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Category Archives: Poetry

The Ballad Of Rosie [Draft 5]

Chimed in dangling silver earrings, wind in a tinkling song

Accompanied her blue eyes shading the sun; her beauty unable to blind you.

Rosie sang and Rosie danced laughing and smiling on and off again.

Rosie was an outlaw riding hard and fast

In a rhythm as smooth and as beautiful as her outlaw’s name.

 

“Come ride with me”, she said, “We’re going to rob a bank!

And you are just slim enough to make it through the rain.

“Whoa” I said, thinking, “I’m not so sure. Can we meet halfway?”

Just then, the dust picked up and side by side, we both rode away.

 

 We were getting to the borderline of her way or mine,

I was hoping for a signal that could help me make up my mind.

As she spoke and as I rode, I let my horse lead me as I followed.

We clipped and clopped into a sleeping gold rush town

 And when we left with muffled hoofs

Its bank vault was hollowed, except for the coins.

 

Chimed in dangling silver earrings, wind in a tinkling song

Accompanied her blue eyes shading the sun; her beauty unable to blind you.

Rosie sang and Rosie danced laughing and smiling on and off again.

Rosie was an outlaw riding hard and fast

In a rhythm as smooth and as beautiful as her outlaw’s name.

 

We hid in the mountains, we were married, and settled down.

The wood we cut by hand, going uphill with a two-person saw

And downhill with the wood on our shoulders or dragged behind

To the house where evening and morning fires were built.

 

The mountain was melted and warmed for you.

Children were born, there was no hurry.

We loved with patience, and became upstanding;

We stayed until they were grown.

 

Oh Rosie, time to settled this world down.

Winters came and went, every summer came to bloom.

I remember the last spring when you sang quietly

And softly danced. We saddled the horses

That fall when we both rode without remorse

Silently to the moon.

Klick, click, Giddy-up.

 

Chimed in dangling silver earrings, wind in a tinkling song

Accompanied her blue eyes shading the sun; her beauty unable to blind you.

Rosie sang and Rosie danced laughing and smiling on and off again.

Rosie was an outlaw riding hard and fast

In a rhythm as smooth and as beautiful as her outlaw’s name.

 
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Posted by on April 16, 2017 in Poetry

 

The silver spoon

The silver spoon

Spilling gibberish, drool, and cream

In this morning’s Lobster Bisque

Screamed at him for not

Eating Cheerios in 1% milk

With silverware, or even

A plastic spoon.

(None would have to be polished

Rubbed by servants

And served, to feed

 Your fat reflecting face).

“We are both, growing worthless

In history” fading as it dripped

and slurped from

Puckering lips.

 
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Posted by on April 4, 2017 in Existential, Poetry, Politics, thoughts

 

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[Many scenes of consciousness with eight characters; One narrator, a Table of six Judges, (three Cyclops, three Angels) and one defendant.]

I Will Have The Last Word

(a scene)

Narrator:

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.

Table:

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.

Defendant:

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.”

 

(another scene)

Narrator:

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.

Table:

 “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

Before judgment.”

 

Defendant:

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.

 

 Narrator:

               An empty cup pinged to the floor spilling fear where it belonged.

The echo, stretched, crawling unsuccessfully to find the exit door.

Defendant:

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.

 

(another scene)

Narrator:

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.

 

Defendant:

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.”

 

Narrator:

Those were his last words

 Before the gavel burst into unconsciousness.

 

 
 

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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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Quadrille #28 Submission

Easter Pilgrimage

 

Sir/Madam do not interpret

With your own mind, words of “Divinity”,

Explaining what is held

In the temple of my Soul?

You only speak as the sinner you are.

Now then, let us pray.

Without umbrella

Scent aromatic in clouds

Spring rain wakes flowers.

 
13 Comments

Posted by on March 13, 2017 in Easter, Haiku, Poetry, Spiritual, thoughts, Zen

 

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Many Growing Seasons, Before

I Have come to a tree that has fallen and decayed

Nurturing the forest floor, leaving me with this gift,

This piece of hardened wood,

With traces of legends and resemblance.

 

I stare into this piece of healed branch,

That has lost its self-

A knot that shares its parent’s history

 

Before broken off— had grown many faces

Now left as a petrified knot generations ago;

Embossed with stories of a future prince,

From twig— many growing seasons before.

wood-knot

(Many times, I have spent turning, staring, reading this tree knot I kicked up, on one of my walks through the Open Gate Farm, do give it some attention. Oh, and the other side is just as imaginatively interesting. (Photo by: R.K. Garon))

 
20 Comments

Posted by on January 28, 2017 in Poetry

 

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On A Sacred Day’s Accounting

Whatever day we set aside

At the end of, or, beginning of our week,

Will always be a spiritual— personal day.

 

Regardless of religion, or non-religion—

Somehow, that day, in our lives, has survived

As One day— to be set aside.

 

Reflection, repentance, acceptance;

Encouraging us to continue living

In mutual peace— for the rest of future

Day’s— accounting.

                Sand Dollar: Sketch in charcoal.

Sand Dollar:
Sketch in charcoal.

 
14 Comments

Posted by on January 21, 2017 in Beginnings, Love, Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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