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Category Archives: New Hampshire

Breakfast Before Their School‘s Mid-Terms

          In the foothills of New Hampshire, on the threshold of the White Mountains, the sun began to warm the valley. The warm spring morning sprayed glistening frost into fog. Another growing up season had passed. The children were getting dressed with some apprehension.

            I looked out the kitchen window and I could smell, feel spring, and see it lightly, loftily, taking its place. The morning greeted me with multiple shadows getting more confident and larger behind cereal bowls and warm buttered coffee cake.

Budding on branches

Spring’s new born generation

Peaks beyond shadow

dVerse~ Haibun Monday: The Shadow Knows 4/3/2017

 
 

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Dried Flowers In A Seasonal Antique Jar

Dried flowers in winter’s light— brightened by an antique jar.

Flowers picked in the fall, after waiting all summer, to bloom—

Jar dug up, on the other side

of the “tell tale” opening in the stonewall;

an old, late 18-hundreds’s dump, left there —

Many lifetimes’ ago.

I go about my seasonal chores,

I Watch you— waiting for you to fade.

You never do.

My soul curls up in intimacy on the frosted windowsill

Embracing the jar of age; having kept its beauty

 and displaying with pride, its content.

Teach me your resilience, your beauty

From your past, to the presence.

 

I find hope’s secret smile

 In your colors of dried flowers

in winter’s reflection held in my antique jar.

(Helping me understand all the promises, winter carries.

From it’s off Spring, to this coming year’s honeymoon…to its encore.

 

Shorter days and longer nights cannot sustain its post

Against the emergence of summer— and longer days.

 

Unannounced by frost melting into dew

the first wave of spring—

Then, trumpeted through picnics and summer parades—

And, the last wave leaves,

with colorful banners exiting through Fall.)

I sketch this last season’ thoughts— dried flowers

reflecting winter’s delight— smiling this evening,

Looking forward to another beautiful tomorrow;

As reflected in an Antique jar.

I go about.

I Watch you— waiting for you to fade.

You never do.

Until I put you out where we first left

And clean the jar again, in late May.

dry-flowers-winter

Charcoal and colored pencil sketch by R.K. Garon

 

 

 

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Seasonal Thoughts From Center Sandwich, New Hampshire

 In late  autumn, in-between the mountains, a sinking sun

glows bright orange. Silhouetted on ridges above the valleys —

pines, leafless maples, stark  bare oak trees.

 

I notice a single leaf wobbling

on a low birch branch near me.

I presumed, waiting on the winter wind

for her  invitation to an early frost

and a late autumn’s— evening’s fling—

 

I remember

encircling wooden posts with rusting wire fences

for a dance floor, dancing my first  winter waltz

with the chill wind, red cheeks blushing warm—

 

–Snow glistening across the meadow

Pushed through the White Mountains—

Enjoying delightful winter flakes on my tongue.

 

 

Kicking snow into white clouds announcing

my next boot’s intention 

— lest’ I slip.

 

Twirling in traditional steps of solid granite stature.

Dipping, stomping, sliding, gabbing a handful of snow

kissed, licked, and eaten cold.

 

we would play and dance to a robust measure of silent music;

then, with symphonic pause  –time for another last thought—

I would be  pushed home

 whistled in snowflake crescendo,

pulling up my collar,

 and tightening my wool hat

towards drifting wood stove smoke

and supper on the kitchen table

with a cup of hot chocolate that was perfectly warm.

 

Thoughts – as I watched,

late autumn sun setting on

my New Hampshire home.

 

I went inside with an arm full of wood.

Smiling at the leaf’s anticipation

For her first fling— as mine was

in a late autumn childhood.

 
17 Comments

Posted by on November 13, 2016 in Love, New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries, Prose Poetry

 

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Winter’s Lover

                I’m not getting around doing much reading lately. Listening to my own head and writing notes into drafts, into outlines, revised again and again trying to avoid the trash; has been taking the days. But, I continue my short walks through the woods outside my “cave” and enjoy autumn swooshing summer away in grand fashion; as the days get shorter and the nights get longer, she prepares for a great sleep over, getting completely naked for winter.

Fallen leaf in frost

Pines shelter an autumn grove

for winter’s lover

 
 

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True Lovers Past

(Mid-town)

Wine, whiskey, and roses—

In alcove with three large windows

Straight lace tablecloth on heirloom table

               (Across town)

Barn-board counter top, single sink,

Hand pumped water

Red-checkered vinyl tablecloth

 

Two shot glasses, acapella— on each table

 

(Mid-town)

Vase, decanter, and a blue corked bottle

One in the Yin—

Another in the Yang

 

A well-rounded glass globe—  

Wine circling in small waves

Well below the rim.

 

The toast is the same.

 

(Across town)

Mason jar with whiskey and ice

Raised above a drying rose

The toast is the same.

 

Salute’ to the empty chair

At both their tables—

“May you be well, happy, and peaceful.”

Note: True Lovers Past

 

 

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Waking Up A Writer’s Cramp

You:

Sweet writers! exclaimed! Or, un-exclaimed!

Let your dreams float without utterance

Or sound—  above the waterfall’s rainbow of your brain

And it’s frothy, delightful misty vocabulary—

words waiting, hovering  beyond intelligence,

to be spelled.

Soul’s wind, embraces them , often to dispel

them Into wispy clouds—

As they carry the words only you can share,

in treasured remembrance

   ****

Me:

In sleep, recognizing crashing waters

Seeing a person in a barrel who dared to land there,

at the bottom

 splintered and torn

For only a dime

Will cost me to be awakened—

I awakened, and paid the price—

with lead pencil in hand

To scribbled away; “I’m OK! Yup! I am OK.

There will always be a place to start.

Beginnings, never end”.

Us:

And so, remembering,

Why we start—

And why, we will never finish.

ZQ writing

 

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White Mountain Forest

In the reflection of sunrise light,

Tipping blades of grass with tiny crystal prisms,

Clinging dewdrops

Glitter all the colors of life—

I catch my shadow in stride, until each is one.

Both! (My shadow and I) Each, both in transition

Until we find the secret peace of the forest—

I am an early morning guest

Waking, yawning, knowing

How I will be received;

With scent of pines and wild blueberry dreams—

I will see you soon, my old friend.

 

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