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Category Archives: Experimental

Notes Found On The Refrigerator August 24, 2017

As an intelligent, compassionate person I cover all the bases of the perceived truths— Before I discover my reality without bias of mind or heart but within my soul— Then, I can begin an argument —open for discussion for covering all our bases— with the illusions of what we have seen.

i have sifted through sand

tripped on stones

slipped on pine needles

have lost my balance on occasion

a few times—  falling

—but never has my path

been more appealing

than the steps before

 

i am who I’ve been

I certainly am not

who I was— as dust in the wind

as scent in the pines

as tomorrow is in each day

as yesterday—

 is unable to hold time.

*****

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17 Comments

Posted by on August 24, 2017 in Existential, Experimental, Love, Nature, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator July 2017

A Melancholy song

Songs are hidden in the words we speak. —sometimes in harmony

with the background hum of those we did not

know or ever meet.

 

 Our melody can sometimes be disheartening

 as well as our belly aching, vomiting

between the screeching cacophonous dominant notes

we may have perceived.

 

My music repetitively keeps playing yesterday’s Rock & Roll songs,

Rhythm & Blues songs, gospel’s black and white songs

—they are all fine—

 

 But, go to the window and lift the shade

and hum them—

 as you look at the sun and the future of rain.

 

Sing off-key if you must —loud and unalarmed.

Sing the songs that are hidden in the conscience that spoke without a word-

putting you in music unharmed.

 

Hum the song for unity in freedom

that has morally and musically given us;

without disrespect to life in the words

or thoughts written in our songs.

Or, what we sing.

*****

The Banjo Player

    I was talking to an old banjo player, pushing a 103 yrs old the other day. I asked him how his band was doing. “Well,” he said, wiping his face with one hand. “It’s over. There were four of us. One is dead, which left three of us unable to play his part and ours at the same time. Besides that, one is as Cuckoo as a broken string. The other young fella, in his late eighties, besides losing his hair has also, seemingly, lost the beat. Towards the end, we realized we were all playing different tunes insisting the other guy was messing up… and looking at each other with the stare of “each of us had better catch-up”. And, what was worst, when we were all on the same song, forgetting the words, we would automatically pick people out in the audience and break out into “Happy Birthday, to You…”.

We still keep in touch…”’

    There was a moment of silence, thinking he was reminiscing when he suddenly blurted out, “Now where was I? Oh ya! That was quite a box of good cigars”, sitting back in his chair with a great big smile.

*****

Oh sea glass greening

Passing through low and high tides

Speckling at my feet

*****

 The path once well-worn

 Through the passing of my youth

Is now overgrown

**** 

 
21 Comments

Posted by on August 12, 2017 in Existential, Experimental, Hi-Koo, Love, Poetry, Prose Poetry, war, Zen

 

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[Many scenes of consciousness with eight characters; One narrator, a Table of six Judges, (three Cyclops, three Angels) and one defendant.]

I Will Have The Last Word

(a scene)

Narrator:

In equal seats at the round table, each with a voice on the scale of justice,

Sat three Cyclops in disguise; wearing sunglass monocle and

Red tinted bald head rubber caps.

On the opposite side, three Angels sat with pleated wings of sea-gull feathers,

Waiting to argue for him but feeling queasy and unable.

Table:

All speaking in unison, “You have only a few words before the ultimate gavel

Echoes you, to a sentence of silence.”

“Do you understand? You only have a few words”,

 Repeated one of them, Under their breath

With a voice of compassion.

Defendant:

Everything that was bad or good,

Smiles and cries, and all those moments in-between,

Became reams of litigation suspended in litter.

 

Bound for this uncomfortable meeting,

 I showed up wearing only a t-shirt,

 Unshaven and a few items in a half empty paper bag.

 

I took my seat on a steel-gray folding chair

Without the cushion of a good history;

Braced with the events that allowed this chance, to convene.

  

Then, they began to strip-mine my life, looking and digging

Into the ground of my relatives, mentioning buried outlaws;

 Ancestors still connected to my bones.

 

All my errors descended into a million pieces of recycled confetti.

They dismissed every excuse to free me.

They found nothing of value, stating, they were unable to release me.

 

They discounted everything I had borrowed,

Insisting on their uselessness when I returned them.

I shouted above my ignorance:

 

“Dance, dance, dance you Cyclops, around my mistakes.

Fuel your caldron with distasteful acknowledgement,

Envy the situation that is not present.

And you! Preen your Angel feathers without dissent

With the oil of penance.”

 

(another scene)

Narrator:

Peering across the table, with silver cups in front of everyone

Except in front of him, he noticed in the center of the table,

A scarred brown plastic tray, sat one tin cup.

He grabbed it, banging the empty cup for their same drink

Insisting for a better portion and perhaps

forget this nightmare and let him go.

Let him go home.

Table:

 “What is it now, that everything is drunk?” Spoke one Angel.

“What is it now that you can savor?” Said one Cyclops,

Sipping his cup, on the opposite side of the table.

They all replied, in a confident anthem:

“We are all of the same dust. We are unbound, released from gravity

Without offense. Unlike you, sitting, fidgeting, now bound guilty

Before judgment.”

 

Defendant:

From this agenda, this torture

 I squealed, I rat-ed out and rolled on my ego.

               Confessing to be, in mind, an accomplice without heart.

 

 I pleaded “mercy” to the table exclaiming, “guilty!”

 

I swooned, I almost fainted. I felt the floor roll beneath me

Like silt in a receding tide.

Standing, grasping what became actually visible.

 

I kicked my chair from the table, sent it flying behind me.

I swept my space clean.

 

 Narrator:

               An empty cup pinged to the floor spilling fear where it belonged.

The echo, stretched, crawling unsuccessfully to find the exit door.

Defendant:

Who am I now, as I try to rise above this table,

Trying to escape the infinite loop that leaves the measure of me to others?

Where swearing and praying becomes a side bar for approval or complaint.

They sit across from each other, saying the same things in redundancy;

Syllable after syllable, arriving at the same conclusion, using different words.

 

(another scene)

Narrator:

He quietly sat down across wingless angels and puffy black-eyed Cyclops.

Humbly took his assigned seat at a long aluminum rectangular table,

In the State, prison dining hall.

He placed his scarred brown plastic tray carrying a milk carton

And his scooped up meal.

Today is his first day; his first spoon towards a year and a day.

(One thousand and ninety-seven left).

Saturday night: he eats folded white bread dipped in beans

Savoring the franks. He will probably eat smelt on Fridays.

 

Defendant:

I see the end recoiling back, hiding in this cosmic dust

Of breath and conscience death, .Each moment for me is mine

Within a circle without chairs of decision or indecision,

Where forgiveness, atonement and contentment has to begin.

“I am not afraid.”

 

Narrator:

Those were his last words

 Before the gavel burst into unconsciousness.

 

 
 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator February 2017

The Internal Seed

I never did pretend very well.

Truth was perception—

Dismissing objective proof,

For the answer to the basic question

 “How does popcorn pop”?

Mistakes, miss-judgments, funneled into the mind

Of tornadoes swirling heart-popping roofs off conjecture.

How long can one pretend to believe you can be received?

 Gently through the bluster of ignorance?

And, yes, I am not the person I am.

I am the one inside of you

That never does pretend, very well.

“Wake up!” Said, the knife and fork to the spoon.

  *****

I have lost many memories that I often find in my heart.

   *****

Go home and simply be honest

To your lover and rekindle

The one action you forgot.

 
7 Comments

Posted by on February 12, 2017 in Experimental, ignorance, Love, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator: Autumn 2016

Don’t run away, unless you know where you are going.

Everyone should have an acceptance, and, an exit plan.

   *****

Bottom Of The Glass: 

…as long as I could see the bottom of the glass,

I would pour myself another drink;

Seeing my reflection

At the bottom of the glass

Sometimes dithered me though.

So, at some point,

I would leave the glass half-full.

*****

Love’s Encouragement:

(Inhale)

It is time we move on

from where we met

 to where we were suppose

 (exhale)

to  meet.

(Breath)

Hold my hand, we’ll search our memory,

and find our way.

(Inhale)

It is time we move on

from where we met

 to where we were suppose

 (exhale)

to  meet.

*****

Enlightenment’s Rock And Roll:

Often,

Silence is a noise we try to avoid.

Whether in conversation, in loneliness,

Or worst, when we are bored.

Yet,

When it is present, it opens the windows

With no mind. To a space quietly making music

To no one, in no place, for nothing.

So, before accepting it,

We kiss our mind gently good-bye;

And escape through the window, with our soul,

To join the dance, to the music of enlightenment’s

Rock and Roll.

 

 
20 Comments

Posted by on December 3, 2016 in Experimental, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, 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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The Cliff Between Right And Wrong: a parable

           The distance for my success, that could be jumped; a quarter-mile wide and a quarter-mile deep, never existed. Yet, wearing a smile, I jumped! Then what?

I fell.

          I floated, between non-existing marks. With arms flailing, Legs wiggling in space, head heavy as an elephant, or, with maybe just their footprint.

          Everything that I believed in, defending it from the start, to my last breath; to ultimately fall with foolish bliss in exhilaration, hitting face first into the ground.

Still, I have the urge to jump that cliff again.

But, this time, from another side.

 
1 Comment

Posted by on September 20, 2016 in Beginnings, Experimental, parable, Pine Cone Diaries, Wisdom

 

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