Category Archives: New light/New life
Notes found on the refrigerator June 2019
I burnt my breakfast with brown butter and garlic.
It rose above the perfumed oiled scent of progress;
—creeping through the cracks of window sills
wafting silently, carrying the day’s
chain-linked smog…breaking in with
—my paycheck’s upcoming arena.
Oops, I meant, aroma;
at that moment I choose to linger
asking for a cherry tree.
I welcome the reservation that you
have set aside for me.
No need to build me a fence—
I am locked inside.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do I talk to myself? Him and me?
Of course! Who else would listen?
How would I know when to stoke the wood stove
and make coffee, home fries, and scramble eggs?
I always tell myself what to do.
I am vetted by my soul
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
what ever gets you through the door
with remorse for the past
forgiven for illusions
you can enter
and begin to teach
yourself
without your apologies
nor being forgiven
but with forgiving.
Hey!
whatever gets you through the door.
anyone up for coffee,
home fries, and scramble eggs?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Earth raises up seed
Shinning light sinking on sea
Blinking bright new stars
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Love’s Fond Heart
[The Fairy tale of Kathryn from Franklin, NH. She continues to flutter throughout the foothills of the White Mountains and the Lakes Region]
At even-tide,
leaving with last light of dusk,
I watched her silhouette fade
into the dark tree line.
Ferns lean
to mark and soften her path.
Trees in the forest bend their branches
to shed moonlight on the walkway
for an old friend.
She returns
with her straw-basket beaming bright.
Not only for me, but for all she greets.
Sharing evenings shedded
—morning’s light.
*[Edited from original draft]~
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
Mindless Scribbling
My heart is balanced with nothing.
Bags of emptiness, once full of expectations,
finally, have become
light as a feather.
The Legend of the Last Tribe at Little Pond (Center Sandwich, NH)
An angel flying closer to land and seeing, from its view, a better direction
for completing their mission —continued with more traveling
for the possibility to land in the space of extinction,
where new growth can sprout.
The tribe, now down to only the chiefs, children, and wives,
trudged in complete innocence, as in birth,
towards ZoralinQ. Carrying with them this incredible link.
When suddenly, they found on the path, their feet on an edge
holding the link at arm’s length above an abyss.
Questioned among them, received no answers.
Nothing new, What possible course?
So, they all decided to grab the existing link
To become the angel landing,
for the possibility to land in the space of extinction,
where new growth can sprout.
“To this day, I often hear their chant,” an old fisherman says,
“usually in the twilight of a waning moon”.
photo and wood carving R.K. Garon
Let us Pray
Sir/Madam do not interpret with your own mind, the words of Divinity; having to explain what is held In the temple of my Soul.
You only speak as the sinner you are. Now then, let us pray.
Without umbrella
Scent aromatic in clouds
Spring rain wakes summer.
Redemption Dove ~>
Oh mourning dove, sing to me this evening in the last glow of sunset —so clear and so resound in song —with hope for me to remember what was lost, now if sought, could be found. You echo through the forest, on the edge of fields, sidewalks, and across the parks.
I open my window wrapping myself in my sheet and blanket as I sink into my pillow. I close my eyes to hear your song. Falling asleep, I understand your repetitive melodic low-high pitched notes, as I move through age.
I listen to sounds about my life; with its many ups and downs. Finding in your chorus, a gift of an early morning spirit, that has forgotten yesterday —woo, WOO, wooing, into a ‘morrow, without the cloak of fear.
Large black crows in flight
carnivorous in their plight
landing —find new life.
*Please Note: …By virtue of their melancholy call, mourning doves have been fittingly named. Their distinctive “wooo-oo-oo-oo” sounds may evoke a feeling of grief over the loss of a dearly beloved.
But far from representing death, the symbolism of mourning doves gives us optimism with its spirituality. Beyond their sorrowful song is a message of life, hope, renewal and peace.
A Tale of The Weathered Sundial’s Ever-Moving shadow
Years have passed:
when we were young, we could tolerate physical pain,
emotional blizzards, and blinding rain.
We sought recognition, fortune, and sometimes illusions fame.
We chased stars in glittering summer nights keeping sentry for sunrise,
celebrating each dawn with a brand new name.
We could even cry, winning or losing, without forcing a fight.
We could talk, discuss, and compromise.
We recognize the beauty in unsuspected surprise.
We were always able to light a candle in the wind
Finding our way back home on sad dark nights.
We often laughed at ourselves. Believing that pennies
we flipped, fluttering to the bottom of wishing wells
We’d became Peter Pan and Wendy
never growing old. And, totally ignoring Tinkerbell,
we watch our directions flow.
Following our hearts and the work of our hands
we traveled roadways, highways, and paths;
where distance seemed far and time immeasurably fast.
We floated above concrete, soft tar, and beaches with ankle deep sand.
Even paths that were crooked and twisted in shallow water or on solid land.
We were always on each other’s map!
We frolicked in spaces that love only knows
where time, never existed;
along with places, where sadness, was only a short visit.
Eventually, I suppose, age and Peter Pan eclipses
those days, when we are young.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is only time now:
when we are old. We sit with aches and pain.
Confused, misunderstanding,
we complain.
Our clothes begin to slip or are frayed or they just don’t fit;
along with our recognition, fortune, and the reality of expected fame.
We wear sweaters and warm cotton hats on cool summer nights,
seeing only darkness as a distant fading light.
We Sleep uneasily on worn, thin but forgiving linen.
We, sometimes, forget ourselves with mixed memories,
stuttering on birthdays, which have evaporated in wishing wells.
We try to avoid being stubborn— guilt ridden for actions mistaken,
poor mathematical intelligence, slips of jealously, pride,
and recognize that we, as we knew, is we that is forgotten.
From steel to rust, from rock to gravel,
from coal to diamond
and back to dust.
The sound of muted bells tick off the clock, like muffled thunder
under the hoofs of deaths’ mercenaries; some from heaven,
and maybe one or two from hell.
We may shed a warm small tear, becoming a prism, to glitter
In the sliver of a waning moon; signaling with joy—
tomorrow’s brand new day,
with its bright sun chasing
A weathered Sundial’s ever-moving shadow
~The Night Before Breakfast~ Vol. I Another Draft Revision
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
ZoralinQ 