Redemption Dove ~>

     Oh mourning dove, sing to me this evening in the last glow of sunset —so clear and so resound in song —with hope for me to remember what was lost, now if sought, could be found. You echo through the forest, on the edge of fields, sidewalks, and across the parks.

      I open my window wrapping myself in my sheet and blanket as I sink into my pillow. I close my eyes to hear your song. Falling asleep, I understand your repetitive melodic low-high pitched notes, as I move through age.

      I listen to sounds about my life; with its many ups and downs. Finding in your chorus, a gift of an early morning spirit, that has forgotten yesterday —woo,  WOO, wooing, into a ‘morrow, without the cloak of fear.

Large black crows in flight

carnivorous in their plight

                               landing —find new life.

 

*Please Note: …By virtue of their melancholy call, mourning doves have been fittingly named. Their distinctive “wooo-oo-oo-oo” sounds may evoke a feeling of grief over the loss of a dearly beloved.

But far from representing death, the symbolism of mourning doves gives us optimism with its spirituality. Beyond their sorrowful song is a message of life, hope, renewal and peace.

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An Autumn’s Rush

Dripping trees from an autumn rain

shake off summer leaves to cushion my path.

Some circle and drift, falling softly in my hair.

They, accompanying their colors,

bright orange, reds, and yellow-green,

crown me —with a passing season’s wreath.

 

 

A northern New Hampshire wind threads steadily through the pines.

I continue to exhale gray smoke from my cigarette.

With your memory, I slide through Franconia Notch a step above slow

—soaking wet, cigarette still lit, chasing a summer’s love

before my path and its pine scent, are covered by snow.

*****

*Originally written in Sept. 2014 with several edits since

 

Day Carries No Memory

     I cannot remember anything since childhood except abstract flashes that had broken or brightened my life. I, was told by Jesuit mystics, that memories could become misunderstood, as I grew up, until they become distilled from what I saw, without bias, speech, or photographs   —I had to smuggle in sacrifice into wisdom.

     “Thus, so shall you write. But, remember there is no permanence.”

do not wait for thought

day carries no memory

when winter melted

 

Last Evening’s Dream

 

Dawn flirts the tips of yawning waking leaves.

My eyes catch sunlight, rising from an open window.

A hundred morning creases peak through the linen

above smooth sheets. I light a cigarette from across the room,

watching you sleeping, bathe in the first morning’s sunbeam.

I saw you, still smiling, rumpled and stretching out last evening’s dream.

 

Bobby, Michelle, and Priscilla [A Mid-1950’s Tale]

 

 Lightning in a thunderstorm flashing —streaking through the sky.

Hidden in shadows —frightened by the glow;

Richard ran home in darkened skies

before the thunder —could shake the ground.

 

Quickly finding a door unlocked, he opened it.

Kerosene cook stove glowing; he took his seat at the table with a sigh

—finding himself, not alone, with baby Bobby

and his older sisters, Michelle and Priscilla inside.

(this day after 5 yrs. having been separated by age and gender, we left together from St. Peter’s Orphanage, holding each other’s hands, knowing this is, are only home)

 

Love’s Illusion~ rev:71a

     

Yes, Love, I was born with the first waxing moon.

Bald, without a thought for a tea’s afternoon;

—we embraced, dancing in every crook and cranny of my mind,

only to find myself as no one, and finding no place there.

~~~~

Oh failing heart, why did you forgo me?

To enter space where I would thirst?

Then, drowned me in a sea of deserts bleached sand.

Perhaps, in the essence of  moonlight and sunlight

—I will find You, where their lights both meet, and see

 what I have never lost nor have ever found.

 

Offspring’s

I watched:

Fall leaves flutter and swirl —raised to dance in the arms of a Spring wind;

settling them down at the base of the trees, where they were born.

Father Winter has gone.

 

I saw:

His summer’s mistress awaken in moist dawn, not giving a damn.

Cuddling her offspring’s with sunshine –she sang them lullabies.

Coloring them with a promising  growing up, with their Father’s pride.

photo: R.K. Garon