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Category Archives: Christmas

Family’s Christmas Song

Wake up! Wake up! It’s Christmas morn! We don’t care where we come from, or were we were born! We’ve seen the gifts in every one’s heart —we have the reason — from where this starts.

Good morning! Scrambled eggs, French toast, home fries, hot cocoa, and coffee dark and local roast. Adulthood peeking into childhood memories. Quietly giggling, mama kissing all our cheeks warm —papa getting dressed, telling us to get ready for church, “to celebrate a birth, in a stable long before we are born, another child in a family melody —poor as dirt”. Long before we understood —long before we could. And — as all children should.

We wake up! Awake, —on this Christmas morn; joyously understanding the meaning —and the chorus of our family’s Christmas song!

fresh wreath cabin tied

marks a home that welcomes song

from a Holy night

[In the Old Testament books, several hundred prophecies about the Messiah and His blessed Kingdom can be found. They are scattered throughout almost all the books of the Old Testament, beginning with the Five Books of Moses and ending with the last prophets Zachariah and Malachi. The Prophet Moses, King David, the Prophets Isaiah, Daniel, and Zachariah wrote the most about the Messiah.]

And so we are born.

 

(Pastel and Ink by R.K.Garon)

2019

 
11 Comments

Posted by on December 22, 2019 in Christmas, Love, Poetry, Prose Poetry

 

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Turn The Light Back On

Sundown was sinking from a ridge on Holderness road

Inviting me, or so I thought, to turn off –my one light on.

(The one I had turned on, when darkness was creeping along).

 

I could see as I stared out from my large window—

 the only one in my cave— a dimming invitation

for a quick evenings celebration; honoring a season’s resignation.

 

 

I wanted to meet her –to greet her,

Before the winter moon rose to extinguish  

her completed season’s accomplishments.

 

I left the house in a goose down vest,

donning my formal Pendleton— wide brim’s best.

Without a thought, I walked many steps

 

going about my way.

Until I opened my eyes

on an illuminated path of autumn amber pine needles

 

glowing from the rising moon and sunlight’s sunset.

They met and greeted me with giggles and mutual song.

I caught their transition between darkness and dawn.

 

They kissed each other… as the moon

asked me— to go inside

and turn the light, back on.

 

Photo by RKG…  Holdernes Rd. Center Sandwich NH

 

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A Pilgrim’s Egress In A Hundred Words

One leg dragging, the other —behind bended knee

I reverently balance. Wavering from doubt,

I fall prostrate, head on the ground…

Toes need a shoeshine.

I pay homage in acknowledgment, in humility;

Everything is greater than I am.

 

Womb of essence; ignition of light to life,

Great Lover in wisdom and without gender—

Give me a Faith free of guilt

 Through this chaos of doubt.

 Plume my wings

In my ascent. Unravel my bondage

From this self

In transgression.

The moon waxing,

Reveals an awakening without history.

 

Greetings soul! Spirit and spark of truth!

      Oh, transition in created to creator.

 

1st. draft posted 2014

Rev. 2016

 
16 Comments

Posted by on November 26, 2016 in Advent, Beginnings, Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Ms. Holly’s Electric Bill

    In her late eighties, Ms. Holly invited me over one evening for conversation and a glass of wine.  Upon my arrival, Ms. Holly politely greeted me at the door.  After being asked for my coat and hat, I was escorted to the living room and instructed to be seated.  I chose the couch instead of one of the many decoratively upholstered chairs. Ms. Holly quickly left the room which was well-lit with five or six lamps, some on end tables, and others on tall, ornate stands.

 

    Ms. Holly returned with a glass of wine in one hand, and in the other, a glass of water. She offered me the glass of wine. She started talking immediately, speaking without pause, walking towards her high-back chair. As she turned and sat down, she stated: “This is my opinion on very important matters.” She covered topics ranging from politics, family, and religion, to the economy and the new world order. At no time did she ask me what my thoughts were. Ms. Holly was very specific in her speech, using colorful words and illustrative detail. Although sometimes redundant, she was consistent in every repetition. Regardless, she hopped from one subject to the next, and suddenly, with quite the verbal grace and bow, splinter into a new conversation about her “opinion on a very important matter.” 

 

    Captured in the wonderful web of her experiences, imagination, and reality, I was finally asked: “So, what do you think?” Everything she related, positive or negative, seemed to be under Ms. Holly’s control, with its remarkable, opinionated unpredictability. Despite my interest in and enjoyment of her fascinating conversations, subjects discussed with redundancy stuck most in my memory. They were repeated so often that I remember them.

 

    I said, “The electric bill – it keeps going up and up and you can’t explain it! Is there any way you could cut the cost?” “I’ve tried everything,” she confidently stated as she got up, motioning with her hand towards the kitchen and left to refill her empty glass with water.

 

    I got up and turned off two or three lights in the room, then proceeded to join Ms. Holly in the kitchen. The kitchen was easy to find, well-lit with five or six lights. She nodded upon my entrance and continued to fill her glass with water. I began to turn off one or two lights before she sternly asked me, “What are you doing?” “Saving electricity!” I replied. “Let’s go in the other room,” she said, “and let me explain to you about life and the All living.”

 

    Upon entering the room, Ms. Holly turned on the lamps I had turned off.  I sat down, and in posture for debate and conversation, before Ms. Holly could sit or speak, I said, “You mentioned many times the cost of your electricity, and how that was your most unexplainable cost. So I went around turning some of the lights off, to lower your bill, incurred with keeping so many lights on.” There was a moment of silence. Ms. Holly arose, and then offered me her arm. She escorted me to the front door, handing me my hat and coat, explaining to me as we strolled, “I am alone… having all the lights on, with or without the electric bill, brings me comfort, anticipation, and peace. My best friend… my late friend, and my late Angel are still expected home.”

  

    Yes, Ms. Holly and I continued to talk often, with me, sipping my wine, listening intently; and her, drinking her water and telling me “her opinion on very important matters.”  Inevitably, the “electric bill” would come up, and of course, as I cleared my throat she would creatively, in the wink of an eye, divert the conversation. However, she continued to end our visits by offering me my hat and coat, stating, “I look forward to our next conversation, and, by the way, I’m still keeping the lights on.”

This Sunday, I discovered that all Ms. Holly’s expected guests had arrived.

    For now, I will keep my lights on and give “my opinion on very important matters,” particularly concerning the cost of my electric bill, which I cannot explain. I’m thinking, perhaps, Ms. Holly really had a better understanding of it. So, I sit with a smile and a heart full of joy in a well-lit house, waiting for my guests to arrive. I sit with great expectation.

Wind follows the stream

Electricity on trees

All has arrived.

 

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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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