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Category Archives: Father

Sept. 29th 2020 (Quar)

Sept. 29th 2020 (Quar)

 

Prologue:*

            This is my father’s birthday, now buried in the Mount Calvary Cemetery. Lost in prayer and thought having flash backs of a father never being there, mostly never here.

            Abandoned by his day-care giver (his wife), after abandoning him and the children, he was unable to deal with it alone. Sending the children to relatives.

1950’s Las Vegas Divorce **

“Life has to be given a meaning because of the obvious fact that it has no meaning.”
Henry Miller

Sitting on the fire escape

he was waiting for you to save him.

He wallowed in his inability to leave.

 

Cheap hotel: bed without bedposts, no complimentary soap.

Should he sit tight waiting for you?

To work out problems never explained

between love, residence, and a person that only pays rent?

 

All he was asking from her,

is to save the last dance for him. For love, affection,

and a future without dereliction.

“Gosh, that is a nice dress.

Bright red with sequins and plunging neckline.

You never have gone out with me, looking like that.

 

Yes, I know it’s new.

To wear when the night has no moon.

To walk the cross walks under streetlights

 

glittering with nightly specials on your low cut- menu.

Stopping anyone who has only one feeling—

to admire your attire and everything that is underneath;

 soft, round, moist, short skirt’s unrelenting heat.

 It was me.”

 

 

Wielding a face like an axe,

he silenced any objection to negative gestures of guilt,

into words, into conjecture, into blame.

The truth as he experienced it.

Another act to repeat itself in disaster—

having to search in the clutter of useless feelings.

Like her first set of headlights, windows rolled down;

to her last trick— running on empty, but, never gently.

 

Cheap hotel, bed without bedposts;

stench of stale cigarettes and after shave floating

through the next rooms’ half-opened windows.

 

He sits there without the utmost concern,

or yearning for his guardian  angel—

or for the disposition of his soul.

 

watching another night fade into morning;

waiting for Eve

to come back

and save him.

 

 

 

 

 

* Notes Found On The Refrigerator”

** The Night Before Breakfast”

 
2 Comments

Posted by on October 4, 2020 in Divorced, Existential, Father, Life, Love, prayer, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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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

 
9 Comments

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

 

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Offspring’s

I watched:

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.

 

I saw:

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

 

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A Father’s Wedding Card To: Jessica and Dylan

“Over and over and over you begin.

Drop, fall, falling and fall

 In love again— as the seasons pass,

See your hearts reflection

Looking through the window

One elbow on the windowsill.”

 

You grew from a seed, fallen from an oak. In your fall

You were embraced in the womb of bright-colored fallen leaves

—quilted for the comfort of winter

—made just for you.

 

It is nature’s well-attended consummation.

 

Cleansed by snow, baptized in spring rain,

 Encouraged by the earth beneath you,

The sun of life above you—

You grew with patience, understanding, and perseverance.

 

 Now, having watched all seeds grow: let me fall again

—in age with roots entwined and with fallen branches

To nourish you, with patience, understanding, and perseverance

—to build your own home in harmony with nature’s beautiful quilt,

 

As you drop, fall, falling, and then fall in love again

Over and over and over, you begin.

 

 
16 Comments

Posted by on May 31, 2017 in Father, Fathers, Friendship, Love, Nature, Prose Poetry

 

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Breakfast Before Their School‘s Mid-Terms

          In the foothills of New Hampshire, on the threshold of the White Mountains, the sun began to warm the valley. The warm spring morning sprayed glistening frost into fog. Another growing up season had passed. The children were getting dressed with some apprehension.

            I looked out the kitchen window and I could smell, feel spring, and see it lightly, loftily, taking its place. The morning greeted me with multiple shadows getting more confident and larger behind cereal bowls and warm buttered coffee cake.

Budding on branches

Spring’s new born generation

Peaks beyond shadow

dVerse~ Haibun Monday: The Shadow Knows 4/3/2017

 
 

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Papa’s First Dance

It was never hard to find the lines

To greet you or your brothers. And, put them into a melody

For a song that sings in harmony

With love— for you.

Yes, you all have grown, still magically dancing,

Sliding off the top of my shoes—

Kissing my cheek without having to explain

Oops!

 

papas-first-dance

 
14 Comments

Posted by on January 7, 2017 in Children, Existential, Father, Getting Old, Love, Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Strength Is A Child’s Journey

Child, oh child—unburdened before life.

Fallen star from the heavens—

Floating—on water’s golden light.

In that sunrise—

You carry wood, smile, and be polite.

Helpful as ever-present.

You placed yourself— in my heart

And lifted my life’s purpose—carried—

In your embracing arms.

We sit— in our own houses now.

I look at your photograph—loving you—

Remembering— how strong you are.

JDG2

 

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Angel From The Host Of An Ivory Moon: (Crosby’s Baptism)

Wings reflecting the moon at sunrise,

Settled upon the child with no sin;

In water and parents, he was baptized.

His heart now lit, from a light within.

Shadows may cover his smile

As his youth transitions into understanding;

From failure to the success, patient all the while,

Like a crawl… to standing… to running,

For no minds’ reason at all.

He will awake during his life time

With a drop of water, a tear of joy

Running down his face; acknowledging his mother and father,

Being born under an ivory Host, with a visitor without error,

Or mistake. His Guardian Angel,

For whom, he will never forsake.

 

 

Crosby Baptism Angel

 

 

 

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Aceptance

 

Dark moss seeking sun

Birch bent with acknowledgement

Child runs to mother.

 

Grass rising in dew

Casts crushed footsteps aside

Finds father in child.

 

 
42 Comments

Posted by on July 13, 2014 in Father, Love, Mothers, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry

 

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Kitchen Door

From the driveway through the garden, to the house,

through the Spring flowers and early vegetable crowns

dotted by Irish moss and creeping winter savory

curved a peaceful path of stepping-stones.

 

There had been children, pets, bears, skunks, mice and moose.

From wood line, through the garden, or from unsettled foundation stones.

None unwelcome.

They would strut, skitdattel, and vamoose unchallenged;

if you leave out the occasional, “shoo!” with an apron.

 

There had been games, challenges, aching legs, pride slid under,

broken flowers, no flowers, whiffle ball whistles, and cries of“foul!”

It all felt the same, a few tumbles of joy and pain resolved in her ooozs

and aaaahs, as lightning and thunder was always explained

in sliding sliders, straight into her arms.

a family kitchen, was  re-arraigned for such an aim.

 

They hopped, skipped, and jumped open space

 between each stone. Sometimes with each other,

sometimes stick tapping and clacking, straggling alone.

Or, as they got older, quietly tiptoeing behind her,

as she cleared her path and  swept the stones,

they would make a loud bee buzzing sound,

scaring the “bejesus” out of her.

and maybe a little extra, waving a finger of shame.

 

I follow the stones, still well placed,feeling  the charm

and seeing her face aged and etched by the seasons.

The children’s path, though well-worn

still has the strength to hold my feet and carry me

sliding, shuffling  across the porch to the kitchen door.

 

 

[re-blog-Edit] Chapter II Love: Hot Water, Crackers, and Ketchup Soup

 

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