notes-found-on-the-refrigerator-Aug.5th 2020 (Quar)

     Love is an illusion (friendship is instinctive), be just like me or perish (enjoy diversity), only self-serving interests (sharing and participating in another’s), laughing at calamity (understand and re-structure) …

     …Love, the unimaginable truth, and its Divinity to commune with understanding family and neighbor, that creates quilted communities, is real. No material of its fibers and colors are independent of itself; unless it stands alone void of inclusion.

     Less we push It into something abstract that dis-avows it. Love is not a contract, it’s an allegiance; morally and with mutual integrity that displays Itself, as an outward sign of friendship. Set to become the binding mystery of Love.   

August is lazy

stillness does not seek a fight

an agreement made

 

Notes found on the refrigerator…June 11th.-13th. 2020 QUAR

June 11^th. 2020

 Thursdays have always seemed to be quite days for me. yet on Fridays, I groom and saddle the horse… and ride her into Monday; tired and happy I walk in with a smile, saddle sore, bow legged, and never wearing spurs.

owl sees at night

daytime sees quick moving grass

best of days are here

 

June 12^th. 2020

      I went to the coast today to help an old, self-quarantined friend, Miss Holly. Before heading off from the mountains, I texted her a note. Asking her to text me and let me know what she needed; I would pick it up on my way there. Please text me the list, because I may forget what you have said over your speaker phone; while you were watching the jewelry channel. 😊

     The first text listed four items. The second text added another five. The last text included provisions for a bunker and don’t forget toilet paper.

     No problem. When I arrived, she sprayed all the bags with disinfectant. I could hear “thru her deep suit diving mask” saying a loud “thank you” and bowing with grace, “ be safe”.

     She couldn’t see the smile behind my mask; so I winked at her and told her “I would see you next week. I’ll call and check on you during the week”.

*****

June 13^th. 2020

 

     Miss Holly, has sold her house and has moved into a “senior village”. As usual she’s a little paranoid of people spaced within 300 feet or less of her property. She feels safe there but she still locks her door.

     After I run her errands, from groceries to printer ink, to medication, and to the next town for a scooter battery…( that was impossible to replace, having sat there for 2 years melted to the casing). I would sit, as I usually do, a little tired and smiling, on Miss Holly’s porch. I open a bottle of beer, lite a cigarette and take out my notebook and given the space to write, enjoying where I am.

     I’ll often look up to see strolling villagers. I think there’s about a hundred of them; widowers, widows, old couples and friends. Not all stroll by, but those that do wave and we exchange our gratitude for the day.

Flower between rock

Rain washes the grass true green

Time is age well spent

 

Ever-Changing Tide

       Under slow shrinking shadows of a receding August sun, squatting near a dribbling tidal pool, four children stare attentively to a small snail; as it furrows and squiggles through the sand, racing to meet the outgoing tide.  They were sent there to “think”. To work out the “argument” they had among themselves.

         They were told to go to the cove; “to seriously think about what each other had said and what they shouted to each other”.

          All four, ignoring each other, watched quietly as the small snail furrowed and scrunched up little piles of sand behind it. The trail squiggled slightly left, then slightly right. It was heading towards the trickling edge of an out-going tidal stream.

Like corrected mistakes,

Never straight with their curves and bends;

Listening to instinct, racing the tide, the snail

Made steady headway towards the sea.

          The children glanced up occasionally to see what the other was doing. They could see the tide ebbing away in a methodical hush. The sun sinking, shed its soft orange and crimson color glistening on the expanded beach sand.

          No one was talkin’. All of them, were still trying to remember what the stupid argument was all about anyway? It wasn’t a fight! Hey! None of us cried! We didn’t tell anybody to shut up! That’s for sure. we just had… an aah, aah, a disagreement!…as their minds ping-ponged in thoughts and rattled on.

With purpose, the snail inched on

Ignoring the circling birds and their potential grip

 For an eventual fatal drop to the flats;

Between shallow tidal pools

And, dry jagged rocks.

          It was getting cooler. They hardly took their eyes off the steady movement of the snail. Except of course, to sneak a peek; checking on each other. They began inching themselves closer together to keep warm and hoping the others “weren’t still mad at them” for whatever they said, or for  whatever they got wrong.

Never dawdling, clinging to its direction

Pushing the sand aside, racing to catch the tide,

The snail forged on.

          Tide water was slipping into drying sand with each forward push and receding splash. The children, realizing it was getting late, were looking up at each other more frequently. They could smell supper on the camp grill. They were ready to go back.

Approaching the last rolling ripple of retreating tide

The snail stopped, as if out of breath.

But, only for the moment.

          Suddenly, the ocean swelled and peaked into a fast rushing froth, it grabbed and pulled the snail. It slid, tumbled, snapped up in surf and foam, flipped, and swallowed into the bubbling, boiling sea.

          All four children, now on their feet watching, caught sight of the snail scooped up in retreating swirling sand and glittering pebbles of a retreating wave.  “There!” The children shouted to each other, pointing to a distant crescent wave pulling away from the shore, “There” on the surface, sitting tall, proud and smiling, was the snail. He looked back at them, waved and shouted an exhausted but jubilant, “Tally Ho!”

          They simultaneously faced each other, eye to eye. “Huh?” Then, pumping their fists, all exclaimed, “It made it! YES!” Then grabbed each other’s hands with a burst of laughter; apologies were unanimously accepted. They skipped and dragged their feet making their own squiggly trail, left then right  along the warm drying beach.

          Supper on the grill, chocolate milk, and stories of a “swooshed up snail they ‘FOREVER’ followed,” were animated in the evenings’ bright open fire light of flaming marshmallows, burning, blown out, and squished on chocolate squares between graham crackers and pushed into sticky lips with anticipated delight.

          I heard it all slide into the clapping sound of incoming waves announcing the tides transition from low to high. It was bedtime, clean up, and evening prayer. Kissing me on the cheek and with a blessing, they all took their day in stride, sharing in the applause of the snail’s completed race and an encore for the ever-changing tide.

  Listening to the tide, as we watched the children disappear into the tent, I on one knee poke the dying fire. Good thoughts were sent to the children; forgetting their disagreement without anger, melancholy, or disappointment. And, a mindful poke from Katie’s marshmallow stick, smiling at each other, as she spread the dimming embers, for a happy jubilant snail.

 

Draft 12: Pine Cone Diary… Hermit Island, Me.

 

Widow Johnson and “Old Man Whiskers” [rev 6]

Wearing clean well-worn clothes,

widow Johnson visits old man whiskers, on invite.

Her mischievous greeting smile and wrinkling forehead (burrows of time —burrows of life)

quickly disappear as she walks through the door

carrying a deck of cards and a cribbage board.

 

He could tell she played this game before.

 

They have coffee, chit and chat

while she shuffles the cards

and ask him to cut, if he preferred that.

He does several times and they play cribbage.

15-2, 15-4, and a pair is 6 and on and on it goes.

Up one side of the board and down the other

until he’s skunked. Twice in the best of three.

 

Still counting each hole with one finger,

checking the peg’s last hole and repeating the score,

she takes his hand, winking at him,

leads him up the stairs to the bedroom,

as she sing-songs quietly, but quite clearly,

hearing widow Johnson giggling,

“LoooZaaaaa.”

 

The Night Before Breakfast {vol I “Mill Street”]  2013-1018

 

An Autumn’s Juxtaposition: The Spiders In The House Plant

My houseplants have been on the porch all summer.

The moon, white as vanilla, sends an evening chill

announcing a late October frost.

They must be carried inside, some hung

from my kitchen’s skylight windows.

 

Picking them up and carrying them through the porch, we welcomed each other.

As I open the storm door, I thought I heard a tiny critter voice chatter;

barely heard, but definitely noticed on the right side from my good ear,

inviting me to look closely at the plants. But, I chose

to quickly put them down on the porch floor.

 

I was a little concerned about my state of mind.

A worry, I must admit, since I was born.

 

Peering cautiously through the leaves of the one plant on the right side,

I spied a silver spider web laced between stems and leaves.

On closer inspection, I saw two critters with long skinny legs;

one in the center of the web and the other, on its furthest edge.

In the center, standing on six of his eight legs,

with one hand on his hip and another extended towards me,

I believe, to introduce himself with a hand or whatever I was supposed to shake.

Without hesitation, he began to speak, quite clearly, in my one good ear.

“Hey! Big Guy!

Bigger of biggest fellows!

I apologize for my intrusion your glorious immensity.

Speaking for the half of which I represent;

This of course, includes only me, for the other half has not yet agreed.

I am asking for your support in avoiding the outside tonight

and perhaps throughout the next two seasons.

For me, big guy, you show wisdom, compassion and a good taste in women.

I plead for you to save us, me and the little lady, where we could be killed

or die freezing outside. We are the third generation that has shared

 this house and we do wish to continue to abide.

 Love the light! Love the dark! Love what you have done inside.”

 

Startled as he spoke I felt dumbfounded,

out of breath, without words in the bellows.

 “Hey you! Snap out of it! Hey! Big Guy! Bigger of biggest fellows!

 I have just heard from the other half. The Mrs. has also agreed to plead

quietly to you. Asking for the joy to watch the early seasons go by…

 weaving harmlessly among the leaves”.

Aghast, with natural concern, I pushed the plant away from my face.

I picked them up, still a little suspicious of the others,

I hurriedly brought them all inside, two at a time.

 

 

I made a pot a coffee; setting a cup in a saucer with a spoon,

sugar, and next to them, a carton of cream.

 

 

In the dimming light of late autumn

I placed the spider plant on the kitchen table.

Facing the shiny silver web, we started talking away

with spinning yarns and silver threads of family and friends;

all of whom have lived here. Reminiscing, laughing, I, drinking fresh coffee

and they, drinking from teacups, with warm evenings dew.

 

(We spoke about our parents, grandparents,

children, and all the visiting inhabitants.

Some I never knew existed and some apparently they ate.

I have yet to meet the others that are staying here;

evidently, they have cousins from the fiddleheads estate,

having arrive earlier, deciding to winter in the cellar downstairs.)

 

An October Morning

Leaves are dancing in rhythm with the wind.

Frost embraces its partner —holding Fall within.

Colorful chaos prances through woods and on soil.

 

I kick dust-up behind me —before it settles cold.

I go forward alone, remembering an old friend,

humming those ole “dirt road blues” again.

 

The Soul of Maurice J. *[A dedication to Paul Lenzi]

*( written 5 yrs ago with another of my family’s  Patriarch’s Passing)

 

 It was three days

And three nights

Before he could rise again.

 

Death invites itself

Long before we receive

Its invitation.

 

The Soul with grace

And poise

Accepts the moment.

 

Who then is preoccupied

With judgement

Of this one;

 

Of this mist

That is dried by the sun

And returns as the pond?

 

The passage

Is insignificant

If balance has been achieved.

 

Only the witnesses

Are important

As another soul is freed.

 

 

Bobby, Michelle, and Priscilla [A Mid-1950’s Tale]

 

 Lightning in a thunderstorm flashing —streaking through the sky.

Hidden in shadows —frightened by the glow;

Richard ran home in darkened skies

before the thunder —could shake the ground.

 

Quickly finding a door unlocked, he opened it.

Kerosene cook stove glowing; he took his seat at the table with a sigh

—finding himself, not alone, with baby Bobby

and his older sisters, Michelle and Priscilla inside.

(this day after 5 yrs. having been separated by age and gender, we left together from St. Peter’s Orphanage, holding each other’s hands, knowing this is, are only home)

 

Love’s Illusion~ rev:71a

     

Yes, Love, I was born with the first waxing moon.

Bald, without a thought for a tea’s afternoon;

—we embraced, dancing in every crook and cranny of my mind,

only to find myself as no one, and finding no place there.

~~~~

Oh failing heart, why did you forgo me?

To enter space where I would thirst?

Then, drowned me in a sea of deserts bleached sand.

Perhaps, in the essence of  moonlight and sunlight

—I will find You, where their lights both meet, and see

 what I have never lost nor have ever found.

 

Notes Found On The Refrigerator March 2018

I don’t want to do the dishes!

Screw it!

I have a saved pocketed packet—

from Wendy’s four for four dollars;

salt and pepper, fork, and a napkin.

I’ll eat out of the can.

     *****

They complained I stayed in bed all day.

That’s not true.

I get up to eat

and go to the bathroom.

     *****

[Chorus]

I have spent my life pleasing others

Whether friends, lovers, or out of respectability.

I did it without regret for the experiences.

 

Finding a self, by its self

In the grace of Mystery in an unknowing cloud

I now, have to learn how, to please myself

—without offending another.

     *****

I remember when I would waddle like a duck

—but being a Quack wasn’t always fun 😊

     *****

Repeat [Chorus]