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Category Archives: Outlaw

an editorial: To exhausted to open the refrigerator door this morning,

To exhausted to open

 the refrigerator

 door this morning,

I found this note

 getting swept up

 from the kitchen floor:

Aug. 10th 2020: Quar

       Politics has grounded up the idea that the ignorant  can become morons without learning un-biased information, even when their lives are in chaos, it comes to them through  a Piper’s flute, jumping off the cliff of the true principles they all  believe in… whether PhD., GED, home school, or on the job, life and work experience. They have nested termites under the floor of our Great Experiment. Good grief!

       Then, there are the American Patriots, rarely ever accepting a label other than they are Americans and believe in the same things all Americans agree on, and pledge Allegiance to our Constitution; without embellishment. They believe in the equality of our neighbor that makes a hood a home-town community; that excels in growth, in principle, that becomes a State with a balanced opinion by democracy and Justice. It has prospered, as a United States, the successful American Experiment that other’s said would fail. (They ask to silence the anger, demeaning slurs to our neighbor and live the American Dream, with logical dialogue. “…to the Republic for which it stands: one Nation indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all…”

       Only an enemy of these principles, of this Awesome Country, can divide us into strife; systematically, until it implodes. Leaving the spoils for them and to enslave the people, for basic necessities. There will be no time to mourn luxury.

        The time needs to be reminded that “the times (as usual) are a changin’ …”; to correct our mis-steps going forward into the American Dream.

fog lifting the field

revealing dandelion

in execution

 

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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.

 
13 Comments

Posted by on February 20, 2020 in Existential, Love, Outlaw, Poetry, Theater, Zen

 

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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

 
15 Comments

Posted by on January 18, 2020 in Existential, Life, Outlaw, Poetry, Zen

 

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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

 
16 Comments

Posted by on January 19, 2019 in Children, Existential, Outlaw, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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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?

 
8 Comments

Posted by on February 8, 2018 in Experimental, Life, Outlaw, Poetry, thoughts, Zen

 

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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

 
16 Comments

Posted by on January 20, 2018 in Beginnings, Outlaw, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, Sittting still, 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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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.

 
 

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Rectitude

Rectitude 2

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

www.murmurart.com

 

 

 

 
24 Comments

Posted by on June 29, 2014 in Beginnings, Outlaw, Philosophy, Prose Poetry, thoughts, Zen

 

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Visitation Blues: In the Custody key of “G”

[Jump in boy! We’re out of here. Hee Haw seventy-two hours. Whoa, hang on! You gotta get strapped in. Ouch! You little bugger! Don’t bite me again! It’s the law! Now hang on we’re about to leave Dodge.]

 G clef

I remember your Mama when she was young

Long brown hair and eyes of brown

Prettiest’ gal that you’d ever want to greet

Prettiest smile that you’d ever want to meet.

            But we’d play in the sun and played in the rain

            Never understanding what Love really mean’t

            Just playing those games over and over and over, and over again.

So, Jesse Boy, pack up your gear and don’t forget your cat in the hat too!

Papa’s got his bottle and you’ve got new shoes.

We’re heading for the jeep truck, ride’n in the jeep truck,

Getting’ them ole visitation blues.

 

            Hello Ms. So and so or have you changed your name

            This ole boy is back in town once again

            Don’t call the police or your best friend

            I’ll have back in town as soon as I can.

So, Jesse Boy, pack up your gear and don’t forget your cat in the hat too!

Papa’s got his bottle and you’ve got new shoes.

We’re heading for the jeep truck, ride’n in the jeep truck,

Getting’ them ole visitation blues.

 

            You want to go to the mountains and sigh in the clouds?

            Unpack our gear and maybe sing out loud?

            No road nor dream will ever be far

            As long as you and I can smile …     at who we are.

So, Jesse Boy, pack up your gear…     G clef

 
6 Comments

Posted by on January 19, 2014 in Children, Existential, Father, Love, Outlaw, prose, Zen

 

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