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Category Archives: Existential

Notes found on the refrigerator…June 18th. 2020 QUAR

QUAR Notes: [Haibun Journal]

R.K Garon

June 18th 2020 QUAR

 

Ode to my Coleus and her best friends:

 

      Oh! Coleus of majestic colors of red, yellow, and green, standing tall among the pansies and petunias.

            The pine New Hampshire mountains, as a back drop, gives the admirer a reflection in the mind. Colorful fantasies even to the blind.

black and white is stark

rainbows from dark clouds bend light

shadows disappear

******

     This time, just before dusk, I’ve noticed, on several occasions, a black butterfly. The only reason I notice it, she flutters around the sunflowers, never touching them, and just as quickly, I notice her whizzing by my ear as she flies away. “Sleep tight” I’ve heard. 

      Now, what the hell is that all about? As I said my prayers.

Chair in the garden

Flowers or vegetables

Space is required

 
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Posted by on July 12, 2020 in Existential, Haibun, Haibun, Haiku, Quarantine QUAR, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…June 8th. & 9th. 2020

June 8th. 2020

     Skirmishes about; passed the villages below. A light mist of rain may calm the senses down. Releasing all opinions and doubt.

     We are all part of Nature. Plants on window sills, rooftops, or in the garden, seek no help; except for the generosity of their loved ones.

There are skirmishes about

the villages below;

they are casting idols of gold.

June 9th. 2020

oh my!

     i stopped at the village store and figured i would buy some scratch tickets. my luck lately has had its ups and downs.

     i bought three, three- dollar tickets, asking the clerk to pick only winners. please. She said “they are all winners until you scratch them”.

     i couldn’t smile at her, behind my cloth mask, so I winked. 😊

love is nature deep

sand dollar hidden on beach

an itch is scratched

 
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Posted by on June 9, 2020 in Existential, Haibun Poetry, Nature, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…June 6th. & 7th. 2020

June 6th. 2020

I was kissed by a moth in the headlights

of an oncoming car;

we both flew… out of the way.

ZQ

           

June 7th. 2020 (Sunday)

     The butterflies were flying around the flowers and blooming blackberry bushes. Fluttering about in scenes of frenzy before they landed on one of them; wings upright and still.

     With their bright colors in the noon day sun, they enjoy their nectar for lunch. Then, they flutter away; wings never stopping, across the grass and flirting with the branches of the trees. But, they never go to the top of them, with no such dreams.

nature is alive

productive and on purpose

enjoy who you are

 

 

Scribbled note:

regardless of all my perfections and ignorance, I still seek redemption, in my Sacred nature.

 
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Posted by on June 7, 2020 in Existential, Haibun, Nature, Poetry, Quarantined, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…June 5th. 2020

 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!)

 

Love you

For ever

As you were born

Sitting on your shoulder

we heard a white bird

Which our hearts still hear.

 
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Posted by on June 6, 2020 in Children, Existential, Love, Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…June 4th. 2020

     I’ve been washing dishes since I was twelve years old. Sometimes wiping, sometimes scrubbing, and once in a while soaking. Which brings me to my current state of six spoons, four forks, and three knives. And an assorted accouterments that rattle and roll freely every time I open and close the drawer.

      To make a long story short, at seventy-four, I use one spoon a day. Then on the seventh day I have to do the dishes. I rinse one out for the day’s coffee, having run out of spoons and noticing the mess it has created during the week before, I throw it back into the suds; and begin my day of service.

shit shines every night

along with the star light bright

“dew shine”, anyone ?

 
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Posted by on June 4, 2020 in Beginnings, Existential, Haibun, Haiku, Poetry, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…June 3rd. 2020

two mourning doves: (haibun)

      relationships are being defined in the environment of the nest they live in.

–some in a tree with no leaves that once held dreams.— the true skeleton behind the feathers exposes its heart.

     rattling off to a branch, bones tickling each other, they wait for another Love’s morning.

sunlight drying dew

summer’s warmth removes the sheet

pillow soft asleep

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…April 14, 2020

lost in an April afternoon [haibun]**

arms by her side, gently moving

with the rhythm of her stride,

she walked on the sidewalk

by lake Waukewan.

her gray hair, scattered by the lake’s breeze,

she waved to me with a smile and with an age-old hand

inviting me to enjoy this this day and who I am;

in April, lost in the afternoon.

 

Darkness and despair

                                               “there’s a crack in everything” *

                                                      Grass above concrete

 

*Leonard Cohen

**haibun is the combination of two poems: a prose poem and haiku. The form was popularized by the 17th century Japanese poet Matsuo Basho. Both the prose poem and haiku typically communicate with each other, though poets employ different strategies for this communication—some doing so subtly, while others are more direct.

 
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Posted by on April 15, 2020 in Existential, Life, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…April 2020

the sound of april rain

i was born in the sound of rain.

whether it was from the grass,

or the splash of baptism;

or the windows of isolation;

or on barred pounding glass in prison;

or when I was safely home,

when it rocked me to sleep.

spring rains bring soothing sound.

proclaiming the birth, I would greet again,

in summer rain…

misty at times

other times as storms…

making roots become stronger

again.

fall’s rain blows the leaf’s

to carpet the cradle;

before it freezes,

and blankets spring

in a lullaby of snow.

i was born in the sound of rain.

 
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Posted by on April 10, 2020 in Existential, Poetry, Zen

 

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~Pine Cone Diary~ March 2020

     **********

There is a sickness in the air

Tree tops are passing the news

To the stones and the soil

To prepare the paths

Through the forest

And into the valleys

To the villages of compassion;

To be cured .

 

     **********

 

Above darkening gray clouds

The dim glowing sun

Caught my eye.

I started to hum,

“Everything’s gonna’ be alright.”

As dusk, settled on my chair.

I silenced it with a sigh.

 

 **********

 

From ground to empty stoneware pottery,

my soul poured out my life

into my morning’s coffee cup;

existence to non-existence.

Oh, then to remembrance;

of knowledge, when I first held out my hand

—holding, the first summer’s rose.

I emptied my cup

holding empty stoneware pottery

waiting in anticipation for tomorrow’s coffee..

 

 

 

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Post-War Baby Boom

“From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw —

I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone –“

“Alone” Edgar Allan Poe

 

Chapter I

High in a dying butternut tree, above the climbing bittersweet,

a pair of sparrows sat entwined.

Bobbing and pecking, with tail feathers visible,

they pushed and pulled, constructing a nest

from winters fallen twigs and kites’ missing strings.

 

Both unaware of the advancing wings on seductive winds

gliding in the heat of post-World War II victory;

with bold brown patches and brasso colored flares

flirting shamelessly with all the birds in nesting trees.

Mother: after laying her eggs, suddenly took flight on a south east breeze:

wings spread, open feathers, abandoning history.

 

Father: in haste, wondering who was first;

found in the chase, with another mate

in a steeple of an abandoned Christian church.

 

            Chapter II

Four hatching, cracked through egg shells

in a nest below a large branch, in a dying butternut tree.

Small insects dropped, in sacrifice, as meals

to their gratefully awakening beaks.

Weeks passed in the aging butternut tree

providing shelter, meals, and summer comfort.

The first hatching, though weak,

fluttered, stretched, and skittered

to stand on quick strengthening feet;

to peek and seek for something he felt, was missing.

Something unable to find, something not complete.

Something to teach him about sky, ground, gravity

and all that scary in-between.

 

Chapter III

Innocence in the face of dilemma,

all of them eventually perched on the ragged brim.

Taunted by instinct and haunted by uncertainty;

to leave and fly, to land on air, or just plain fall and disappear.

Watching them teetering on the rim,

the brave-born, with a sweeping two wing lurch

pushed them off before him.

 

Falling! Falling! They fell then dipped into swooping grace.

Wings with instinctive motion, caught them in flight.

Never looking back, they disappeared swiftly

between the pines, the hardwood’s, and the butternut’s plight.

 

Chapter IV

The last sparrow, now with confidence, excited without anxiety,

leaning chest first, feathers outstretched, he jumped too.

Falling much too close to the butternut tree

he became entangled in the vines of the creeping bittersweet.

Tumbling, swirling, crackling, he landed with a broken wing.

Epilogue:

Oh mother, oh father, in his screaming,

he spoke not a word. It was only in their hearts

that they heard him fall.

1956

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2020 in Divorced, Existential, Father, Mothers, Poetry, Zen

 

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