Haibun Monday: From the kitchen of poets

Lines/excerpts from: “Family Christmas Songs” combined w/ “New Years Eve at Mill Street ” from the Poetry Vol. Night Before Breakfast, to capture and edit for  this weeks Haibun theme..

ZQ

 

 ~ Baked beans in the pot resting with salt pork, hot dogs browning in a small amount of butter on the stove top, brown bread, peeking’ from wrapped aluminum foil nested by the bean pot steaming, drifting, filling the house with a familiar Saturday night smell. Grandma, the matriarch, while straightening and re-arranging Christmas decorations is shuffled off as the children and their families drop in with hugs and greetings. They shed coats for memories of new years past, recognizing the dining room table and the familiar plates, glass salt and pepper shakers, bread and real butter to toast merriment of a seasons’ joy and the ever-present beginning of a new year.~

All proclaiming it

That true nature within us

Is the prophecy.

 

Note: The Long version “New Years Eve at Mill Street ” w/o the Haiku which belongs to :”Family Christmas Songs”.is linked, if interested.

https://rkgaron.wordpress.com/2013/12/29/new-years-eve-at-mill-street

 

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My Gift To You

     I began giving gifts, on the proper occasion, in the last few years or perhaps even, further than that, of things I have owned and have held fondly. They were meaningful to me, enjoying the memories of where and why I had them.

     Their presence… through the years, eventually faded into the bookcase or on an empty shelf, or, on top of the piano; until once a year I dusted them.

     Now, memories have assimilated into experience and knowledge. So please accept these pieces of my life that has been shared many times, as I pass on this gift of acceptance to share with you.

 

fresh pines tied in red

marks the door that welcomes gifts

in a special light

Merry Christmas to all my writer and creative friends.

 

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

 

Wish I May Wish I Might

 I

Star—so bright, I raise my head

To see— speckled sparkling light

Wavering through wind pushing fast dark clouds.

 

I watched shades of darkening gray and bright white.

I lowered my head— pulled up my collar,

Mumbling on your star tonight.

 

“Wish I may, wish I might, that the path I follow—

Though dimly illumed—widen on this narrow—

 Crescent moonlit night”.

 

II

   On the darkest night –walking into the valley –with a crescent moon,

I found a star shining brightly in between the looming black stands—

Tall forest oaks, leaning birches, leafless maple trees and commanding pines.

– Mind, menaced by the dark– I kept walking alongside starlight sparkling between the trees. Flickering—glittering— decreasing my speed until I had to stop.

I stood still—looking up, I recited, “wish i may, wish i might, wish on the first star i see tonight”. Without wishing for anything and without thinking— I went home to sleep in my own bed –

 awakened to a warm and reassuring sunlight.

Hear the sound of wind

Before the tree has to bend

Base yourself to ground.

 

Hearing Through His Eyes

 

 Hamburger! Cheeseburger! White milk and apple pie. He was such a carefree soul. If it seemed, he had let anyone down.– he offered them popovers, explanations, and smiles,

 Sometimes, being misunderstood with ungracious mud pies.

   When that happened he would eat and share with his good friends — Mud pies— stewed marbles and crystal scones.

   But— never, without clear eyes, asking the server’s of those pies— for their reason’s why — offering popovers, explanations and smiles, for serving up such an interesting surprise. Their actions? — understanding the reasons for who we each are – who we become – and knowing the soul is full of good actions – always avoiding confrontation — leaving them— to walk in our hearts through the dark— for that pervasive enlightening light.

   School completed, home, wife and child, he continues to walk in shared solace, among his favorite oaks, maples, and pines. always stopping in his Sacred strand of birches – alone – listening to heart, body, and mind — seeing – Looking even with the sky, that has many hues of blue whisky, wispy clouds, brightened by the sun reflecting on the moon—listening to the birch whispering whimsically, the secrets of the souls —  of the pleasant ones… once in mud subdued.

 He leaned on the birch

Listening to what was said

Hearing through his eyes

Photo caught/taken of Abe “listening” by world-renowned black and white photographer, the late Chet Brickett

 

Feathers

     How shall I write about this moonless night? To go, I suppose, without eyesight. To free my mind of past mistakes that I stumbled upon in sunlight.  Or, find myself with nothing visibly at stake—and scribble down experiences still bent, unable to make straight—Yet ,allows me—to fly over their fences—

Feathers carried in the wind

Land at season’s racing feet

Dancing their last dance

 

Emma-Rose

Silent spring moon branch

 Father tree mother budding

 On evening breeze

(She thought she would become a Princess    

until  —  she met the Queen).

****

   Twin birches destined to divide each other. Each rooted in One Sacred seed. How can they grow in plurality? Who, will make the decision to face the sun?

   Embraced at the base with one heart, they both grow shading a small green meadow, beside an all season stream.

   Shy — they bend slightly, so she can listen to what they say — holding her sandwich in silence.

    She is doing it more often now, learning — to hear.

Two summer birches

Outside her morning doorway

Glowing Sacred white