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Category Archives: New Hampshire

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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Lulu and Larry [The Legend of ‘Little Pond’]

On a pond in Center Sandwich, New Hampshire

—there was ripplin’ dimples on the shore

—toe dunkin’, foot slippin’ in mucky mud sinkin’.

—Tad poles at their feet were being ignored

As Lulu and Larry stepped further from shore.

 

 

“Watch out for old ‘Sticky tongue’!

That bullfrog is as big as a horse!

And he knows you’re in his ponnnnnnnduh.”

Shouted, older brother Horace

From the window of the family car.

 

Lulu heard a snap and a hard slap

on the water by her side.

Looking for Larry, finding only a big ripple

circling, melting at her knees in a chilling rise.

There he was! gone!* without a bubble or a scream

in ‘Sticky Tongue’s pond on a hot summer’s eve.

 

PS: Horace rolled up his window as running Lulu joined him –they locked all the car doors and hit the floor. As for Larry?  His parents are still lookin’ fer’.

 Yup! Cross my heart and hope to die .I don’t swim there, but I fish there; catching on a hot summer day, a wiggly reflection on the surface of the water, of sticky tongue’s lair.

 

**********

 This is for those of you who sit at the end of a movie and listen to the music reading the credits:

Note:

I received this glittering notebook as a gift from a wonderful writer friend Kelli T.–teaching as Adjunct faculty (English of course) at Plymouth State University NH—now living the glamorous life 😊 in Minneapolis. A great writer whom I have accepted gracious encouragement from.

The notebook has been kicking around for a while, buried among many journals. Some leather-bound, cloth bound, some on paper bags and some on any colored napkins.

PoPo, my 10 yr. old grandson who has such an imaginary virtual reality and somehow still maintains human sensitivity, along with his older brother Gav, were staying with me for the day. Which I enjoy often.

Trying to figure out how to get their creative attention, my attention was drawn to this glittering notebook. I reached over, sparkling as ever, opened it and wrote the first draft.

 I made them French toast and as they were eating it (plenty of butter and syrup), I read them this draft. When I finished they chuckled, continuing to eat, PoPo asked me to lock the door.

 

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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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A Lady In The Mirror

      It was a great race between Reflection and Essence; running through the mountains and across the lakes of New Hampshire. They crossed the border through Pittsburg into Canada, where only shadows could follow.

       Chasing each other or being chased they finished their race in the old City of Quebec; drifting into a boarding house up one flight of stairs— across from the Château Frontenac. And, there on a rooming house mirror— they caught up.

 

She is the reflection— that is, in essence, what becomes ~A Lady in the mirror~

Reflection’s true Essence? Perhaps what we are like, before we are born.

 

Photo by RKG: Quebec City, Quebec Canada late 1970’s

Written; 10/30/2017

 
 

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Summer Morning’s Prayer Rain

 

I walk mindful

after an early summer’s rain—

trees drip shaking gently dry

warming my broad New Hampshire path

I am accompanied with a mid-August

morning breeze blowing softly through my hair—

feeling accepted—

 taught— within its secret wreath

 

 

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PoPo Teaches Grandpa A Lesson [rev2]

How stupid am I?

Well it starts out like this—

My Grandson, leaving a summer math class
carrying a piece of folded paper

—Followed by his gracious and grinning teacher

I asked, “What is that?”

Pointing to his hand holding the paper,

Hoping it wasn’t a note from the “warden”

Being shot by one of his righteous and never wrong Heroes.

He handed it to me—
It was a bunch of math problems
He needed to solve before tomorrow’s class.

Looking at it with a quick glance,

Spotting the first problem to be solved—

I asked, “What’s 9 times 3?”
Looking at the sky,

As we were going towards the car
Quietly said, “27”

Hmmmm!

Then he turned towards me and asked,
“What’s 9 times 0?”
I said “9”! Quite proudly—

 Both he and his teacher burst out laughing
As she patted my grandson

On the back, saying, “see you tomorrow.”

Opening our car doors, he said,
“Grandpa, you know what ever number times zero
Will always be zero.”

 Driving off

I looked in the rear view mirror
And saw him wearing my baseball cap
Usually left in the back—

He was wearing it backwards
And giving me this shit eatin’ grin.

It was a long ride back

Thinking how smart I really am.

 

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Dump Days— Wednesday and Saturday New Hampton, NH 03256

People, who have a lot of things
use them, and have a lot of things still left over.

People, who, have a few things,
use them, and have no left over’s.

People, who have no things, who seek many things,
end up using only a few things, and, have nothing left over.

All, who have things,
become one thing.

My things, became empty from use,
They were dug from the earth, and made in a factory
through creation, imagination and mistakes.
Useless now, worn, exchanged, or sat on a flea market table where even gypsies refused to take
are now ready to be disposed of—
on this pleasant day, at the New Hampton dump,
at 12:15 P M. on a bright and sunny Saturday.

 
21 Comments

Posted by on July 23, 2017 in New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries, prose, Zen

 

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The House On Mason Road, In Sandwich, NH

The house on Mason Road

is set in the woods with a dirt driveway.

                                                —Mail box leaning

is the only indication of an entranceway.

Both for the snowplows and visitors.

—One, hopefully will miss—

The other, with blinker on

                                                —will turn in

Around the wooded curve to a clearing

where there, sits a house on Mason Road.

King, Princes, and Queen of the peaceful

Open Fire Tribe, harmoniously reside;

surrounded by pines, hardwoods,

                                                — and one apple tree.

Two Princes protect the entrance

With a bold plastic pink flamingo

                                                —ready to pounce

On imaginary villains who mean to do “good” harm!

Prince Popo? First with a plastic hammer; if the shadow has a cast.

Prince Gavyn? Waits for introductions, ducking once or twice

in the invisible clash… eventually both smile with relief

as they are greeted with the sight of bright  white teeth,

                                                —giving the signal to continue,

to all walk towards the fire

with hugs and handshakes when possible

                                                —Since most of them have their arms full.

Bringing food, twigs, beer, wine, whiskey, and wood

for an evening’s non-occasion meeting of the Fireside Tribe.

Conversation and laughter overtakes everything

as tradition prescribes,

                                                —they put all things,

other than their ancestors,

 And their continued fellowship

                                                —aside.

 

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Haibun Monday: From the kitchen of poets

Lines/excerpts from: “Family Christmas Songs” combined w/ “New Years Eve at Mill Street ” from the Poetry Vol. Night Before Breakfast, to capture and edit for  this weeks Haibun theme..

ZQ

 

 ~ Baked beans in the pot resting with salt pork, hot dogs browning in a small amount of butter on the stove top, brown bread, peeking’ from wrapped aluminum foil nested by the bean pot steaming, drifting, filling the house with a familiar Saturday night smell. Grandma, the matriarch, while straightening and re-arranging Christmas decorations is shuffled off as the children and their families drop in with hugs and greetings. They shed coats for memories of new years past, recognizing the dining room table and the familiar plates, glass salt and pepper shakers, bread and real butter to toast merriment of a seasons’ joy and the ever-present beginning of a new year.~

All proclaiming it

That true nature within us

Is the prophecy.

 

Note: The Long version “New Years Eve at Mill Street ” w/o the Haiku which belongs to :”Family Christmas Songs”.is linked, if interested.

https://rkgaron.wordpress.com/2013/12/29/new-years-eve-at-mill-street

 

 

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Lost Is The Chaser

You have always loved early morning light.
Raising shades pushing closed curtains open.
Each flash from room to room? Presence left bright.

I have followed steps morning to dusk.
I have watched you sigh with a darker sky
And laugh at the sun, for late waking up.

I have caught you in my afternoon arms
I felt your escape from curtain to shade                                       From door to door, calm and without alarm.

 Briskly from room to room almost a dance.
Occasionally you gave me a smile
with blinking dark eyes, in a quick side-glance.

Lost is the love that never can be caught.
Lost is the chaser that never can stop.

Note: Inspired by a modern sonnet by Robert Frost’s “Acquainted With The Night”. ( a must read for all future and current Poets, in my opinion :). The written poem is beneath the video 

 
17 Comments

Posted by on May 6, 2017 in New Hampshire, Poetry, Robert Frost, Sonett

 

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