Haibun Monday: A Little Romance

Dark Chocolate (a love story)

    I was looking through old pictures today, some really faded and scratched. You were beautiful, impressionable, and innocent. Packing lunches, having picnics, going home after chilled wine, crackers, Vermont cheddar cheese, and dark chocolate. My heart sank. I had to put them away, Unable to see the joy in reviewing history.

    Remembering all the missteps, I made. Young, fearless, sometimes arrogant, misunderstanding love and its commitment; drinking the wine not savoring the chocolate. I will get back to them someday. But, for now, this evening, I will listen to Lake Winona passing in-between the silence and dobs of the lake’s small rolling waves. As I place the photographs beneath the bed, I made.

Sit still to listen

Lake is playing our love song

Remember the tune

***A past poem written into a Haibun



Posted by on August 8, 2016 in Haibun, Haiku, Love, Pine Cone Diaries, short story, Zen


Tags: , , , ,

Waking Up A Writer’s Cramp


Sweet writers! exclaimed! Or, un-exclaimed!

Let your dreams float without utterance

Or sound—  above the waterfall’s rainbow of your brain

And it’s frothy, delightful misty vocabulary—

words waiting, hovering  beyond intelligence,

to be spelled.

Soul’s wind, embraces them , often to dispel

them Into wispy clouds—

As they carry the words only you can share,

in treasured remembrance



In sleep, recognizing crashing waters

Seeing a person in a barrel who dared to land there,

at the bottom

 splintered and torn

For only a dime

Will cost me to be awakened—

I awakened, and paid the price—

with lead pencil in hand

To scribbled away; “I’m OK! Yup! I am OK.

There will always be a place to start.

Beginnings, never end”.


And so, remembering,

Why we start—

And why, we will never finish.

ZQ writing


Tags: , , , ,

White Mountain Forest

In the reflection of sunrise light,

Tipping blades of grass with tiny crystal prisms,

Clinging dewdrops

Glitter all the colors of life—

I catch my shadow in stride, until each is one.

Both! (My shadow and I) Each, both in transition

Until we find the secret peace of the forest—

I am an early morning guest

Waking, yawning, knowing

How I will be received;

With scent of pines and wild blueberry dreams—

I will see you soon, my old friend.


Tags: , , , , ,

A poem For My Grandson PoPo

Small Spider in my car catches me unaware,

tickling on my chin.

How did he get in?

So sweet, so cute, what should I do with him?

I’ll stick my head out the car window— at 50 miles per hour

That should be the last of him.

Shoot! There goes my hat.

But not, apparently, still hanging on,

Is my new best friend.


Posted by on July 24, 2016 in Children, Love, Pine Cone Diaries, Silly stuff


Tags: , ,

Notes Found on the Refrigerator July, 2016

When I think someone nearby

Is charging me too much for my resources,

I spend more on gas and time—

Not really saving a dime!

But, I guess, it is not the cost—

It must be the satisfaction

Not buying from them


The beautiful drive.


As A Writer:

How can anyone capture a free spirit when one lives alone—

Even with another;

Gliding, diving, and bumping into things—

Independent of reason or rhyme?

Yet, their direction is always the same—

Straight ahead;

Come hell, heaven, or high water—

Destination, always unknown.

Unable to catch the spirit passing by—

That captured sight;

Unable to capture it—

With an un-capturing eye.


Through the abyss of “reality’s diminishing disguise”

Beauty and imagination often reveal themselves in subtle smiles;

Lest we forget, where we— come from!

How to read this reflection—

Showing us—


We really are.


Good Morning sunrise

Moon’s reflection still shinning

     Oh beautiful day



Releasing Illusions On The Shore

Beach sand sifted from my hands—

 Flowing stream

Silently clutched by gravity

settles in small drifting piles beneath me.


Thought and mood changed from grain to grain.

Perils and adventures rise and fall—

Again and again.


From one position to the next—

 All things change


From illusion to truth—


 Only a mindful soul steadily remains

In each sunset, in each full moon, in each new sunrise,

Where, we become the sand—

Released from our hands.



From sand to diminishing pottery

My soul pours out the last of life

Of existence to non-existence

To non-remembrance

Of holding its last

Lover’s rose.


Whoa! There’s a small spider in my car!

Catching me unaware—

How did he get in?

Kissing me on my chin—

So sweet,  so devouring

what should I do with him?

I’ll stick my head out the window,

At 50 miles per hour, that should be the last of him.

Shoot! There goes my hat!

But, apparently, not my new best friend—

Best buckle up then.


Posted by on July 17, 2016 in Notes left on the refrigerator, Poetry, Spiritual, Zen


Tags: , , , , ,

Racing With The Devil

“Like stones skipped across the surface of the water we are kept skimming along the peripheral, one dimensional fringes of life. To sink is to vanish.”

Thomas Merton’s “Palace of Nowhere”


The fires of hell skipped through the pools of my eyes,

Skimming, dancing with repentant heart.

An Archangel flies beneath me,

Waiting for me to settle, dribble,

Waiting for me to sink.


I keep skipping, racing with the devil

As a reflection above the surface

Trying to erase ripple after ripple.

Until, finally running calm and blind,

I no longer see the racer.


Sinking, I vanished under the Winner’s wings.

Rev. 6


Posted by on July 10, 2016 in Beginnings, New light/New life, Spiritual


Tags: , ,

Sea Shell ashtray


   Walking Rye Beach mid-morning, I got lucky. Swept against the rocks, by its fierce ocean parents, I kicked up in shallow sand, a whole, still intact, not easy to find on Rye’s rocky coast a half of a clam shell. Yup! I got lucky. Cause’ just up the street to Hampton Beach, they cost a pretty penny. I slipped it into my pocket.

    When I got home, I brushed, with my fingers, any sand that would remind it, other than where it came from… other than where it is.

I did the same with the pocket I carried it. Turning it inside out and shaking everything free, every tidal grain of beach sand. Knowing I wouldn’t get it all.

I placed it on a table, on my porch. I heard, without ears, spirits, east, west, south, and north… applauding me for a gift well received.

    Anyway, it sits on a small iron table next to my chair. And, once in a while, having my morning cigarette and coffee, or, my evening cigarette and tea, I often wonder where you went? Were you boiled, fried, or, slithered down someone’s or something’s throat? Or maybe, your shell was cast away with a porpoise’s kiss and lives as a child of Poseidon, dancing your life away to the contemporary bands of Atlantis.

    I think of you… leaving this shell for me and my cigarette, whether through sacrifice or a beloved life. I still keep this gift, left for me— to find.


Hard life floating smoke

Seashell sits empty in bliss

Happy cigarette.

Ash tray Sea Shell frame


Tags: , , , , ,


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 409 other followers

%d bloggers like this: