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

**** 

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Thoughts about :The Rose on Snow

Dew turns into frost;

Sweetness turns bitter

Sweet.

 

 

Our last breath of summer

Vapor thaws the rose.

Glory days are memories

Forgetting , understanding,

And, forgiving ourselves

For a beauty, yet, seen.

 

Lingering in love;

gracefully into winter

Oh, how can I embrace thee!

Knowing, I must let you go.

 

I guess, I will go.

Instead of leading

Let me follow.

 

With that said, I sigh;

Good-bye ego and pride;

 Blonde hair and blue eyes.

Romeo and Juliet and

 Perfect  Bob Dylan lines;

Proclaiming  a pause

To hear the tide

Of changing times.

 

Watching the petals falling,

Never touching ground.

A peeling self in love,

Always blossoms

In a soul

Never touching ground.

 

Refugee

 

A rainbow un-torn,

Thin flying paper with tails.

String dangling from low branches,

Kite in a treetop.

Who will take it down?

Who will, with careful hands,

Retrieve it to fly again?

 

The ring

The ring is off her finger

 The indentation         like the vows

 L   i   n  g   e r

 

Winter’s Ballet

The snow is easy, it just falls

on several notes                                                       

played by the wind.

 

In between the trees

winter’s first appearance

 swishes like a skirt, across the yard.

 

Harmony

in commotion,

in all those exclamations

 

innocent and clean. I

watch the ballet

and listen

 

to an orchestra unseen.

                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It is said that King Ajastashatru had strong imprints for understanding emptiness, which was activated in the following way: one day, he invited Manjushri for a meal and was just about to offer him a very fine garment he had made ready, when Manjushri disappeared. Feeling very disappointed, Ajatashatru put on the garment himself and momentarily also disappeared. As a result of this he gained the understanding of emptiness.”

 Geshe Sonam Rinchen

 

Respect

Such a gift,

deserves the mist,

of a new

morning.

Poetry Picnic Week 12

Theme:Feathers, Fidelity, Figment, and Fables