Full Moon Depression

Sweet seductive depression, she puts you slowly in bed

unable to get up.

She holds you in her grip until your mind cries

—with the empty feeling of a heart abandoned;

she bites you with illusions of guilt

and buries you with all your sins

in her embrace of despair


                                                                                       Edward Munch vampire II 1895

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Posted by on March 20, 2018 in Poetry


Notes Found On The Refrigerator February 2018

Innocence in the heart without harm to itself or anyone else

Can be cast into confusion and turmoil as it walks the streets of experience.


Prehistoric predators can’t help themselves —DNA continues in undeveloped self.

They eat green leaf eaters expelling them to the soil for resurrection.

—Eventually predators eat themselves; caught in a bad diet and in a false argument.


Never looking down the street’s —of the in between alleys,

—innocence, never understanding, drifts pass them, in wisdom.




I do have some literary Masters renting space in my head.

But, as the landlord, I express my thoughts —with the acceptance of their rent.

So far, they haven’t complained about how their money is spent.



The brook that never freezes

flows from my winter heart into spring.

It never ceases to bring me new and warm summer things.




I feel like having a hot dog on a stick

roasting over a Hermit Island campfire,

watching the glowing flickering flames

send sparkles above the tide—

rising beyond the moon.



As long as I am not confined to the yard or a cell or a dormitory, I suppose, I’m doing well.



Posted by on March 18, 2018 in Prose Poetry, Zen


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Garner’s Guardian Angel’s Disguise

The first glitter of sunrise caught through your bedroom window

will awaken you also. With smiles of joy,

declaring you are a spoon and I Am the chimes

—That will echo throughout the day,

forever in your house.


Posted by on March 14, 2018 in Grandchildren, Love, Poetry, religion, Spiritual


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Just Before We Met (A Love Song in Terza Rima Key of C)

Ignoring your past, being born anew,

in replica of lake’s new fallen snow,

 from my heart, I dreamed. Was it untrue?



Whizzing through the clouds, passing through rain drops

as crystal hail, sputtering and bouncing off my umbrella;

splattering above my shoes, on wet sidewalk.



How could I have caught you with all my faults?

 I stretched out open palms to break your fall;

stinging hands, melting, absorbed into salt.



I dropped you. I almost had you in flight.            

I go by the place where you had fallen;

to introduce myself, for that lost night.



To say that we both come from the same place,

from the same space, just before we met.


     Written with clenched hands in spring clouds.

Seeking what I had lost;

 miss-understanding the meaning of love

 —as just a common heart, that is always lost.



Edit8: This is ,a revision dob 2013 piece …in an attempt to write in “terza rima”, w/ a twist on-line 14 and an epilogue, oops! 😊


Posted by on March 10, 2018 in Experimental, ignorance, Life, Love, Poetry, Robert Frost, Zen


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Cabin Fever Mutterings From Sandwich Notch NH

Spring Will Be Early This Year


My young friend in her late 50’s, is experiencing hot flashes.

I, on the other hand, in my 70’s am cold all the time;

often checking to see if I’m dead as sunlight passes.


This winter has been a very cold one.

We have to flip to see who controls the thermostat.

Warm, if I’m the winner—an evening well done and that’s that.


Loser, I have to wear hand warmers, two sweaters,

a 100% wool lap blanket and a hat.

Or, as previously noted


—she sits on the porch,

Oblivious of accelerating spring flowers.


Ain’t love grand?

Unable to figure it out

But we always accept

It’s beautiful and mysterious whereabouts.



Posted by on February 24, 2018 in Getting Old, Humor, Love, New Hampshire, Poetry, Zen


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Releasing Illusions From The Shore

Creation’s sand sifted from our hands—

clutched for a moment by gravity

as it flowed, streaming silently,

to settle —in small scattered piles within us.


Thought and mood changes from grain to grain.

Perils and adventures rise and fall—

again and again from one position to the next.

 All things change us—

All pleading for illusions un-hooded truth—


 Only a mindful soul in peaceful acceptance

Prepares the meeting room table

for each sunset, for each full moon, for each new sunrise—

Guests are encouraged to speak

with innocence and understanding

as they… the children are;

where they become the sand—

Released from the creation of their hands.


(In silence, I mourn Creation’s loss, from above…

there is not a child born, that does not —seek our love).


From sand to diminishing pottery, my soul pours out the last of life.

It’s existence to non-existence, in remembrance

—of holding its last grain of sand.


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The Glass Sword

[Children all over the world are being slain without an enemy, other than ours.]

Each evening puts tears in our eyes

as we watch the world

with arrogance, stupidity, and greed

carnage souls and minds.


I know we are getting old.

But, what did we teach them?

Are they awake? What have they learned?


I thought we buried the sword!

If we have left the handle above the ground

—place it back on the slain bodies deep,

and shatter it where it was found.


Kneel and be still.

Then rise, as the new day, with bright eyes.

And, continue to teach each other;

why we all, see the beauty of each sun set

—and why we all, look forward to each sun rise.


 “Children are our second chance to have a great parent-child relationship.”

 Laura Schlessinger


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