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Category Archives: Love

Releasing Illusions From The Shore

Creation’s sand sifted from our hands—

clutched for a moment by gravity

as it flowed, streaming silently,

to settle —in small scattered piles within us.

 

Thought and mood changes from grain to grain.

Perils and adventures rise and fall—

again and again from one position to the next.

 All things change us—

All pleading for illusions un-hooded truth—

 

 Only a mindful soul in peaceful acceptance

Prepares the meeting room table

for each sunset, for each full moon, for each new sunrise—

Guests are encouraged to speak

with innocence and understanding

as they… the children are;

where they become the sand—

Released from the creation of their hands.

 *****

(In silence, I mourn Creation’s loss, from above…

there is not a child born, that does not —seek our love).

   ~~~~~

From sand to diminishing pottery, my soul pours out the last of life.

It’s existence to non-existence, in remembrance

—of holding its last grain of sand.

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The Glass Sword

[Children all over the world are being slain without an enemy, other than ours.]

Each evening puts tears in our eyes

as we watch the world

with arrogance, stupidity, and greed

carnage souls and minds.

***

I know we are getting old.

But, what did we teach them?

Are they awake? What have they learned?

***

I thought we buried the sword!

If we have left the handle above the ground

—place it back on the slain bodies deep,

and shatter it where it was found.

***

Kneel and be still.

Then rise, as the new day, with bright eyes.

And, continue to teach each other;

why we all, see the beauty of each sun set

—and why we all, look forward to each sun rise.

~

 “Children are our second chance to have a great parent-child relationship.”

 Laura Schlessinger

 

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The Gift Of Free Will At Sunrise

      I shall not seek Thee —in a stiff collar of white or colorless turbine. Or, robes of wool…covering skin dark or light over bones disguised in cloaks of Yellow, Orange, Brown, and lest not we forget Cremora White!

      —You have no need to convince me of the fig leaf on my soul! I have acknowledged its presence. I will find its place in the empty void.

      I shall find You —by going forward and leaving me alone.

In valley below

winter thaws upcoming spring

On Holderness Road

 

 
 

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The Advent Ghosts

Above urgent toes, pushing small glazed pinecones,

 a late December wind was bristling with snow spitting

at heels in a steady pace crunching frozen pine needles.

 

Owls hoot! Shadows dart! Dead limbs snap!

Moonlight guides them to a glowing rising bend.

Boot soles slide on unseen ice —but, balance is regained.

 

The remaining sun begins to fade from dusk.

Curling nesting squirrels brightly tick eventide;

finding themselves short of distant village lights.

 

Snow, now steadily blowing in a whiteout slant

mellowed the glow from the windows

of the houses, steady burning lamps.

 

The wind tore through their over-coats

threads fluttered and shredded behind them

as they hastened to saved empty seats.

 

In scented moonlight, they caught the smoke

that waffled thru stone chimneys

—they were welcomed arrivals in houses of warmth;

 

they were seated in the glow at table side,

where they lit the center white candle —awaiting Christmastide,

along with the joyful hearts of expectant families.

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Posted by on December 23, 2017 in Advent, Existential, Love, Poetry, Spiritual

 

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A Lost Silver Dollar

     The clear Vodka bottle stood full, unopened on the top of the refrigerator. It has been there for hours, turning into days, weeks, and months. Every time I opened the refrigerator door— I would looked at it, and sing “Choices.” (Written by Billy Yates and Mike Curtis made popular by George Jones), and I would go about my routine day.   But, eventually— one evening I took the bottle down and placed it on the counter. I found a clean mason jar and placed a few cubes of ice into it—poured from the bottle two mason jar fingers—staring out the kitchen window, I saw the full moon looking like a lost silver dollar—I raised my glass.

  Let loving hearts ache

Release all blame and accept

The seedlings of trust

 

In case your curious:

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on December 9, 2017 in AA, Existential, Haibun, Haiku, Love, Poetry, Zen

 

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Turn The Light Back On

Sundown was sinking from a ridge on Holderness road

Inviting me, or so I thought, to turn off –my one light on.

(The one I had turned on, when darkness was creeping along).

 

I could see as I stared out from my large window—

 the only one in my cave— a dimming invitation

for a quick evenings celebration; honoring a season’s resignation.

 

 

I wanted to meet her –to greet her,

Before the winter moon rose to extinguish  

her completed season’s accomplishments.

 

I left the house in a goose down vest,

donning my formal Pendleton— wide brim’s best.

Without a thought, I walked many steps

 

going about my way.

Until I opened my eyes

on an illuminated path of autumn amber pine needles

 

glowing from the rising moon and sunlight’s sunset.

They met and greeted me with giggles and mutual song.

I caught their transition between darkness and dawn.

 

They kissed each other… as the moon

asked me— to go inside

and turn the light, back on.

 

Photo by RKG…  Holdernes Rd. Center Sandwich NH

 

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A November Divorce

 

     I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat. I haven’t been to one of those since I was single. Now, older as things get ignored, I wait until I run out of socks and underwear. Oh, and tee shirts they’re always along side two or three more.

     Two pillow cases in and only one with all folded, coming out. Sometimes, it’s both being carried out when I take the sheets, towels, a couple of dress shirts, and a few blue jeans, at the heel with frayed threads falling out. But today its tee shirts, socks, and underwear; one pillow case, the other carried inside out.

      I have been in my robe all week, tee shirts and underwear underneath. Yesterday I was remembering a place with a washer and a dryer. Where it was my turn to do the laundry, a turn I would keep. I would turn on a blaring rock and roll radio station, sorting whites from colors. Sometimes I would inject a little shuffle and dance as I  measured softener and twenty-mule team borax, half a cup or more singing out loud almost in a holler.

       From gentle to hard-core, as the cycles went. Washing, drying, and folding. Picking up the kitchen in-between the squashing and swirling I would sweep the floor. With things sorted from white, colors and who knows what. I did two maybe even three loads. But, ah, back to my rented room in its ultimate bore.

     On my inherited mother’s nicked kitchen table, on a lace doily gathering dust, sits a blue antique bottle and this summer’s dried flowers. I laid my car keys and emptied my pockets making them lighter of contents, putting them on her table.

     Two straight-backed chairs next to yesterdays mail, the morning sun struck the table, breaking through the windows hazed of last night’s cigarette smoke, I heard a voice from my past, as my mother spoke, telling me to at least, “keep yourself clean, don’t live precariously, do your laundry, every week, listen to me, please!”

     I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat.     I haven’t been to one of those since I was single or with my mother as a child; since my divorce.

Photo by RKG

 
4 Comments

Posted by on November 11, 2017 in Divorced, Getting Old, Love, New Hampshire, Prose Poetry, short story, Zen

 

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