Category Archives: Poetry
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
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
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”
of my performance. 😊
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
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.
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
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
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.
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..
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.
“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
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.
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.
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.