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Category Archives: Pine Cone Diaries

Princess Highgrass

Her long royal green stem, twenty feet high

or so it seemed, to the lawn below,

emerged from a patch

                                                            –of uncut grass.

With grace, top-heavy, carrying seeds for birth

she bends in all directions to the wind without discretion.

sometimes leaning too close to the ground!

                                                            —The ancient breeze

has to straighten her up for the wedding in fall

to disperse her seeds. As long as the wind and the mower

respect her vows of matrimony

                                                           —and miss

The patch

That keeps her Mother’s Kingdom

Season after seasons

                                                            —green.

 

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Times’ Bell (A Sonnet On Em7 Bass)

I listened to the bell ring at sunset

I hear the sound passing each day as death;

Knowing in the ‘morrow it will still ring,

Awakening me with yesterdays debt.

 

I yield to the monster of this day’s Light

With discipline. With matter. Not with fright!

The high notes settle silence with low notes

To kneel in sound whose vision has no sight.

 

Ah, but such is my luck! The damn thing rings

Morning, noon, and night. My life inspiring,

Regardless of my nature or my regrets.

They pale to my rise every morning.

 

Someday I shall be the first to wake it—

Or, bid good evening before sun’s exit.

 

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The Shame of Religion [rev:15]

Page 6 of 110 ~Pine Cone Diary~

Why do we seek revenge, when our Soul

        Is a ghost without identity; that seeks peaceful universal assimilation?

Those who capture other’s souls of Faith, caged in hate or repression, have honed their zeal

        To inflict retribution as righteous judgment, on all “un-holy” dissidents.

Unable for their hearts to control their tongue or their scourge.

 

Love’s prerequisite of understanding, dampens volatile gun powder

        And buries the sword of hate on the path to Nirvana, Olam Ha-Ba, Heaven, and Jannah …

Or any place else that is soft enough to dig with your hands, under loves direction, to bury your hate

wrapped in your inability to leave it alone. Silent until you truly understand.

(Having found on that path, without harm, a pure gentle human heart melted in living flesh

That had no eyes, nor memory, floating freely, Holy above the intellect in senses

without shame, I found myself without anything, for my Love, to have to explain.)

 

 

 “In the universal silence of nature and in the calm of the senses the immortal spirit’s hidden faculty of knowledge speaks an ineffable language and gives [us] undeveloped concepts, which are indeed felt, but do not let themselves be described.”  Immanuel  Kant

 

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Dried Flowers In A Seasonal Antique Jar

Dried flowers in winter’s light— brightened by an antique jar.

Flowers picked in the fall, after waiting all summer, to bloom—

Jar dug up, on the other side

of the “tell tale” opening in the stonewall;

an old, late 18-hundreds’s dump, left there —

Many lifetimes’ ago.

I go about my seasonal chores,

I Watch you— waiting for you to fade.

You never do.

My soul curls up in intimacy on the frosted windowsill

Embracing the jar of age; having kept its beauty

 and displaying with pride, its content.

Teach me your resilience, your beauty

From your past, to the presence.

 

I find hope’s secret smile

 In your colors of dried flowers

in winter’s reflection held in my antique jar.

(Helping me understand all the promises, winter carries.

From it’s off Spring, to this coming year’s honeymoon…to its encore.

 

Shorter days and longer nights cannot sustain its post

Against the emergence of summer— and longer days.

 

Unannounced by frost melting into dew

the first wave of spring—

Then, trumpeted through picnics and summer parades—

And, the last wave leaves,

with colorful banners exiting through Fall.)

I sketch this last season’ thoughts— dried flowers

reflecting winter’s delight— smiling this evening,

Looking forward to another beautiful tomorrow;

As reflected in an Antique jar.

I go about.

I Watch you— waiting for you to fade.

You never do.

Until I put you out where we first left

And clean the jar again, in late May.

dry-flowers-winter

Charcoal and colored pencil sketch by R.K. Garon

 

 

 

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Grow Over The Wall

      It has always been hard for me to describe the birth and the growth of three sons. They,  became so entwined in my birth, that all I could do was to enjoy their wrapping around me; until we let each other go, with love unharmed.

Child like seedling small

Born in the soil of mother

Grow over the wall.

 
14 Comments

Posted by on January 9, 2017 in Children, Haibun Poetry, Pine Cone Diaries, Zen

 

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Holderness Rd. Center Sandwich, NH

    I looked out my window this morning slowly moving towards the door… smiling, I saw the first snowfall lightly covering the back yard and exposing at its edge, new white paths into an open woods.

     (It was usual autumn foliage, sensuous in its finale. Out doing summers delightful green crescendo. Very colorful introductory and passing of those two seasons can never negate spring’s promising return with greater lovers that give them birth and death. They still, however, tease her about her promiscuity).

I was delighted to see, winter keeping his engagement.

    Kitchen is brewing, filling the room with the aroma of bold roast coffee. I can hear the kicking off of boots… the stocking pitter-patter of feet, of the artist, above me; carrying wood from the woodshed’s wheelbarrow, and scratching and scraping, stoking the cooling wood stove.

Our winter season has begun.

Seasonal borders

Between sun and snow falling

The line is lovely

 
28 Comments

Posted by on December 10, 2016 in Haibun, Haiku, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, prose, Zen

 

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Seasonal Thoughts From Center Sandwich, New Hampshire

 In late  autumn, in-between the mountains, a sinking sun

glows bright orange. Silhouetted on ridges above the valleys —

pines, leafless maples, stark  bare oak trees.

 

I notice a single leaf wobbling

on a low birch branch near me.

I presumed, waiting on the winter wind

for her  invitation to an early frost

and a late autumn’s— evening’s fling—

 

I remember

encircling wooden posts with rusting wire fences

for a dance floor, dancing my first  winter waltz

with the chill wind, red cheeks blushing warm—

 

–Snow glistening across the meadow

Pushed through the White Mountains—

Enjoying delightful winter flakes on my tongue.

 

 

Kicking snow into white clouds announcing

my next boot’s intention 

— lest’ I slip.

 

Twirling in traditional steps of solid granite stature.

Dipping, stomping, sliding, gabbing a handful of snow

kissed, licked, and eaten cold.

 

we would play and dance to a robust measure of silent music;

then, with symphonic pause  –time for another last thought—

I would be  pushed home

 whistled in snowflake crescendo,

pulling up my collar,

 and tightening my wool hat

towards drifting wood stove smoke

and supper on the kitchen table

with a cup of hot chocolate that was perfectly warm.

 

Thoughts – as I watched,

late autumn sun setting on

my New Hampshire home.

 

I went inside with an arm full of wood.

Smiling at the leaf’s anticipation

For her first fling— as mine was

in a late autumn childhood.

 
17 Comments

Posted by on November 13, 2016 in Love, New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries, Prose Poetry

 

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