Category Archives: Pine Cone Diaries
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.
Charcoal and colored pencil sketch by R.K. Garon
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.
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.
Between sun and snow falling
The line is lovely
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—
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.
I’m not getting around doing much reading lately. Listening to my own head and writing notes into drafts, into outlines, revised again and again trying to avoid the trash; has been taking the days. But, I continue my short walks through the woods outside my “cave” and enjoy autumn swooshing summer away in grand fashion; as the days get shorter and the nights get longer, she prepares for a great sleep over, getting completely naked for winter.
Fallen leaf in frost
Pines shelter an autumn grove
for winter’s lover
Starless night, cold gray fog creeping up steel posted gates;
In spaces of bowing heads and hands being held,
Shadows grow and withdraw under muffled haloed lights.
Creeping through the entrance, they all looked up to see
Guarding the gate; a damp dew dripping concrete statue
Standing with a heel on a serpent
an Archangel with flared wings wielding a sword.
Forever to be their best friend.
The witnesses passed by slowly. The children, carrying paper bag suitcases
In one hand and the other clasped tightly to each other.
Unpredictable darkness merges into a softly glowing doorway.
Their father quickly blesses himself
Whispering a Hail Mary, takes out four quarters.
Placing one in each daughter’s hand,
And slipping one in each boy’s pants pocket.
He gently knocks on a well-polished oak door.
Dim yellow light emerges.
Sister Saint Helen opens the vestibule.
Smiling, she places the paper bags on a large mahogany table,
Shushing them together, closing the heavy, silent, well oiled, orphanage door
She nods good-bye to the children’s father.
Sealed in, they become frightened like birds
With a broken wing.
Two bedroom flat above the American Legion, a band is playing downstairs.
Hat on the kitchen table, the young father sighs as he pops open a beer.
It’s been five years since the war.
Six years since he graduated High school
And, two years since the boy’s mother left them.
Acknowledging his inability
To come to grips with his situation;
Being abandoned by love, a turn of the cycle begins.
Tears blur his eyes; his heart sinks,
Then floats on Holy melancholy consolation.
(Forty years later, father having passed away in a veterans home)
I’m sending you, mother and father, your youngest son September 24, 2016
Welcome him to a place where the Butter nut tree
And the bitter-sweet is still called home.)