To exhausted to open
door this morning,
I found this note
getting swept up
from the kitchen floor:
Aug. 10th 2020: Quar
Politics has grounded up the idea that the ignorant can become morons without learning un-biased information, even when their lives are in chaos, it comes to them through a Piper’s flute, jumping off the cliff of the true principles they all believe in… whether PhD., GED, home school, or on the job, life and work experience. They have nested termites under the floor of our Great Experiment. Good grief!
Then, there are the American Patriots, rarely ever accepting a label other than they are Americans and believe in the same things all Americans agree on, and pledge Allegiance to our Constitution; without embellishment. They believe in the equality of our neighbor that makes a hood a home-town community; that excels in growth, in principle, that becomes a State with a balanced opinion by democracy and Justice. It has prospered, as a United States, the successful American Experiment that other’s said would fail. (They ask to silence the anger, demeaning slurs to our neighbor and live the American Dream, with logical dialogue. “…to the Republic for which it stands: one Nation indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all…”
Only an enemy of these principles, of this Awesome Country, can divide us into strife; systematically, until it implodes. Leaving the spoils for them and to enslave the people, for basic necessities. There will be no time to mourn luxury.
The time needs to be reminded that “the times (as usual) are a changin’ …”; to correct our mis-steps going forward into the American Dream.
fog lifting the field
Tags: Existenlism, Growing up, Haiku, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Quarantined, Zen
a note to my children:
You were all born with an Angel on your shoulder
Disguised as a small invisible white bird.
Look at you now! All grown up with a smile;
And without a frown, that ultimately always shines,
As bright as the moon clears the clouds.
Who knew how each of you would grow up;
with your mother and I. (in each smile and frown!)
As you were born
Sitting on your shoulder
we heard a white bird
Which our hearts still hear.
Tags: Existenlism, Love, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Zen
Happy Birthday Abe, Dylan and the rest of you : )
I smell the sweet wind over the dunes
in a warm Maine summer morn.
Papa said it’s fine to dive into the Sea
between breaking waves and sky.
I took his advice.
I surface out of breath, with a smile.
Dusk faded into flickering flashing lights.
Chocolate milk and sparkling stars
captured in growing eyes.
Mama said, “Let them go,
There is no room in the car.”
We left them on the shore of the Sea
closing our eyes
as they were saved in memory;
with sparks of lightening in echoes of light.
It was time to go home.
But, she added “not until dawn”.
Tags: Love, Pine Cone Diaries
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~
Tags: Growing up, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Mother's day 2019, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, ~The Night Before Breakfast~
“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.”
JALAL AL-DIN Rumi
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]
Tags: Gift, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Little Pond legends, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Personal Prayer, Rumi
Caged on the edge of a forest without boundaries; wind chimes shivered in silence. Youth held its breath. The night squirrels feast and fly. The owls turn their heads judging distance from prey to ground against a midnight sky. I escape, I must make it through the night, I must make it, not just try.
With empty pockets, abandoning the compass of my mind, I make haste with unforeseen insensibility up the path, as an invited house guest, for reflection and a warm breakfast before my morning flight, sorrow less and free.
A still reflection left on a spoon, sinks into a bowl of abandoned oatmeal.
Dark moss seeking sun
Birch bent with acknowledgement
Child runs to mother.
Grass rising in dew
Casts crushed footsteps aside
Seeks Father in child.
Never finding ether one.
1st. draft 1/14 Title Piece for vol.I of IV “The Night Before Breakfast”
Tags: Existenlism, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, spirituality, Zen, ~The Night Before Breakfast~
Under slow shrinking shadows of a receding August sun, squatting near a dribbling tidal pool, four children stare attentively to a small snail; as it furrows and squiggles through the sand, racing to meet the outgoing tide. They were sent there to “think”. To work out the “argument” they had among themselves.
They were told to go to the cove; “to seriously think about what each other had said and what they shouted to each other”.
All four, ignoring each other, watched quietly as the small snail furrowed and scrunched up little piles of sand behind it. The trail squiggled slightly left, then slightly right. It was heading towards the trickling edge of an out-going tidal stream.
Like corrected mistakes,
Never straight with their curves and bends;
Listening to instinct, racing the tide, the snail
Made steady headway towards the sea.
The children glanced up occasionally to see what the other was doing. They could see the tide ebbing away in a methodical hush. The sun sinking, shed its soft orange and crimson color glistening on the expanded beach sand.
No one was talkin’. All of them, were still trying to remember what the stupid argument was all about anyway? It wasn’t a fight! Hey! None of us cried! We didn’t tell anybody to shut up! That’s for sure. we just had… an aah, aah, a disagreement!…as their minds ping-ponged in thoughts and rattled on.
With purpose, the snail inched on
Ignoring the circling birds and their potential grip
For an eventual fatal drop to the flats;
Between shallow tidal pools
And, dry jagged rocks.
It was getting cooler. They hardly took their eyes off the steady movement of the snail. Except of course, to sneak a peek; checking on each other. They began inching themselves closer together to keep warm and hoping the others “weren’t still mad at them” for whatever they said, or for whatever they got wrong.
Never dawdling, clinging to its direction
Pushing the sand aside, racing to catch the tide,
The snail forged on.
Tide water was slipping into drying sand with each forward push and receding splash. The children, realizing it was getting late, were looking up at each other more frequently. They could smell supper on the camp grill. They were ready to go back.
Approaching the last rolling ripple of retreating tide
The snail stopped, as if out of breath.
But, only for the moment.
Suddenly, the ocean swelled and peaked into a fast rushing froth, it grabbed and pulled the snail. It slid, tumbled, snapped up in surf and foam, flipped, and swallowed into the bubbling, boiling sea.
All four children, now on their feet watching, caught sight of the snail scooped up in retreating swirling sand and glittering pebbles of a retreating wave. “There!” The children shouted to each other, pointing to a distant crescent wave pulling away from the shore, “There” on the surface, sitting tall, proud and smiling, was the snail. He looked back at them, waved and shouted an exhausted but jubilant, “Tally Ho!”
They simultaneously faced each other, eye to eye. “Huh?” Then, pumping their fists, all exclaimed, “It made it! YES!” Then grabbed each other’s hands with a burst of laughter; apologies were unanimously accepted. They skipped and dragged their feet making their own squiggly trail, left then right along the warm drying beach.
Supper on the grill, chocolate milk, and stories of a “swooshed up snail they ‘FOREVER’ followed,” were animated in the evenings’ bright open fire light of flaming marshmallows, burning, blown out, and squished on chocolate squares between graham crackers and pushed into sticky lips with anticipated delight.
I heard it all slide into the clapping sound of incoming waves announcing the tides transition from low to high. It was bedtime, clean up, and evening prayer. Kissing me on the cheek and with a blessing, they all took their day in stride, sharing in the applause of the snail’s completed race and an encore for the ever-changing tide.
Listening to the tide, as we watched the children disappear into the tent, I on one knee poke the dying fire. Good thoughts were sent to the children; forgetting their disagreement without anger, melancholy, or disappointment. And, a mindful poke from Katie’s marshmallow stick, smiling at each other, as she spread the dimming embers, for a happy jubilant snail.
Draft 12: Pine Cone Diary… Hermit Island, Me.
Tags: Children, Existenlism, Growing up, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Love, Pine Cone Diaries, Relationship
I sat outside by the fire, occasional adding a log or two,
keeping it ready for s’mores; for Crosby and Garner-Jane’s crew.
I listened to the chatter along with laughter, coming from the porch and throughout the house,
listening as it mingled with the campfire smoke floating to the sky.
I could hear celebration of her future announced in love,
As Loud As Bright Could Be.
Tags: Growing up, Love, Pine Cone Diaries
It happened one day, when I discover humility: from the beginning, to its beginning, when I was unable to peel an orange, bake bread— or, crack an egg… before I made my breakfast, drank my coffee and settled for cold cereal.
I still get up for one more day’s length —from my inviting bed, and make my many visits to my children and grandchildren; catching up with things I never heard, though has been repeated several times. Any way, I usually, on my way out, steal from large pottery bowls, an apple or an orange, sometimes cashews left on the counter tucked in-between in a smaller bowl.
Waving a right handed good-bye and a thankful smile, I drive through Center Sandwich village, before sunset and well before the June’s moon will rise.
I get home, make a late supper, take in another amazing day; then I go to bed smiling with my beads in grateful prayer.
Presence is not known
Until it reveals itself
In true existence
The greatest movie in the evening, I go and watch, when I become bored with myself and have no desire to make a meal or take a walk or even to pop popcorn and turn on the TV —I look out my window.
I watch the leaves dancing on branches making songs from the wind; so I rise and go outside and join in on the chorus as a movie extra, in the production of the “H.M.S. Pinafore”.
Mystics from the past
carry you through the seasons
—you met once before.
On Monday morning, he opened his door, ole slim Lewis just raised his price, at the corner store. Raisin’ the price of flour from 5 cents to 15 cents a pound, no less no more.
I can still hear mama sayin’, “I’d just as soon pick a handful of dandelions and trade them evenly for a pound of pork rinds than give him —the extra dime”.
without honey glazed biscuits,
fried in pork fat rinds.
He feels the strength of her independence,
when she stepped forward —naked with strangers in a local stream;
far from her parents and her lover sitting, with tee-shirt
and dry swimming trunks, life guard symbol on his seam. He is wondering
whether to sit, or, to hold up her abandoned towel —to stand
up, to greet her, with a smile and without giving her any shit, holding out
both his hands.
Yo’ Bro’ wass’ happinin’?
Looks like love has seen a ghost,
Groovin’ and strollin’. 😊
Memorial Day 2018
The threat of death whether on the street, or, worse yet,
being an actor in the theater of war. Death, is ever-present
in all of them; from desk, teaching, jungle, or sand.
Whether killed, captured, or not;
is this fear, whether dismissed in discipline, forgot.
It is because of them, under constant threat,
you can sleep tight, and won’t let the bed bugs bite.
R.I.P …mon père, mes oncles pendant la deuxième guerre mondiale et mon frère cadet, le Vietnam.
Je vous remercie.
Tags: Existenlism, Growing up, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Love, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Zen
Fall leaves flutter and swirl —raised to dance in the arms of a Spring wind;
settling them down at the base of the trees, where they were born.
Father Winter has gone.
His summer’s mistress awaken in moist dawn, not giving a damn.
Cuddling her offspring’s with sunshine –she sang them lullabies.
Coloring them with a promising growing up, with their Father’s pride.
photo: R.K. Garon
Tags: Existenlism, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Pine Cone Diaries, Zen