[1st. Draft Dec,2017 rev: Sept,2018 ]
A weathered Sundial
When we are young,
We can tolerate physical pain,
emotional blizzards and blinding rain.
We seek recognition, fortune, and elusive fame.
We chase glittering stars on summer nights
and keep sentry for sunrise to celebrate dawn with life.
We even can cry without forcing a fight.
We can talk, discuss, and compromise.
We recognize beauty in a surprise.
We are able to light a candle when the fire dies.
When we are young,
we can laugh at ourselves. We believe in pennies
flipped fluttering to the bottom of wishing wells.
We become Peter Pan and Wendy
ignoring pouting Tinkerbelle.
We watch directions flow through heart than through mind.
We travel distances immeasurably fast;
roadways, highways, and paths. We float
above chipped concrete, soft tar, and beaches
with ankle-deep sand.
Even paths that are crook and twisted
in shallow water or on solid land.
We are each other’s map.
We frolic in spaces where time never exists;
along with places, where sadness, is just a visit.
When we are young,
eventually those days, I suppose, age eclipses.
When we are old,
we sit with aches and pain. Confused and misunderstanding, we complain.
Our clothes begin to slip or do not fit.
Along with our acceptance of expected fortune
and absence of fame.
We wear sweaters and warm cotton hats on cool summer nights
watching the sunset fade into rising moonlight.
(Having bitten Eve’s apple, once forbidden
We become stubborn —guilt ridden with indigestion
and slow in healing. We sleep uneasily on thin frayed
but forgiving linen. We forget ourselves in mixed memories,
forgetting our birthday in evaporating wishing wells).
The sound of muted Tocks
Tick off the clock, like muffled thunder
under the hoofs of approaching mercenaries;
Angels from heaven and perhaps one or two
from hell’s monastery.
We shed a small tear, becoming a prism, a glitter
in the sliver of a waning moon. We let it fall with joy
on another evenings shadow,
cast upon a weathered sundial, praying for the ‘morrow;
when we are old.
(It all subsides from youth to age.
From steel to rust, from rock to gravel.
From coal to diamond and back to dust.)
Tags: From Youth To Age, Growing up, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Pine Cone Diaries, Zen, ~The Night Before Breakfast~
Years have passed:
when we were young, we could tolerate physical pain,
emotional blizzards, and blinding rain.
We sought recognition, fortune, and sometimes illusions fame.
We chased stars in glittering summer nights keeping sentry for sunrise,
celebrating each dawn with a brand new name.
We could even cry, winning or losing, without forcing a fight.
We could talk, discuss, and compromise.
We recognize the beauty in unsuspected surprise.
We were always able to light a candle in the wind
Finding our way back home on sad dark nights.
We often laughed at ourselves. Believing that pennies
we flipped, fluttering to the bottom of wishing wells
We’d became Peter Pan and Wendy
never growing old. And, totally ignoring Tinkerbell,
we watch our directions flow.
Following our hearts and the work of our hands
we traveled roadways, highways, and paths;
where distance seemed far and time immeasurably fast.
We floated above concrete, soft tar, and beaches with ankle deep sand.
Even paths that were crooked and twisted in shallow water or on solid land.
We were always on each other’s map!
We frolicked in spaces that love only knows
where time, never existed;
along with places, where sadness, was only a short visit.
Eventually, I suppose, age and Peter Pan eclipses
those days, when we are young.
There is only time now:
when we are old. We sit with aches and pain.
Our clothes begin to slip or are frayed or they just don’t fit;
along with our recognition, fortune, and the reality of expected fame.
We wear sweaters and warm cotton hats on cool summer nights,
seeing only darkness as a distant fading light.
We Sleep uneasily on worn, thin but forgiving linen.
We, sometimes, forget ourselves with mixed memories,
stuttering on birthdays, which have evaporated in wishing wells.
We try to avoid being stubborn— guilt ridden for actions mistaken,
poor mathematical intelligence, slips of jealously, pride,
and recognize that we, as we knew, is we that is forgotten.
From steel to rust, from rock to gravel,
from coal to diamond
and back to dust.
The sound of muted bells tick off the clock, like muffled thunder
under the hoofs of deaths’ mercenaries; some from heaven,
and maybe one or two from hell.
We may shed a warm small tear, becoming a prism, to glitter
In the sliver of a waning moon; signaling with joy—
tomorrow’s brand new day,
with its bright sun chasing
A weathered Sundial’s ever-moving shadow
~The Night Before Breakfast~ Vol. I Another Draft Revision
Tags: Ambiguity, Existenlism, Happy New Year!, http://omukuvah.org/, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, ~The Night Before Breakfast~
Vacant minds across the kitchen table
Leaning on their elbows of time,
Understanding they are at the end of their lives,
Never thinking that there was space
Beyond what they have lived;
Life, was a distance passed in glorious moments.
“I’ll walk the dog. Put on your pajamas
And heat the water for tea.
I’ll peel you an orange when I get back.
Is it cold outside?”
“Yes, wear a hat.”
Tags: Gift, http://omukuvah.org/, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, http://withrealtoads.blogspot.se/, Mature Love, Relationship
Children are the flicker of a wildfire
that consumes all misunderstandings of life;
replacing it with lush newly defined dreams.
This was a good day. I did the laundry and I didn’t shrink the sweaters,
and I matched all my socks.
Free fall from grasping, if you have too,
float through the cloud of unknowing,
catch the wings of an Angel;
a Conscience unfettered.
Expect to land on your feet
where you are welcomed.
Who else could lead us to freedom other than a slave?
There are soooo many things
that people tell me “what to do”,
and what “not to do”,
that sometimes I forget Myself.
Idyll heart stalked,
loneliness is not in fate,
Dance on blade of grass.
Birds of a feather stick together,
except in the “Hunter’s” snare…
Still ignorant, eh!
Tags: http://myblog-lunchbreak.blogspot.com/2014/05/1438.html, http://popoetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Notes Found On The Refrigerator
From the driveway through the garden, to the house,
through the Spring flowers and early vegetable crowns
dotted by Irish moss and creeping winter savory
curved a peaceful path of stepping-stones.
There had been children, pets, bears, skunks, mice and moose.
From wood line, through the garden, or from unsettled foundation stones.
They would strut, skitdattel, and vamoose unchallenged;
if you leave out the occasional, “shoo!” with an apron.
There had been games, challenges, aching legs, pride slid under,
broken flowers, no flowers, whiffle ball whistles, and cries of“foul!”
It all felt the same, a few tumbles of joy and pain resolved in her ooozs
and aaaahs, as lightning and thunder was always explained
in sliding sliders, straight into her arms.
a family kitchen, was re-arraigned for such an aim.
They hopped, skipped, and jumped open space
between each stone. Sometimes with each other,
sometimes stick tapping and clacking, straggling alone.
Or, as they got older, quietly tiptoeing behind her,
as she cleared her path and swept the stones,
they would make a loud bee buzzing sound,
scaring the “bejesus” out of her.
…and maybe a little extra, waving a finger of shame.
I follow the stones, still well placed,feeling the charm
and seeing her face aged and etched by the seasons.
The children’s path, though well-worn
still has the strength to hold my feet and carry me
sliding, shuffling across the porch to the kitchen door.
[re-blog-Edit] Chapter II Love: Hot Water, Crackers, and Ketchup Soup
Tags: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Simple Wonders!
7:30 pm April 1, 2014
Celebrating National Poetry Month
With Local writer
R. K. Garon
~~After a short break there will be open readings
for poets, story tellers, musicians, jugglers,
and any spoken word performers ~~
Tags: Moultonborough NH
Grand-Père et Grand-Mère
Le soleil trouve son chemin à travers le ciel brisées,
comme la lune attend patiemment de l’autre côté.
À la fois l’amour de support qui est logé jamais à décider
si quelque chose est toujours mal.
Une tasse de thé et de pain grillé moutarde.
Une cravate de soie jaune et une robe rouge vif.
Grand Father and Grand Mother
The sun finds its way through broken skies
as the moon waits patiently on the other side.
Both, supporting love that’s housed never to decide
whether anything is ever wrong.
A cup of tea and mustard toast.
A yellow silk tie and a bright red gown.
Tags: French-Canadian, Grand-Père et Grand-Mère, odd balls :-)
As I was younger, the lawn looked beautiful
I worked hard. Pushing
The spacious green against the woods
Accented by the fresh scent
Of cut grass
I would go to the edge
Look into the woods
Step in, walk a bit
To enjoy the view.
Especially looking through
The trees passed the lawn
Leading to our home
With the flowers of youth.
As I get older, I do less.
The trees are creeping
In along with
They’re taking over the lawn,
Making it easier
Though, to take my walk
To the edge of the woods,
To step in and sit with
Looking past the small lawn
Feeling like a dandelion rose
Seeing an empty house
Having flowered and gone
Tags: Dandelion Rose :-), http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Sweet Melancholy~
Youth, courting love,
spared no introduction.
Labored in maintenance
for objects gathered,
clearing a space for assumption, fell into old age.
Awarded with memories
that come and fade
of objects and maintenance
unable to seduce the maid.
Tags: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, lessons, parable
~~Baked beans in the pot simmering with salt pork, hot dogs browning in a small amount of butter, brown bread wrapped in aluminum foil nested by the bean pot warming from the oven baking two very large pans of macaroni and cheese, all slowly drifting filling the house with the scent of a familiar night. The matriarch, still re-arranging Christmas decorations as the children and family drop in, is shuffled off with hugs and greetings. They shed coats for plates, salt and pepper, bread and butter, and toast the cusp of a seasons’ joy and the beginning of a new year.~~
The morning dishes, put away washed and towel dried
by the grand children, who, one by one drifted in last night.
Grandpa pegs out last, losing his second cribbage game
to a thirteen-year-old; “smart young fella with numbers”.
Smiling, the boy gets up and pushes his chair up against the table
with a soft kick, wishes his senior “better luck next year
if he can hold on and survive that long,”
patting the deck of cards unknowingly cryptic.
More family arrives with homemade dishes and table ornaments
some placed gifts, for those relatives unseen on Christmas,
under the small well-lit tree, that grandpa boasts
“was negotiated down to ten dollars by grandma.”
New born, wrapped in the arms of entering parents,
begs to be held, cooing for first salutations,
especially those who live “very” far,
but, whose love, promising the child,
will always live nearby.
No need for gifts, they all arrived.
Rocking chair creaking,
Grandfather, after meeting with the family
waits his turn.
(Having lost his job last week
with his confidence “hat in hand”,
understanding his limited options
and where his life now stands).
Looking around the house, he cracks a smile
remembering his prime, rocking his last child;
singing quietly with the innocence
of purity in the comfort of his lullaby.
The mill is officially closing at the end of this month.
He picks up the child from sleeping slipping arms
and starts to hum softly.
The mill whistle shrieks’ a long, long, blast
telling him that the fourth shift ghosts were punching in.
It was eleven-thirty, December 31, the last shift.
His severance check went into savings this Christmas;
his skills outsourced, betrayed by an economy
for a life diminished.
Tags: Baked beans, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Made in the USA, New Year, Shrinking Main Street