen

slipping gracefully into winter.

 

oh, how could i have embraced you?

knowing, i must let you go!

 

with that said, i sigh a good-bye

with ego and pride; 

windy hair and your bright blue eyes.

 

Romeo, Juliet, and those perfect Bob Dylan lines

that created a pause in time to hear the tide

of changing times.

 

now, i also must go. but, instead of leading

—i must follow the petals fall.

 

a peeling self in love,

always blossoms anew in the soul

that never touches the  ground

 

Hermit Island

Happy Birthday Abe, Dylan and the rest of you : )

 

I smell the sweet wind over the dunes

in a warm Maine summer morn.

Papa said it’s fine to dive into the Sea

between breaking waves and sky.

I took his advice.

I surface out of breath, with a smile.

Dusk faded into flickering flashing lights.

Chocolate milk and sparkling stars

captured in growing eyes.

Mama said, “Let them go,

There is no room in the car.”

We left them on the shore of the Sea

closing our eyes

as they were saved in memory;

with sparks of lightening in echoes of light.

It was time to go home.

But, she added “not until dawn”.

 

A Sonnet For My Solstice Child

Oh, shadow upon me as a steel gate

Keeps a fountain frozen; longing for spring.

In darkness, with the light’s promise, I wait

for the rising sun on new mornings’ wings.

 

Seeds beneath ice reject deaths history;

In a mind’s aging place of well-tilled soil.

Hands cold and crossed, holding joy’s poverty

In prayer, for passing summer’s last spoils.

 

Each day in lengthy dour to silver night, 

A child, my youth, an ember in my heart

Awakens in warmth beyond blackened light;

I await creation’s surprising spark;

 

I welcome the ‘morrow’s guest to arrive,

With gate left unlocked, for my solstice child.

 

Family’s Christmas Song

Wake up! Wake up! It’s Christmas morn! We don’t care where we come from, or were we were born! We’ve seen the gifts in every one’s heart —we have the reason — from where this starts.

Good morning! Scrambled eggs, French toast, home fries, hot cocoa, and coffee dark and local roast. Adulthood peeking into childhood memories. Quietly giggling, mama kissing all our cheeks warm —papa getting dressed, telling us to get ready for church, “to celebrate a birth, in a stable long before we are born, another child in a family melody —poor as dirt”. Long before we understood —long before we could. And — as all children should.

We wake up! Awake, —on this Christmas morn; joyously understanding the meaning —and the chorus of our family’s Christmas song!

fresh wreath cabin tied

marks a home that welcomes song

from a Holy night

[In the Old Testament books, several hundred prophecies about the Messiah and His blessed Kingdom can be found. They are scattered throughout almost all the books of the Old Testament, beginning with the Five Books of Moses and ending with the last prophets Zachariah and Malachi. The Prophet Moses, King David, the Prophets Isaiah, Daniel, and Zachariah wrote the most about the Messiah.]

And so we are born.

 

(Pastel and Ink by R.K.Garon)

2019

 

An Advent Ghost

Behind urgent toes, heels in a steady pace, small glazed pine cones crunched into frozen pine needles. A late December wind with snow spitting in his face, the traveler forged on.

Owls hoot! Shadows dart! Dead limbs snap! Moonlight guides him to a glowing rising bend. Boot soles slide on unseen ice —balance is regained.

Dim grey clouds begin to fade from dusk. Curling nested squirrels brightly tick eventide; on his path, still short of distant village lights.

Snow, now steadily blowing in a whiteout slant, flicker the orange and yellow glow of the houses steady burning lamps.

The wind tore through his over-coat; threads fluttered and shredded behind him as he hastened to a saved empty seat.

It’s been twenty years, since he left the family’s livery stables. He remembered when he left that place, with disappointment and half smiles on his family’s face. Traveling with his friends he rode out of town. He rode hard and fast following youthful delusions; robbing banks and railroads. Now, with empty hands carrying nothing, except a wanted poster, folded in his pocket: dead or alive and unloaded pistol holstered in the essence of a child.

   In scented moonlight he caught the smoke that waffled thru the familiar stone chimney and the scent of a welcomed arrival in the house of true warmth; they were seated in the glow at table side, where they lit the center white candle —awaiting Christmastide.

He is the prodigal ghost, just arrived.

rev:2019