Category Archives: Pine Cone Diaries
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.
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
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.