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Category Archives: Poetry

Notes found on the refrigerator…June 4th. 2020

     I’ve been washing dishes since I was twelve years old. Sometimes wiping, sometimes scrubbing, and once in a while soaking. Which brings me to my current state of six spoons, four forks, and three knives. And an assorted accouterments that rattle and roll freely every time I open and close the drawer.

      To make a long story short, at seventy-four, I use one spoon a day. Then on the seventh day I have to do the dishes. I rinse one out for the day’s coffee, having run out of spoons and noticing the mess it has created during the week before, I throw it back into the suds; and begin my day of service.

shit shines every night

along with the star light bright

“dew shine”, anyone ?

 
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Posted by on June 4, 2020 in Beginnings, Existential, Haibun, Haiku, Poetry, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…June 3rd. 2020

two mourning doves: (haibun)

      relationships are being defined in the environment of the nest they live in.

–some in a tree with no leaves that once held dreams.— the true skeleton behind the feathers exposes its heart.

     rattling off to a branch, bones tickling each other, they wait for another Love’s morning.

sunlight drying dew

summer’s warmth removes the sheet

pillow soft asleep

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…May 28th self-quarantined since Mars was discovered

May 28th. 2020

     Be who you want to be with all its failures and success. Until you realize who you really are and that your destination is your journey.

     Then… life begins in the wisdom of understanding, acceptance, and with Blessings.

Flowers bloom in spring

Winter reaps in solid ground

Memories are now

 
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Posted by on June 1, 2020 in Beginnings, Haibun, Poetry, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…May 2020

     There came a time when I remembered where I began. To understand, that I didn’t have to start over again; to allow wisdom to tick the clock where I actually have to begin.

Time will never see

Internal world clicks the clock

Wake up from a dream

*****

 (on a lighter note)…

i played my guitar tonight

to a full house of dirty laundry.

I hope their lack of  “applause”

wasn’t reflective

of my performance. 😊

 

R.K.Garon

 

 
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Posted by on May 25, 2020 in Poetry

 

Love: as ever has been

We have watched the sunrise

below the mountains and settle behind the sea.

 

 We have ridin’ the wind,

Walked beach sands and bused to Boston.

 

 We have taken pain

To the Joy of understanding.

 

 We have taken each other

Further than any of us have ever gone;

 

 By just being present.

True to ourselves. True to each other.

 

 We have been

As we are; as ever has been.

 

~Rt. 132 North~ R.K. Garon

 
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Posted by on May 24, 2020 in Beginnings, Love, Poetry, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…April 17,18, 2020

April 17, 2020

i have no place to be going to

and with no hurry to get there

it seems, i have been here before.

 

there is no place to go

other than where i was going.

i am caged within the parameters

of whom i am.

 

my walk is slow and secure—

as I find where i am going;

with wisdom, compassion, and the knowledge

of understanding of who i am.

 

walk slowly.

 

4/18/2020

 

17 days in Q [Haibun]

     Friday afternoons are a strange time of the day for me. Sometime I skip the mornings and late-night dishes; then go out to the safest places I know. Usually to the local grocery store and buy things I’ve never bought before.

     It doesn’t take long to go about short business before I’m back in my “cave”; 4 o’clock and I’m lost on what to do. I hear the cuckoo clock in my head, telling me to go do the dishes then make myself something to eat. Again. I’m coming 😊

Wheels turn when moved

Birds fly from perch of safety

Rain shelters us all

 
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Posted by on April 18, 2020 in Haibun, Poetry, thoughts, unemployed, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator…April 2020

the sound of april rain

i was born in the sound of rain.

whether it was from the grass,

or the splash of baptism;

or the windows of isolation;

or on barred pounding glass in prison;

or when I was safely home,

when it rocked me to sleep.

spring rains bring soothing sound.

proclaiming the birth, I would greet again,

in summer rain…

misty at times

other times as storms…

making roots become stronger

again.

fall’s rain blows the leaf’s

to carpet the cradle;

before it freezes,

and blankets spring

in a lullaby of snow.

i was born in the sound of rain.

 
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Posted by on April 10, 2020 in Existential, Poetry, Zen

 

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~Pine Cone Diary~ March 2020

     **********

There is a sickness in the air

Tree tops are passing the news

To the stones and the soil

To prepare the paths

Through the forest

And into the valleys

To the villages of compassion;

To be cured .

 

     **********

 

Above darkening gray clouds

The dim glowing sun

Caught my eye.

I started to hum,

“Everything’s gonna’ be alright.”

As dusk, settled on my chair.

I silenced it with a sigh.

 

 **********

 

From ground to empty stoneware pottery,

my soul poured out my life

into my morning’s coffee cup;

existence to non-existence.

Oh, then to remembrance;

of knowledge, when I first held out my hand

—holding, the first summer’s rose.

I emptied my cup

holding empty stoneware pottery

waiting in anticipation for tomorrow’s coffee..

 

 

 

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Another Challenging Morning

i found myself in prayer and in trust; eyes raised towards a sinking sunset.

light between branches at evenings’ dusk, i heard an internal voice

without malice or threat.

only one thought scrambled in a soft sentence out loud;

‘escape with an empty mind, deny yourself and accept what is Divine’.

i was deafened with doubt in branches hidden shroud.

yet, light continued to shine throughout my night;

quarter moon, half-moon, waxing or waning;

in a silent Lover’s light, forgiving me, of course, in morning’s light.

awaking in sunlight with fervor;

asking me to be in a life, without fewer errors.

 
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Posted by on March 21, 2020 in Poetry, prayer, Zen

 

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Post-War Baby Boom

“From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw —

I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone –“

“Alone” Edgar Allan Poe

 

Chapter I

High in a dying butternut tree, above the climbing bittersweet,

a pair of sparrows sat entwined.

Bobbing and pecking, with tail feathers visible,

they pushed and pulled, constructing a nest

from winters fallen twigs and kites’ missing strings.

 

Both unaware of the advancing wings on seductive winds

gliding in the heat of post-World War II victory;

with bold brown patches and brasso colored flares

flirting shamelessly with all the birds in nesting trees.

Mother: after laying her eggs, suddenly took flight on a south east breeze:

wings spread, open feathers, abandoning history.

 

Father: in haste, wondering who was first;

found in the chase, with another mate

in a steeple of an abandoned Christian church.

 

            Chapter II

Four hatching, cracked through egg shells

in a nest below a large branch, in a dying butternut tree.

Small insects dropped, in sacrifice, as meals

to their gratefully awakening beaks.

Weeks passed in the aging butternut tree

providing shelter, meals, and summer comfort.

The first hatching, though weak,

fluttered, stretched, and skittered

to stand on quick strengthening feet;

to peek and seek for something he felt, was missing.

Something unable to find, something not complete.

Something to teach him about sky, ground, gravity

and all that scary in-between.

 

Chapter III

Innocence in the face of dilemma,

all of them eventually perched on the ragged brim.

Taunted by instinct and haunted by uncertainty;

to leave and fly, to land on air, or just plain fall and disappear.

Watching them teetering on the rim,

the brave-born, with a sweeping two wing lurch

pushed them off before him.

 

Falling! Falling! They fell then dipped into swooping grace.

Wings with instinctive motion, caught them in flight.

Never looking back, they disappeared swiftly

between the pines, the hardwood’s, and the butternut’s plight.

 

Chapter IV

The last sparrow, now with confidence, excited without anxiety,

leaning chest first, feathers outstretched, he jumped too.

Falling much too close to the butternut tree

he became entangled in the vines of the creeping bittersweet.

Tumbling, swirling, crackling, he landed with a broken wing.

Epilogue:

Oh mother, oh father, in his screaming,

he spoke not a word. It was only in their hearts

that they heard him fall.

1956

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2020 in Divorced, Existential, Father, Mothers, Poetry, Zen

 

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