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Category Archives: Father

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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Visitation Blues: In the Custody key of “G”

[Jump in boy! We’re out of here. Hee Haw seventy-two hours. Whoa, hang on! You gotta get strapped in. Ouch! You little bugger! Don’t bite me again! It’s the law! Now hang on we’re about to leave Dodge.]

 G clef

I remember your Mama when she was young

Long brown hair and eyes of brown

Prettiest’ gal that you’d ever want to greet

Prettiest smile that you’d ever want to meet.

            But we’d play in the sun and played in the rain

            Never understanding what Love really mean’t

            Just playing those games over and over and over, and over again.

So, Jesse Boy, pack up your gear and don’t forget your cat in the hat too!

Papa’s got his bottle and you’ve got new shoes.

We’re heading for the jeep truck, ride’n in the jeep truck,

Getting’ them ole visitation blues.

 

            Hello Ms. So and so or have you changed your name

            This ole boy is back in town once again

            Don’t call the police or your best friend

            I’ll have back in town as soon as I can.

So, Jesse Boy, pack up your gear and don’t forget your cat in the hat too!

Papa’s got his bottle and you’ve got new shoes.

We’re heading for the jeep truck, ride’n in the jeep truck,

Getting’ them ole visitation blues.

 

            You want to go to the mountains and sigh in the clouds?

            Unpack our gear and maybe sing out loud?

            No road nor dream will ever be far

            As long as you and I can smile …     at who we are.

So, Jesse Boy, pack up your gear…     G clef

 
6 Comments

Posted by on January 19, 2014 in Children, Existential, Father, Love, Outlaw, prose, Zen

 

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