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Category Archives: Companionship

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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A Curriers Blind Date In Manchester NH

*****

 I was invited to an Art show that was painted

long before I was born—

Seven decades ago.

 

Its beauty was impressive.

Yet—  I kept walking along

Smiling at each ornate frame, checking my watch,

flirting with my chaperone—  waiting to go home.

 

History with all its beauty and faults

cannot survive without sharing its thoughts

—as they did on my evening’s drive home.

 

Drowsy with perception’s wine,

its indigestible sandwiches 

sprinkled with beauty and awe

unable to personally imagine or to be explained.

 

 I will see her again.

*****

 
20 Comments

Posted by on August 26, 2017 in Companionship, Love, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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The House On Mason Road, In Sandwich, NH

The house on Mason Road

is set in the woods with a dirt driveway.

                                                —Mail box leaning

is the only indication of an entranceway.

Both for the snowplows and visitors.

—One, hopefully will miss—

The other, with blinker on

                                                —will turn in

Around the wooded curve to a clearing

where there, sits a house on Mason Road.

King, Princes, and Queen of the peaceful

Open Fire Tribe, harmoniously reside;

surrounded by pines, hardwoods,

                                                — and one apple tree.

Two Princes protect the entrance

With a bold plastic pink flamingo

                                                —ready to pounce

On imaginary villains who mean to do “good” harm!

Prince Popo? First with a plastic hammer; if the shadow has a cast.

Prince Gavyn? Waits for introductions, ducking once or twice

in the invisible clash… eventually both smile with relief

as they are greeted with the sight of bright  white teeth,

                                                —giving the signal to continue,

to all walk towards the fire

with hugs and handshakes when possible

                                                —Since most of them have their arms full.

Bringing food, twigs, beer, wine, whiskey, and wood

for an evening’s non-occasion meeting of the Fireside Tribe.

Conversation and laughter overtakes everything

as tradition prescribes,

                                                —they put all things,

other than their ancestors,

 And their continued fellowship

                                                —aside.

 

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You Win Some And Lose Some. But, You Get Dressed For Them All

Stop the bus 2016

We played it well,

            Stiff, bended, upright, and smooth,

We took our best shot

            Between the legs of destiny

And missed it by an inch;

            So sure, defending it was a penalty call.

Ha! Sometimes we can miss it by a mile;

But, personally, hecklers are customers.

So, we leave the game

Playing it well

With a winning smile.

Start the bus

We have another game

In 2017.

 
1 Comment

Posted by on January 1, 2017 in Companionship, Existential, Love, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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Companion

We are (all) personal care attendants

Attending to each other—

But, most of all,

In that relationship—

We become companions.

Perhaps that is what happens—

After love’s personal illusions

Dissipate—

As we accept

Mutual understanding.

 

Maybe we can just skip the step of love

And go right into companionship!

 

Ms. Holly complains after eating pizza,

Which, she thoroughly enjoys.

“Too much salt!

I can feel my legs swelling up,

And it hurts to walk.”

I tell her to put her feet up,

She does not have to talk—

 I remind her,

That I, cannot remember

what I forgot.

–It takes awhile

Before we turn to each other

Returning discreet smile—

 

Accepting what we do

And what we do not.

 

 

Companion: Notes on a Paper Bag

Companion: Notes on a Paper Bag

 
 

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