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Category Archives: New England

Another Royal French Canadian Boîte à savon performance

The Bended Black Steel Arbor And The Morning Glory’s Vows [The Legend Of The Black Knight, from the Pine Cone Diaries]

    “Oh, bended steel arbor, planted firmly in the ground… father of the black knight. You have stood staunch through frost and snow until, in soft ground, I am able to rise upon you —and grow. With spring rain into summer sunshine you courted me becoming my first and only love; supporting me to stretch, to trust my wanderings, betting on me to win, lose, or draw.

    I will crawl up your season’s steel arbor. I will rise above your bended arch. I will cover you with the cloak of my groping summer hearts.

    With vines entwined, we will drink the sun— and hide to spoon beneath the moon; until I rise, unable to stand, so drunk from this climb, you will let me gently fall; bending to blossom our true desires. They will be bright sky blue, reflecting the sea; with a sprinkling darkness of the sky before the rain. And, every morning from their center’s light, they will release —the captured vanilla moon.

    They will stand staunch with the colors you expect in a parade. They will be a delightful explosion of blue and vanilla moon surprises. One maybe two— maybe some— sometimes maybe none, depending on the bees and the hummingbirds and how we are groomed. I will promise the birth of our black knight, in our season’s last bloom; expelling the sun for our love to take flight, fleeing from winter’s moon”.

 Bended black steel arbor planted firmly in the ground, pleasantly listening to a dream, streaming by, of an upcoming meeting and the exchange; now, of his vows. He begins to rehearse again, as he has in all three seasons. When suddenly— she peers from the earth— arrives with blinking, sun sparkled green eyes.

Well! Without hesitation, the bended black steel arbor, planted firmly in the ground, breaks out in his sincere well-rehearsed vows.

“Oh, love of love in my gloom and despair,

My patience is resilient as thou art fair.

 

Cast my season’s dis-pleasures in late summer air.

You arrive before fall, in regal fashion flair;

Paling all colors, that frost will peak and fade.

I have stood tall waiting and staunch.

Stretch and climb onto me. No time to yawn!

Awaken into your destined place. Embrace me,

Climb onto me, for the delivery

 Of our love’s, sweet morning glories.

 

Oh, love of love in my gloom and despair,

My patience is resilient as thou art fair.”

photos: Arbor: ZQ   MGz: by Zeezee Ceecee

 

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Sunday Morning’s Sand

Submitted to the Kittery Art Association Tandem Art show March 13, 2016KAALOGOweb

 Sunday Morning’s Sand

“Sea fence, sea fence— stubborn as sea grass;

Holding back, with space and time— the ocean’s sandy tide.

Or, leaned in fury— holding gracefully

Through foams’ and moon’s —moody seasonal rise.

Waves, roaring in dominance— some,fifteen feet high!


Empty Boat _Fences

Sea grass, sea grass— tall, white, ever waving

Everlasting— stubborn in raging sea’s might.

Bending graciously— passing each storm

In mutual agreement—  as day greets night.

 

 Empty Boat _sea grass

Yes—a welcoming sight— to both sea— and sailor”.

 Empty Boat _sailor

Sing gliding sea gulls

As my feet sink in soft beach

Sunday morning’s sand

 

'Sunday Morning's Sand" painting by: Judy Ann Kline,expressed in tandem by R. K. Garon

‘Sunday Morning’s Sand” painting by: Judy Ann Kline,expressed in tandem by R. K. Garon

 

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Indian Summer In New Hampshire

She came in the frenzy of early spring

In pelting rain from frozen white crystal;

Melting the fury of winter’s last storm

Into puddles of mud and fertile soil.

 

Innocently barren of the gift to bring,

Settles’ her seduction in silent committal;

Melodic and mysteriously her children were born

From her lover in summer, as she slowly recoils.

 

But, her children’s children, seeds in spring,

Are cradled in the weeds and flowers and in tall thistle.

Parents cut and picked, sit on a table adorned

In abundance and beauty of a passing seasons’ toil.

 

Now the grandmother of spring, peaks of pride in color

Of her majestic fall around the lakes and mountains of New Hampshire.

 
23 Comments

Posted by on September 20, 2015 in Love, Nature, New England, New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry

 

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Evening Snow

New England apples

In wooden bowl on table

Shadow’s eventide.

***

Maple Syrup waits

For the Spring.

***

 
22 Comments

Posted by on November 9, 2014 in Beginnings, Haiku, New England, Poetry

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator February 2014

Self-pity is a stone

thrown on a still pond

 that ripples only misery

with everything it touches;

eventually to dissolve, I suppose,

on the banks among the reeds

before the pond returns

 to its peaceful

state.

 

********

Guilt:

The snake has legs

carries a dagger in its  boot

curled up to the warmth of its prey

plays heads or tails with a two-faced coin.

You know it has slipped in

when you hear the closing  door

awakening with a  dagger in your chest.

It’s best to forgive, be forgiven, and forgit.

Good-night, now shoo! Git.

 

***********

 

Who dares give shit to the dishwasher for dropping a dish?

 

**********

Love?

I’m not talking about beating the piss out of something

to straighten out dents!

 

I’m still a romantic;

a flower, a kiss,

a small candy heart

that says in fading blue letters

“I love you.”

A card or two

even if it’s from your mother

just another remarkable reminder,

in addressing the word “you.”

 

********

 

regardless, of your creativity fella,

it still needs to be somewhat refined

as raw gold, or silver, or coal, and

in this particular instance

even mud. 

 oh, up your nose with a rubber hose!

Oh, oh, “F” plus 

 

*********

 

Traveling the birds path that leaves no trail

the sickle of time, the cycle of life,

became ripples from a circle in my eyes.

The splash has wet my face.

I morn less for time and change,

awakened to see

what the center had to divide.

Learning to put things where they belong;

most of them, I found,

empty under my wings.

 

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New Years Eve at Mill Street


~~Baked beans in the pot simmering with salt pork, hot dogs browning in a small amount of butter, brown bread wrapped in aluminum foil nested by the bean pot warming from the oven baking two very large pans of macaroni and cheese, all slowly drifting filling the house with the scent of a familiar night. The matriarch, still re-arranging Christmas decorations as the children and family drop in, is shuffled off with hugs and greetings. They shed coats for plates, salt and pepper, bread and butter, and toast the cusp of a seasons’ joy and the beginning of a new year.~~

 

The morning dishes, put away washed and towel dried

by the grand children, who, one by one drifted in last night.

Grandpa pegs out last, losing his second cribbage game

to a thirteen-year-old; “smart young fella with numbers”.

Smiling, the boy gets up and pushes his chair up against the table

with a soft kick, wishes his senior “better luck next year

 if he can hold on and survive that long,”

 patting the deck of cards unknowingly cryptic.

 

More family arrives with homemade dishes and table ornaments

some placed gifts, for those relatives unseen on Christmas,

under the small well-lit tree, that grandpa boasts

“was negotiated down to ten dollars by grandma.”

New born, wrapped in the arms of entering parents,

begs to be held, cooing for first salutations,

especially those who live “very” far,

but, whose love, promising the child,

will always live nearby.

 

No need for gifts, they all arrived.

 

Rocking chair creaking,

child asleep,

grandmother humming.

Grandfather, after meeting with the family

waits his turn.

(Having lost his job last week

with his confidence “hat in hand”,

understanding his limited options

and where his life now stands).

 

Looking around the house, he cracks a smile

remembering his prime, rocking his last child;

singing quietly with the innocence

 of purity in the comfort of his lullaby.

 

The mill is officially closing at the end of this month.

 

He picks up the child from sleeping slipping arms

and starts to hum softly.

The mill whistle shrieks’ a long, long, blast

telling him that the fourth shift ghosts were punching in.

It was eleven-thirty, December 31, the last shift.

His severance check went into savings this Christmas;

his skills outsourced, betrayed by an economy

 for a life diminished.

 

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A dark wooded night: The Prodigal Ghost

Wind bristling, snow spitting,

urging my heels to push small pine cones

crunching icy pine needles in my foot prints.

 

Owls hoot! Shadows dart! Dead limbs snap!

Moonlight guides the rising bend.

Boot soles slide on unseen ice.

I regain balance.

Rousted squirrels brightly tick eventide.

The remaining light fades from dusk,

I find myself at the  forest edge

short of distant village lights.

 

The wind tears through his over-coat

 threads flutter and shred behind him.

Sleet and ice, preceding new-falling snow

quickly glistens  the way.

 

Dim lights flicker

through the tunnel of a covered bridge.

               He rode hard and fast on the morning he crossed it.

With anger, pain, and impatient with promises,

               he vowed to return without the empty hands

               that gripped the reins of his departure.

 

Wood smoke waffles in scented  shifting winds

carrying anticipation awaiting  by the wood stove.

 

Storm steadily  blowing in a white-out slant

stretches the flame of his swaying lamp.

 

Following  the tracks that he once made;

never looking back  at his worst now,

or, whatever he thought was his best.

Putting my lamp out,

I stamped my feet on the wooden porch floor

and enter the bright warm farmhouse.

 

In my welcome, I returned from my pockets,

the path I had taken and the good grace

of a dark wooded night.

 

 
11 Comments

Posted by on December 15, 2013 in Children, New England, New Hampshire, Outlaw, Poetry, Zen

 

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