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Category Archives: Mothers

~Pine Cone Diary~ March 2020

     **********

There is a sickness in the air

Tree tops are passing the news

To the stones and the soil

To prepare the paths

Through the forest

And into the valleys

To the villages of compassion;

To be cured .

 

     **********

 

Above darkening gray clouds

The dim glowing sun

Caught my eye.

I started to hum,

“Everything’s gonna’ be alright.”

As dusk, settled on my chair.

I silenced it with a sigh.

 

 **********

 

From ground to empty stoneware pottery,

my soul poured out my life

into my morning’s coffee cup;

existence to non-existence.

Oh, then to remembrance;

of knowledge, when I first held out my hand

—holding, the first summer’s rose.

I emptied my cup

holding empty stoneware pottery

waiting in anticipation for tomorrow’s coffee..

 

 

 

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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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Hermit Island

Happy Birthday Abe, Dylan and the rest of you : )

 

I smell the sweet wind over the dunes

in a warm Maine summer morn.

Papa said it’s fine to dive into the Sea

between breaking waves and sky.

I took his advice.

I surface out of breath, with a smile.

Dusk faded into flickering flashing lights.

Chocolate milk and sparkling stars

captured in growing eyes.

Mama said, “Let them go,

There is no room in the car.”

We left them on the shore of the Sea

closing our eyes

as they were saved in memory;

with sparks of lightening in echoes of light.

It was time to go home.

But, she added “not until dawn”.

 
8 Comments

Posted by on January 2, 2020 in Children, Existential, Love, Mothers, Poetry, Zen

 

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Mother’s day Notes Found On The Refrigerator 2019

 

faded

after winters’ welcomed visit

in fall’s final embrace

life arises from a warm colorful quilt.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

ever so bright

a glitter of rain

against the bark of a tree

—colors glowing in its prism—

is the same light

seen in all life.

 

 

—and its source—

has been made known,

for all that look.

—is all they can see—

 

Photo: R.K.Garon ~The Night Before Breakfast~

 

 
18 Comments

Posted by on May 11, 2019 in Children, Life, Love, Mothers, thoughts, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator August 2018

a wonderful rain

as the mist behind sun dries

enemies of peace

 

so as the song goes

why do our heads hang so low

down in a valley

 

rising with a Love

as spring does resurrection

“We shall overcome”.

 

let’s get up with Joy

and show them our example

life goes back and forth

 

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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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What’s Her Name

When she was younger, strong and stern,

She raised me in punctuality, good manners,

And, God-fearing morality.

 

I remember one evening, when I was fifteen,

Excusing myself from the supper table, hair still combed and face washed clean;

I said I was going out for a walk, and, “was there anything she might need?”

 

I opened the front door, rushing without discreet,

I heard her holler, “be back before eight.

You have an hour of homework and I expect you, not to be late.”

 

Well… the time did fly and so did I,

When I heard the clock tower striking nine.

What have I been thinking, not paying attention to the time?

 

Hoping she was busy somewhere in the house;

Perhaps in the kitchen, or, in the bathroom undoing her hair,

Any place else but in the front hall in that familiar overstuffed chair.

 

Nope! No such luck. There she was, as I opened the door,

With a half-smile of melting stern

Asking me, “sooo… what’s her name?”

*Picture of my Mother 🙂Ma

 
16 Comments

Posted by on October 11, 2015 in Love, Mothers, Pine Cone Diaries, Prose Poetry, Silly stuff

 

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Irene

 

I.

Ghostly ocean wave

Frothing rising in white foam

Mother rides the tide

II.

Abandoned flowers

Cast in fall into ocean

Found growing in dunes

III.

Child now growing old

In summer time finds cool shade

Awaiting his ride

******************************************

Authors Notes:

Haiku I.

Her last will and testament (my mother, Irene) stated, “I want to be cremated and dispersed at Rye or Hampton Beach, (NH)” which we did.  Each of her grandchildren, some she never met, took handfuls and with quiet respect dispersed them into the outgoing tide.

Haiku II.

She left my father with reasons never discussed, after a few years returning home from WWII, leaving him with three children. His inability to deal with the situation and after transferring us to aunts and uncles, he paced us in St. Peter’s Orphanage; insisting it was a “private school” since he was paying for our room and board and being provided with excellent Jesuit teaching. Yes he did, and yes it was.

Haiku III.

Irene came back in five years and took us out of St. Peters’. She continued to raise us from where she left off with love and kindness… until we were all old enough to leave. Her courage to come back after being ex-communicated from her church and family was a radical move only a Mother could do. She has never let go since.

 
27 Comments

Posted by on June 14, 2015 in Haiku, Mothers, New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries

 

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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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War

 

Water Jug

Papa is in the garden

Weedin’ pullin’ sweat drippin’

Momma told me to “stop playin’

And go git him some water.”

 

I’m a big boy now,

Time to stop playing soldier

And help out with the growin’.

 

Grandpas ‘s in a wheelchair,

Grandma ‘s rockin’,

Momma ‘s peelin’ potatoes,

And baby cousin sleepin’. 

 

Time to stop playin’ soldier

And help out with the growin’.

 

Well is gittin’ dry,

Hard to keep pumpin’.

Big brother? died in Viet Nam.

Big sister? died in a country unknown.

 

Time for me to stop playin’ soldier

And help out with what’s bein’ grown.

 

Momma told me to “stop playin’,

Go get me some water too,

Don’t need you next,

to be leavin’ me alone.”

 

 

 
53 Comments

Posted by on May 8, 2015 in Children, Fathers, Mothers, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, war

 

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