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Metaphor Notes About “Involvement”

Where ever you started or finished,

First or last, the game was won.

It all began when you dressed for them all.

Starting positions? Often left opened.

But, acknowledging there were better players on the team

That you should have passed to, when your ass

Was about to get massive grass stains

For failed fancy footwork and tripped by your own feet,

Flying in the air praying a Holy Mary,

For no broken bones.

*****

               Oh, shit! At 70, I wake up having to remember all this again?

 Start the bus!

*****

               Hey! I am on my way out of here, a shot of Vodka, V8 juice and a note on the chalkboard thanking all the players   

                               That dressed for them all.

 

 
14 Comments

Posted by on May 20, 2017 in New light/New life, prose, thoughts, Zen

 

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Haibun Monday: From the kitchen of poets

Lines/excerpts from: “Family Christmas Songs” combined w/ “New Years Eve at Mill Street ” from the Poetry Vol. Night Before Breakfast, to capture and edit for  this weeks Haibun theme..

ZQ

 

 ~ Baked beans in the pot resting with salt pork, hot dogs browning in a small amount of butter on the stove top, brown bread, peeking’ from wrapped aluminum foil nested by the bean pot steaming, drifting, filling the house with a familiar Saturday night smell. Grandma, the matriarch, while straightening and re-arranging Christmas decorations is shuffled off as the children and their families drop in with hugs and greetings. They shed coats for memories of new years past, recognizing the dining room table and the familiar plates, glass salt and pepper shakers, bread and real butter to toast merriment of a seasons’ joy and the ever-present beginning of a new year.~

All proclaiming it

That true nature within us

Is the prophecy.

 

Note: The Long version “New Years Eve at Mill Street ” w/o the Haiku which belongs to :”Family Christmas Songs”.is linked, if interested.

https://rkgaron.wordpress.com/2013/12/29/new-years-eve-at-mill-street

 

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator May 2017

Thankful twigs, children of the blight:

Used as kindling from Camelot to Brooklyn, with ancestry in branches of Majestic Elms—

Extinct in the flames of purification they crackled and glowed in memories

Of the beautiful Main streets with bustling thoroughfares.

—when they, in regal tradition, stole the whole show.

Some interesting research digging around on the subject (for whatever, when it popped up in my mind) about the Elm tree… and perhaps I was looking for something about our future? Understanding and approaching it with history’s humility

: https://growinghistory.wordpress.com/2012/02/28/some-history-of-historic-plants/

 

*****

            No matter where I have been, in my heart I have always heard “welcome son!” And, I am as sure as my sisters have heard addressed— personally to them. The question that accompanies such a greeting is; where exactly are we? That we are being received and welcomed? And, of course, how our etiquette suddenly begins and our exit should end.

Rain falls hard on thorns

Roses soon to bloom perk up

Both will co-exist

*****

Whoa, Silver! Here comes the black stallion to welcome the Pinto.

*****

I sit here by the firelight of life, feeling old, tired, and worn out.

I sit proud with a peaceful heart after battles lost and won—

I notice the imprint of my shield, above the fireplace,

Nicked and gashed in gallant memory as history touts.

It has been sold. Two weeks ago. For bread, vegetables, lettuce, meat,

And sprouts.

I am neither happy nor angry

Nor am I hungry.

 

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Lost Is The Chaser

You have always loved early morning light.
Raising shades pushing closed curtains open.
Each flash from room to room? Presence left bright.

I have followed steps morning to dusk.
I have watched you sigh with a darker sky
And laugh at the sun, for late waking up.

I have caught you in my afternoon arms
I felt your escape from curtain to shade                                       From door to door, calm and without alarm.

 Briskly from room to room almost a dance.
Occasionally you gave me a smile
with blinking dark eyes, in a quick side-glance.

Lost is the love that never can be caught.
Lost is the chaser that never can stop.

Note: Inspired by a modern sonnet by Robert Frost’s “Acquainted With The Night”. ( a must read for all future and current Poets, in my opinion :). The written poem is beneath the video 

 
17 Comments

Posted by on May 6, 2017 in New Hampshire, Poetry, Robert Frost, Sonett

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator April 2017

I remember my father, telling me, as we were walking to the rest room, “Don’t foget to washes your hands”. I said, “I know, I do. After”. “Now that you are growing up, I suggest you wash your hands before. Can you imagined, what you have touched today? Doorknobs, handshakes, coins, dollar bills, light poles, oh, and who knows? You get the picture. I Wash BEFORE and AFTER. Do you understand”? He replied. “Yes sir”, I said.

Memories idyll

Between winter and spring time

Awakening day

*****

 

The lamps are on, I can see from their window.

Golden shades worn from years long gone;

Pulled down into shadows.

*****

 

Seedlings grow from dark to light

What have I sown this morning bright?

How have I grown? Questioned—

Through this sleepless night.

*****

Listening, understanding, and mutual agreement

After speaking each other’s truth and feelings.

Remembering to respond with peace;

Not with words already spoken,

But with the inaudible ones,

The heart so often hears.

Love Is Not Abstract

******

The light of day is always brighter before transgressing

Into the gray of dusk; as memories are —before they fade.

My presence illuminates my way. I close my eyes to see my path.

I close my mouth to listen for direction. I hear nothing

But my footsteps—

Until they fade—

I Smile in the morning.

*****

Oh, pretty dandelion, yellow-er than gold!

There you are between stones and my footsteps;

Smiling at your announcement of spring

at my door step

In Center Sandwich, NH April 2017

 
15 Comments

Posted by on April 29, 2017 in Poetry

 

The Ballad Of Rosie [Draft 5]

Chimed in dangling silver earrings, wind in a tinkling song

Accompanied her blue eyes shading the sun; her beauty unable to blind you.

Rosie sang and Rosie danced laughing and smiling on and off again.

Rosie was an outlaw riding hard and fast

In a rhythm as smooth and as beautiful as her outlaw’s name.

 

“Come ride with me”, she said, “We’re going to rob a bank!

And you are just slim enough to make it through the rain.

“Whoa” I said, thinking, “I’m not so sure. Can we meet halfway?”

Just then, the dust picked up and side by side, we both rode away.

 

 We were getting to the borderline of her way or mine,

I was hoping for a signal that could help me make up my mind.

As she spoke and as I rode, I let my horse lead me as I followed.

We clipped and clopped into a sleeping gold rush town

 And when we left with muffled hoofs

Its bank vault was hollowed, except for the coins.

 

Chimed in dangling silver earrings, wind in a tinkling song

Accompanied her blue eyes shading the sun; her beauty unable to blind you.

Rosie sang and Rosie danced laughing and smiling on and off again.

Rosie was an outlaw riding hard and fast

In a rhythm as smooth and as beautiful as her outlaw’s name.

 

We hid in the mountains, we were married, and settled down.

The wood we cut by hand, going uphill with a two-person saw

And downhill with the wood on our shoulders or dragged behind

To the house where evening and morning fires were built.

 

The mountain was melted and warmed for you.

Children were born, there was no hurry.

We loved with patience, and became upstanding;

We stayed until they were grown.

 

Oh Rosie, time to settled this world down.

Winters came and went, every summer came to bloom.

I remember the last spring when you sang quietly

And softly danced. We saddled the horses

That fall when we both rode without remorse

Silently to the moon.

Klick, click, Giddy-up.

 

Chimed in dangling silver earrings, wind in a tinkling song

Accompanied her blue eyes shading the sun; her beauty unable to blind you.

Rosie sang and Rosie danced laughing and smiling on and off again.

Rosie was an outlaw riding hard and fast

In a rhythm as smooth and as beautiful as her outlaw’s name.

 
1 Comment

Posted by on April 16, 2017 in Poetry

 

Objects Above My Word Processor

The chief looking down upon the sand

Seeing marble and glass

Wishes me reflection

 

The fisherman looking above it all

Seeing everything equal

Wishes me balance

 

The Prophet caught up on a tree

Seeing all trespasses

Wishes me forgiveness

 

The ring that continues to encircle me

Sees nothing— it is seamless

Wishes me Love.

 

The bell begs every moment to ring or gong

Seeing silence

Wishes me to listen awakened

 

The level bubble needs no explanation.

 
22 Comments

Posted by on April 8, 2017 in Existential, Philosophy, thoughts, Zen

 

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