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Category Archives: Outlaw

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?

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7 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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A dark wooded night: The Prodigal Ghost

Wind bristling, snow spitting,

urging my heels to push small pine cones

crunching icy pine needles in my foot prints.

 

Owls hoot! Shadows dart! Dead limbs snap!

Moonlight guides the rising bend.

Boot soles slide on unseen ice.

I regain balance.

Rousted squirrels brightly tick eventide.

The remaining light fades from dusk,

I find myself at the  forest edge

short of distant village lights.

 

The wind tears through his over-coat

 threads flutter and shred behind him.

Sleet and ice, preceding new-falling snow

quickly glistens  the way.

 

Dim lights flicker

through the tunnel of a covered bridge.

               He rode hard and fast on the morning he crossed it.

With anger, pain, and impatient with promises,

               he vowed to return without the empty hands

               that gripped the reins of his departure.

 

Wood smoke waffles in scented  shifting winds

carrying anticipation awaiting  by the wood stove.

 

Storm steadily  blowing in a white-out slant

stretches the flame of his swaying lamp.

 

Following  the tracks that he once made;

never looking back  at his worst now,

or, whatever he thought was his best.

Putting my lamp out,

I stamped my feet on the wooden porch floor

and enter the bright warm farmhouse.

 

In my welcome, I returned from my pockets,

the path I had taken and the good grace

of a dark wooded night.

 

 
11 Comments

Posted by on December 15, 2013 in Children, New England, New Hampshire, Outlaw, Poetry, Zen

 

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