To exhausted to open
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
Tags: Existenlism, Growing up, Haiku, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Quarantined, Zen
Love is an illusion (friendship is instinctive), be just like me or perish (enjoy diversity), only self-serving interests (sharing and participating in another’s), laughing at calamity (understand and re-structure) …
…Love, the unimaginable truth, and its Divinity to commune with understanding family and neighbor, that creates quilted communities, is real. No material of its fibers and colors are independent of itself; unless it stands alone void of inclusion.
Less we push It into something abstract that dis-avows it. Love is not a contract, it’s an allegiance; morally and with mutual integrity that displays Itself, as an outward sign of friendship. Set to become the binding mystery of Love.
August is lazy
stillness does not seek a fight
an agreement made
Tags: Haibun, Haiku, Love, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, spirituality, Zen
Creation’s sand sifted from our hands—
clutched for a moment by gravity
as it flowed, streaming silently,
to settle —in small scattered piles within us.
Thought and mood changes from grain to grain.
Perils and adventures rise and fall—
again and again from one position to the next.
All things change us—
All pleading for illusions un-hooded truth—
Only a mindful soul in peaceful acceptance
Prepares the meeting room table
for each sunset, for each full moon, for each new sunrise—
Guests are encouraged to speak
with innocence and understanding
as they… the children are;
where they become the sand—
Released from the creation of their hands.
(In silence, I mourn Creation’s loss, from above…
there is not a child born, that does not —seek our love).
From sand to diminishing pottery, my soul pours out the last of life.
It’s existence to non-existence, in remembrance
—of holding its last grain of sand.
Tags: Children...who would shoot sleeping birds?, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Wake up!, ~The Night Before Breakfast~
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
Tags: Existenlism, http://omukuvah.org/, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, https://dversepoets.com/2017/11/14/street-view/, New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries, Relationship, Zen
21st. century compass has no true North.
It circles quickly left— counter clockwise
then, clockwise right— endlessly spinning
in no direction
—until you step on it.
with crystal glass chips or plastic pieces
in the soles of your steps— they become new footprints.
Without arrows, digital flags, religion, or discrimination;
moving your steps equally forward in moral direction
for all the children
—We have wished for
Or given birth to—
Wishing peace in each movement
—life in progressive harmony.
—Forgiving each other in step
—without history’s cruel march
of forgotten sins.
How dare you say I ran away!
— Gun fire, violence in the street,
Whispers about how I look or speak.
I am huddled in an alley finding nothing new.
We agreed for something else— beyond boundaries
—Kicking ass and often hitting the ground
covering our face, committed to our personal space.
I went over the wall
and fucked the barbwire
— escaping with the truth.
Ladies I would invite you up for champagne and lobster
but, since I can’t get it up anymore—
would you like cheese and crackers?
Oh, you old ladies of lords!
Let me open the door
and light a candle
that excludes us from history books
banishing us from false assumption
enjoying each others company
—eating crackers and cheese.
When I said— what I said
and then— did something different
It was not false.
I just moved on—
not convinced of that particular truth.
Scolding me at 70 years old,
having burst in my youth with fire,
is about as productive as a wet match.
Although, I believe in the right of your opinion
and should be shared—
I also believe you will treat our intelligence
and our ignorance, with the stipulation—
of mutual respect.
Why do you insist on haunting
me with my past?
I have been forgivin’
…and have made retribution
from history into history
as I have clicked my mistakes
Into humanities recycle bin.
The sun has set
as so have you—
In the morning glow
of love— my tears of dew
—misting rainbows from my heart
falling to the ground
in full sunrise
in my opening eyes.
Yes, I miss you.
Though I will rise to dance in the morrow’
with the day’s first quest
half-smiling— after— sleeping alone.
All I can do, is adjust the jib until you hoist the sail”
As she was running calm waters with only the kicker on
—leaving the bay
Not needing any wind, just a cool facial breeze
—ignoring everything I say.
in silence, the wind picked up.
We stood nodding to each other, fore and aft, tightening the main sail.
—we sat together hand splashing water
leaning— into a beautiful day
Life is not a bowl of cherries
it’s a nutty fruit bowl of reality
—in full color
transcribed from black & white
over dark ripened rectitude
—spoiled by miss-steps, success,
and the feeling
you’re the only cherry in the bowl—
with sprinkled sugar and heavy cream.
Perhaps, as sour or perky as we are
we still spit the pit onto the floor
bowing on or mats, kneeling in our pews,
and howling at the empty bowl
—of the rising moon.
Tags: Existenlism, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Zen
The chief looking down upon the sand
Seeing marble and glass
Wishes me reflection
The fisherman looking above it all
Seeing everything equal
Wishes me balance
The Prophet caught up on a tree
Seeing all trespasses
Wishes me forgiveness
The ring that continues to encircle me
Sees nothing— it is seamless
Wishes me Love.
The bell begs every moment to ring or gong
Wishes me to listen awakened
The level bubble needs no explanation.
Tags: http://omukuvah.org/, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Pine Cone Diaries, Zen
I Will Have The Last Word
In equal seats at the round table, each with a voice on the scale of justice,
Sat three Cyclops in disguise; wearing sunglass monocle and
Red tinted bald head rubber caps.
On the opposite side, three Angels sat with pleated wings of sea-gull feathers,
Waiting to argue for him but feeling queasy and unable.
All speaking in unison, “You have only a few words before the ultimate gavel
Echoes you, to a sentence of silence.”
“Do you understand? You only have a few words”,
Repeated one of them, Under their breath
With a voice of compassion.
Everything that was bad or good,
Smiles and cries, and all those moments in-between,
Became reams of litigation suspended in litter.
Bound for this uncomfortable meeting,
I showed up wearing only a t-shirt,
Unshaven and a few items in a half empty paper bag.
I took my seat on a steel-gray folding chair
Without the cushion of a good history;
Braced with the events that allowed this chance, to convene.
Then, they began to strip-mine my life, looking and digging
Into the ground of my relatives, mentioning buried outlaws;
Ancestors still connected to my bones.
All my errors descended into a million pieces of recycled confetti.
They dismissed every excuse to free me.
They found nothing of value, stating, they were unable to release me.
They discounted everything I had borrowed,
Insisting on their uselessness when I returned them.
I shouted above my ignorance:
“Dance, dance, dance you Cyclops, around my mistakes.
Fuel your caldron with distasteful acknowledgement,
Envy the situation that is not present.
And you! Preen your Angel feathers without dissent
With the oil of penance.”
Peering across the table, with silver cups in front of everyone
Except in front of him, he noticed in the center of the table,
A scarred brown plastic tray, sat one tin cup.
He grabbed it, banging the empty cup for their same drink
Insisting for a better portion and perhaps
forget this nightmare and let him go.
Let him go home.
“What is it now, that everything is drunk?” Spoke one Angel.
“What is it now that you can savor?” Said one Cyclops,
Sipping his cup, on the opposite side of the table.
They all replied, in a confident anthem:
“We are all of the same dust. We are unbound, released from gravity
Without offense. Unlike you, sitting, fidgeting, now bound guilty
From this agenda, this torture
I squealed, I rat-ed out and rolled on my ego.
Confessing to be, in mind, an accomplice without heart.
I pleaded “mercy” to the table exclaiming, “guilty!”
I swooned, I almost fainted. I felt the floor roll beneath me
Like silt in a receding tide.
Standing, grasping what became actually visible.
I kicked my chair from the table, sent it flying behind me.
I swept my space clean.
An empty cup pinged to the floor spilling fear where it belonged.
The echo, stretched, crawling unsuccessfully to find the exit door.
Who am I now, as I try to rise above this table,
Trying to escape the infinite loop that leaves the measure of me to others?
Where swearing and praying becomes a side bar for approval or complaint.
They sit across from each other, saying the same things in redundancy;
Syllable after syllable, arriving at the same conclusion, using different words.
He quietly sat down across wingless angels and puffy black-eyed Cyclops.
Humbly took his assigned seat at a long aluminum rectangular table,
In the State, prison dining hall.
He placed his scarred brown plastic tray carrying a milk carton
And his scooped up meal.
Today is his first day; his first spoon towards a year and a day.
(One thousand and ninety-seven left).
Saturday night: he eats folded white bread dipped in beans
Savoring the franks. He will probably eat smelt on Fridays.
I see the end recoiling back, hiding in this cosmic dust
Of breath and conscience death, .Each moment for me is mine
Within a circle without chairs of decision or indecision,
Where forgiveness, atonement and contentment has to begin.
“I am not afraid.”
Those were his last words
Before the gavel burst into unconsciousness.
Tags: Existential, Experimental, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Theater/Poetry, ~The Night Before Breakfast~
(curtain rises…both are getting into bed)
Mémé: I’m not asking you to cheat
Only to tweak. (turning over, back to Pépé)
Pépé: I refuse to participate, in the choices they make,
can’t you see, Just let it be!
(he does the same and turns over. now both are lying back to back)
Mémé: Get off your arse then, and turn off the light!
There ain’t nothing right… left to be seen this night.
Pépé: I thought it was your turn
To turn out the lights, tonight.
Mémé: You want to fight?
(as a matter of fact)
I still got a good right.
Pépé: What is it that you want me to do?
Again. Before I lay down.
(slowly getting up)
Mémé: Go and tell the grandchildren
To stop this, this… “Messing around!
…La vie ne est plus le pont de d’Avignon.”
(re-enters and gets into bed facing mémé)
Mémé: Bonsoir Pépé.
(Both start humming ‘Sous le pont de d’Avignon’)
On the lighter side, in my “research”, I stumbled on this and if you have the time… [growing up with this song, I couldn’t help but smile when I saw this.]
Tags: A role of responsibility, France, French-Canadian, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, http://withrealtoads.blogspot.se/, Short play
A bird flew down in early sunlight
Along the side of the road
Ignoring the cars, trucks, and motorcycles.
Pecking and hopping side stepping the trash
After some inspection of an empty bag.
He has the sky, opened and holding all dreams
Of freedom; to fly without a trail left behind,
Or a destination in mind. What is he thinking,
Walking this highway during morning rush hour,
Completely oblivious before lunch time?
Are we mindlessly going about our daily activity and ignoring its purpose? Life, love, beauty, and… the confident directions of the path we chose to travel?
Have we forgotten the aimless untraceable flight of each of our own way that separates us from the common highway? Landing by the side of the road forgetting how to fly, only to find an empty bag?
Tags: http://omukuvah.org/, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, http://withrealtoads.blogspot.se/, Notes Found On The Refrigerator
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
Tags: Gift, Growing up, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Rainy Day, Relationship, Wisdom