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~a morning at sunset lagoon~

moving through the blueberry bushes

and the prickly wild rose hips,

high above the shoreline,

emerging close to the edge of a jagged cliff,

a silhouette

in the rising sun

caught my eye.

 

a tattered baseball cap

with the brim facing behind it;

backwards.

wearing loose- fitting jeans

that bagged down to his sneakers

appeared a short heavy fella,

with a sleeveless “New England Patriots” tee shirt.

he was holding

in one hand,

elbow creased, 

catching a glitter in the morning sun,

a shiny chrome

tin cup.

 

from the top of the ledges,

trickling through hard coastal gray rock.

meandering downhill through the cliff walls

a path,

practically vertical,

flowed steeply and precariously

between sparse clumps of sea grass

and rose hip strays.

 

I could see from my position below,

on the beach,

the thin lined path;

like a small sand spring emerging

into a narrow light tan stream.

leading you down

to a primarily small beach

hidden in a rocky lagoon;

following it

would take you to the larger

more popular beaches.

 

now low tide:

disappearing at the bottom

through a crevice in the rocks—

it poured itself

onto a small two to three foot

sandy coastline; with shallow off shore

algae-haloed rocks

with scattered tide flowing seaweed.

 

this pathway,

a short cut to the beaches,

and my often taking a shot of tequila,

with a salty lemon squeeze,

have watched people—

some with children,

some carrying beach chairs.

with skill and ignorance

managing the risk;

“if they did not slip,

trip, fall,

or worst yet, lose a child”

to land safely,

then traverse the small-secluded beach

I was sitting on,

God bless them.

I’ve seen a lot of impressive slides

But, so far

all observed descents

have been successful

not to mention

my status of insobriety.

 

after descending to the lagoon

—until high tide

or sunset,

it was “go over the dunes”

to the more popular

nearby beaches.

 

still curious,

stopping my thinking:

I watched him

walk, with confidence,

 away from the sandy

descending trail earlier described.

from my vantage point,

he seemed calm, cool, and collected.

 

he would take his bearings,

take a sip from his cup,

then continue off course

from the only way down;

if,

that’s where he was going.

 

more bearings taken,

he would take a sip from his cup;

i would shake my head each time

and wait on the shot

of tequila.

then going in-between

a waist high prickly scrub,

he came to a flat, bare,

good size ledge;

a bird’s eye view of the sea,

the cove below,

Good Job!

he kept looking down and around.

his eyes strayed out over the cove

and down to the beach.

looking out over the sea,

he took a very long sip from his cup.

 

I was sure he was taking,

a final bearing before his retreat

to his camp site.

looking down again,  

as if studying a blank blackboard

that was about to be written on,

he put his cup down

by his feet

near the edge.

 

to my astonishment,

this huge round man

began to take downward steps;

clinging to the edge.

 

Convinced that this man

was about to kill himself,

I continued to watch.

 

hugging the wall

belly first,

one hand gripping the ledge

and the other searching crevices

on the cliff,

he started taking a groping “baby” step,

balancing himself,

 as steady as a circus clown

 on a high wire,

he moved about a foot down.

he slowly picked up his cup,

from the ledge

took a sip,

then cautiously put it down

by his right foot

secured on a jutting

out cliff wall edge.

gingerly proceeding downward

another half a foot or so.

anchored himself,

and would take a sip from his cup.

again with grace,

putting it down at his right foot

on another

cliff wall edge.

 

i held my breath many times,

taking shot after shot

squeeze after lemon squeeze

salt now saliva,

until he reached,

with ample space, a thick small flat ledge

protruding out from the cliff;

for him, to stand on.

I was in complete awe.

no more steps,

at least not visible to me,

were available.

 

It must have been

a fifteen-foot drop

of sheer pockmarked ocean wall;

it was straight down

to shallow tidal pools

nestled between protruding rocks,

covered with brown and green,

snails, barnacles and weaving seaweed.

 

with effortless motion,

as if he had done this before,

plopped himself down on the ledge,

 

again,

with that pensive look,

took his bearings holding his glittering tin cup,

now shining in the full bright morning sun

he took a short sip

as he sat there

dangling his feet.

 

he was not going anywhere.

he was at the end of a very difficult descent.

I began wondering,

if and how— on God’s great earth,

would he go back up, the way he so miraculously came

down?

 

i couldn’t imagine

he would kill himself

from that height.

I was mesmerized and impressed.

 

“oh, shit”!

I remember bursting aloud

when he suddenly in one motion,

stretched one leg downward.

his left leg dangling

then the right leg

sliding little by little

downward.

freeing both legs, toes dangling

away from the cliff wall

releasing his buttocks,

last to be clutching the edge,

released themselves

along with the rest of his body.

 

hanging with his finger tips

grasping the edge,

holding his weight away from the wall

with one hand, the other hand

extended with a wiggling tin cup,

(bottom facing down,

reflecting the dark shadow

of the cove’s floor).

 

It seemed to take forever.

it was slow motion —watching ease,

gentleness, and with eminent grace

dangle for a moment;

then drop onto the rocks

and seaweed below.

 

he was not committing suicide;

he was just getting down.

 

he landed

on slippery feet

with a lot of splattering

skittering, swaying back and forth.

then, as quick as a wink,

he was standing

quite erect and without injury;

as far as I could see.

 

he put his cup down,

pulled his pants up a bit,

actually quite a bit;

then pulled his tee shirt away

from his wet body to bellow out

under an incoming sea breeze.

taking his bearing

at the twenty or so feet,

of slippery seaweed -encircled rocks,

he picked up his cup

and took a long sip.

 

without hesitation

and without any surprise—

he danced, stepped, glided,

skipped, and jumped.

with a glittering tin cup

held high in the air.

and, his other arm

swaying back and forth

to keep his balance,

he landed without a sound

in the deep soft sand

of the coastline.

 

His brow beaded with sweat,

and his round cheek’s rosy,

he never looked back.

 

walking along the edge

of the low tide watermark,

passing by me,

his bright-blue eyes caught mine.

he stretched out this huge grin,

showing bright white teeth,

and with clear sincerity,

said “Another great Morning, eh?”

and was gone.

 

“. . .the solid ground underneath our feet, which is there whether we know it or not, to receive us when our own private edifices crumble away, so that I feel as if a great terror for all whom I love, as well as for myself, had passed away.”

“Solid Ground”

Caroline Stephan (1872)

Quaker Spirituality

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2 Comments

Posted by on June 2, 2019 in Poetry

 

Mother’s day Notes Found On The Refrigerator 2019

 

faded

after winters’ welcomed visit

in fall’s final embrace

life arises from a warm colorful quilt.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

ever so bright

a glitter of rain

against the bark of a tree

—colors glowing in its prism—

is the same light

seen in all life.

 

 

—and its source—

has been made known,

for all that look.

—is all they can see—

 

Photo: R.K.Garon ~The Night Before Breakfast~

 

 
18 Comments

Posted by on May 11, 2019 in Children, Life, Love, Mothers, thoughts, Zen

 

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Note Found On The Refrigerator Spring 2019 [and its Source]

“Go to the workshop where the universe was made, and see the Worker. But since the work has become a veil between you and the Worker, you can only see Him in His work. And since the workshop is His dwelling place, those on the outside cannot see Him. So enter the workshop — that is, non-existence — and see the work and the Worker together.”

MASNAVI II:759-62

JALAL AL-DIN Rumi

Pilgrim!
Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

Not all Princesses, can become Queens!

Not all Princes, can become Kings!

The gates of this Royal courtyard?

Only Nobles can come through,

regardless of origin,

for this castle to rule.

 

     Entrance may require everything and anything; bare feet, socks in sandals, just socks, wing-tipped shoes, polished with sheen, or anyone with a broken high-heel. All who are benevolent, where history is irrelevant, and find the moment is only a scene, may carry themselves through the gate that is without a latch or a key  .

Princes and princesses are born

from the same seed —free.

Independent of royalty,

they come to sit at the table

without dismissing similarities.

 

      Rising in fragrance through the courtyard, children arrive from the womb with porridge and cream. A meal fit for a king and queen.

      Outside the courtyard, some arrive at the gate incoherent and confused, having to learn to stop jumping in place and wait until the wings of Common Spirit carries them silently through.

      A kingdom awaits you here. The courtyard gate is the passage through —where you are bound to find your castle; where dreams are a story or two and where children are taught about their wings that once carried you, through.

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

 

 

   Little Pond Legends… R. K. Garon [ZQ Draft 2]

 

 
16 Comments

Posted by on April 15, 2019 in Children, Life, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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A Reality Sandwich and An Ice Cold Existential Beer

ashland, new hampshire—

two in the afternoon

a burger with a thick slice of onion,

mustard on the side

and a cold bottle of beer.

 

looking out a large pane window,

everything from where I sat

looked fine.

you pass by noticed,

i nodded with a smile.

 

and you

quickly

looked away

and everything disappeared.

 

no,

not of course,

my sandwich.

 

just an old flame

puffed in a white cloud of history,

dowsed by another sip

of an ice-cold beer.

 

Rev:2013/2019  Vol. II ~ Love: Hot Water, Crackers, & Ketchup  Soup~

 

 

 
16 Comments

Posted by on March 30, 2019 in Existential, Love, New Hampshire, Poetry, Zen

 

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Who Knows?

Who knows?

As i sit in anxious state waiting for Godot— hoping he never shows. Like a sparkle in a glass, asking me if i care to go? i will deny the invitation— i will stay and enjoy the sparkle— as all sparkles go.

Who Knows?

As i move in trepidation. Waiting for the fulfillment of my day, afraid of my responsibility when it is appears. So i deny its invitation— i will take this breath and walk behind it. Watching it fade, from rise, to descent, and feeling fear disappear.

who knows the mysteries

attributed to the ground i stand on

if traveled

i will have accepted its maze.

If understood,

I

will have accepted its direction.

 

 

Rev:14-19 *.*  ‘The Night Before Breakfast”

 
2 Comments

Posted by on February 16, 2019 in Beginnings, Nature, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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The wind sends messages

     

      The wind sends messages through pine wood doors, around skyscrapers and street lights. Through the matrix of the suburbs, over the mountains, across the pastures, sown fields, and vineyards; repeating her message to the sea.

      I heard one night as the wind passed through, that the moon is made of cheese. I smiled and snickered when suddenly my hat blew off my head, hearing very distinctly “oh pull-eeez”.

Winds play limbs at night

Moon dances in their shadows

Winter snow smiles

 
15 Comments

Posted by on February 2, 2019 in Haibun, Haiku, Humor, Zen

 

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Dark Chocolate

      I was looking through old pictures today —some scratched and beginning to fade.  You were beautiful, impressionable, and innocent; packing lunches and 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 find the joy in reviewing history. Remembering all the missteps I made when I was young, fearless, sometimes arrogant, misunderstanding love and its commitment. I drank the wine not savoring the chocolate.

      I will get back to them someday —but, for now, this evening, I will listen to Lake Winona. In-between the silence and dobs of the lake’s small rolling waves. I place the photographs beneath the bed I made.

 

Sit still to listen

Lake is playing a love song

Remember the tune

 

 

Originally written : Aug 8, 2016 …Rev 12: 1/26/2019 5:26 PM

 
22 Comments

Posted by on January 26, 2019 in Haibun Poetry, Haiku, Love, Zen

 

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