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Category Archives: AARP

Page 97 of 122 ~Pine Cone Diary~

[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.)

 
19 Comments

Posted by on September 29, 2018 in AARP, Life, Love, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, Zen

 

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A Tale of The Weathered Sundial’s Ever-Moving shadow

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.

Confused, misunderstanding,

we complain.

 

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

 

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wear a hat

 

 

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.”

[Rev. 6]

 
24 Comments

Posted by on August 30, 2015 in AARP, Beginnings, Love, Poetry, Zen

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator May 2014

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.

   ***

Eve:

Birds of a feather stick together,

except in the “Hunter’s” snare…

Adam:

whenever possible.

Narrator:

Still ignorant, eh! 

   ***

 

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Kitchen Door

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.

None unwelcome.

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

 

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Public Library Website

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 ~~

 
 

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An Old Fashion Love:

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.

 

 
34 Comments

Posted by on March 23, 2014 in AARP, Getting Old, Love, Mill Street, New Hampshire, Sartre, Zen

 

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Feeling like a dandelion rose

As I was younger, the lawn looked beautiful

I worked hard. Pushing

The spacious green against the woods

Without fatigue.

 

Accented by the fresh scent

Of cut grass

I would go to the edge

Look into the woods

 

Step in, walk a bit

Then sit

To enjoy the view.

Especially looking through

 

The trees passed the lawn

Leading to our home

Adorned

With the flowers of youth.

 

As I get older, I do less.

The trees are creeping

In along with

The weeds,

 

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

Sweet melancholy;

Looking past the small lawn

Feeling like a dandelion rose  

 

Seeing an empty house

Having flowered and gone

To seed.

 

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Mr. Peaks: a parable

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.

 
4 Comments

Posted by on January 26, 2014 in AARP, Love, parable, Philosophy, prose, Zen

 

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New Years Eve at Mill Street


~~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,

child asleep,

grandmother humming.

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.

 

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