To exhausted to open
the refrigerator
door this morning,
I found this note
getting swept up
from the kitchen floor:
Aug. 10th 2020: Quar
Category Archives: Outlaw
black coffee lover
an experience from the stars. blinking, shinning, glittering,
far too far from it all; sends its notice to me through heart and senses,
dusting my mind in powdered confection.
how can the infinite space of the universe capture and descend into my arms
a heart and mind so unfamiliar to mine?
from where could it fall?
i thank the morning for logic unimaginable;
quietly sharing toast with melting honey,
black coffee and smiles unspeakable.
Bits and Pieces [The Legend Of an Old Man and the Balloon Popper]
You could tell by his long thinning hair below his bowler hat
Strings pulled and floating behind him
Was an old man, holding within shaking hands,
All sizes of brightly colored balloons; embossed in abstract bold print
Announcing all of his life’s successes and failures.
Strolling along the streets, skipping past the alleys,
Looking up at his balloons,
He would speak to himself in a loud but timid pitch;
“Free! Life’s balloons!
Pick a color. Go ahead, pick a size above the strings,
Pick anyone you please.”
No one ever did. Bits and pieces in his pace as he slowly moved,
In constant pursuit with purpose, holding his balloons.
***
Carrying a large white plastic handbag
Strapped between sagging breasts and tucked behind aging wings,
Carrying bulging contents that peeked in-between striding elbows,
Was an old Angel with a dull Halo; suspended above short cropped bluing grey hair.
With systematic jerks of her head looking up and down the streets,
She would give directions to her wings like a bird of prey.
A determined hunter; for that old man she did seek.
Her search begins in the dampness of dawn.
Always walking on the opposite side of the street ready to cross if need be.
She never stops looking, never stops shaking her head.
Gripped with white knuckles in one hand
Unable to be released, were bits and pieces
That glittered on the copper needle she carried.
***
Day of enlightenment almost caught up with the old man.
But, it did not. He was ambushed yesterday,
In the blur of wings and a redemptive screech,
Every balloon he carried was popped.
***
The old man continues to walk in a crushed cap,
Carrying strings over his shoulder, begging
“Free! Sturdy strings! Free well tugged twine.
Have this one, please take this one,
I have had them now for much too long.”
i gaze at my reflection at bits and pieces, starfish,
crabs, and broken shells in a shallow
tidal pool
Written on Star Island,Portsmouth,NH on a writers retreat..rev.2020
The Night Before Breakfast
Caged on the edge of a forest without boundaries; wind chimes shivered in silence. Youth held its breath. The night squirrels feast and fly. The owls turn their heads judging distance from prey to ground against a midnight sky. I escape, I must make it through the night, I must make it, not just try.
With empty pockets, abandoning the compass of my mind, I make haste with unforeseen insensibility up the path, as an invited house guest, for reflection and a warm breakfast before my morning flight, sorrow less and free.
A still reflection left on a spoon, sinks into a bowl of abandoned oatmeal.
Dark moss seeking sun
Birch bent with acknowledgement
Child runs to mother.
Grass rising in dew
Casts crushed footsteps aside
Seeks Father in child.
Never finding ether one.
1st. draft 1/14 Title Piece for vol.I of IV “The Night Before Breakfast”
revision:14 1/18
Notes That Started The Morning Fire.
I burnt my breakfast with brown butter and garlic.
It rose above the perfumed oiled scent of progress;
—creeping through the cracks of my window sills
wafting silently, carrying the day’s
chain-linked smog…breaking in with
—my paycheck’s upcoming arena.
Oops, I meant, aroma.
For a moment I choose to linger
asking for only 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? Me and him?
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,
Me:
The web, trickling inadvertently behind me, as I walk through space
Connects me to another square that I had left!
Never touching the ground, I wait with patience
in silk expectation —for a life, now to be defined.
Him:
The thread of your existence is never behind!
Nor could it manufacture a web to connect
to illusive time!
Shake off that wiggle… trickling inadvertently behind!
Hey! Anyone up for coffee, home fries, and scramble eggs?
Five Verses From a Brief Visit This Solstice With Ch’an
On Judgment:
“If we didn’t see things fine and coarse
How could prejudice exist?”
~Relying on Mind~ Ch’an master Seng-Ts’an (J., Sozan)
~~~~~
I practiced non-discrimination
and had smiled often at my gestures—
until I was slapped by a whisk.
~~~~~
I understand how wrong I’ve been
and the shame I have brought to the other—
Each day wakes me quieter —clearer than ever.
~
Moments may be still –yet moves forever.
~~~~~
Causes are great —equal to the clouds
one may be greater than the other.
Dew is clear as no sound is loud.
~~~~~
What is it that I see— to bench myself in judgment?
Opinions are statutes!
Saddle my horse—
Giddy-up! I shall ride with the outlaws.
~~~~~
How does one heal from history
With its invisible scars and drooping eyes?
Thatch a new roof— and shush the flies.
“Jesus said:
If two make peace with each other
In this single house,
They will say to the mountain
“Move away”
And it shall move.””
~The Gospel of Thomas~[48p n] presented by Huge McGregor Ross
~Pine Cone Diary~ -proof 2018
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.
Another NH Winter Stand
Saddle bags filled with crackers and peanut butter.
It was an ambush, waiting in the
foot hills of the White mountains.
The outlaws rode hard and fast,
leaving the criminals in the gritty;
those that were stealing personal values.
Stripping beliefs and belongings,
scouring the landscape
for those cutting a different path,
trying to escape their understanding.
The officials, expecting early retirement,
were waiting for them. They, tired of the ride,
guns loaded with innuendo, censured, embellished,
as sordid as history would allow, opened fire.
The outlaws rode hard and fast
towards something they believed in.
But they knew, tomorrow would never last.
Bushwhacked yesterday, (poor bastards
were trying to veer off a different path.
Heading north, through the Lakes Region),
they were caught in surprise.
Caught! Being alive! Some shot in the back!
‘Cause there was no one who could ride by her side
through the volley, under fire, she kept her eye
ahead of their aim. Galloping by “We can shoot back” she said.
Oh crap! Giddy-up!
It’s now, only her and I…
as I was thinking,
stacking wood after splitting it,
for this winter.
Rectitude
Together, let us walk through this day,
leaving behind our past as glorious as it has been
or as tragic as it was;
let us go and find those things
that should have been.
Rain In Northumberland Street
Artist: Anya Zinkivskay
ZoralinQ 