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Category Archives: Prose Poetry

Sept. 29th 2020 (Quar)

Sept. 29th 2020 (Quar)

 

Prologue:*

            This is my father’s birthday, now buried in the Mount Calvary Cemetery. Lost in prayer and thought having flash backs of a father never being there, mostly never here.

            Abandoned by his day-care giver (his wife), after abandoning him and the children, he was unable to deal with it alone. Sending the children to relatives.

1950’s Las Vegas Divorce **

“Life has to be given a meaning because of the obvious fact that it has no meaning.”
Henry Miller

Sitting on the fire escape

he was waiting for you to save him.

He wallowed in his inability to leave.

 

Cheap hotel: bed without bedposts, no complimentary soap.

Should he sit tight waiting for you?

To work out problems never explained

between love, residence, and a person that only pays rent?

 

All he was asking from her,

is to save the last dance for him. For love, affection,

and a future without dereliction.

“Gosh, that is a nice dress.

Bright red with sequins and plunging neckline.

You never have gone out with me, looking like that.

 

Yes, I know it’s new.

To wear when the night has no moon.

To walk the cross walks under streetlights

 

glittering with nightly specials on your low cut- menu.

Stopping anyone who has only one feeling—

to admire your attire and everything that is underneath;

 soft, round, moist, short skirt’s unrelenting heat.

 It was me.”

 

 

Wielding a face like an axe,

he silenced any objection to negative gestures of guilt,

into words, into conjecture, into blame.

The truth as he experienced it.

Another act to repeat itself in disaster—

having to search in the clutter of useless feelings.

Like her first set of headlights, windows rolled down;

to her last trick— running on empty, but, never gently.

 

Cheap hotel, bed without bedposts;

stench of stale cigarettes and after shave floating

through the next rooms’ half-opened windows.

 

He sits there without the utmost concern,

or yearning for his guardian  angel—

or for the disposition of his soul.

 

watching another night fade into morning;

waiting for Eve

to come back

and save him.

 

 

 

 

 

* Notes Found On The Refrigerator”

** The Night Before Breakfast”

 
2 Comments

Posted by on October 4, 2020 in Divorced, Existential, Father, Life, Love, prayer, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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An Old Sailor

     I went out on the deck—felt the wind of the presence –before the jibe caught the gust of a yesterday’s breeze blowing into the sail. 

     The keel visibly surfaced two feet above foaming water, in an awkward lean, water marks on the humming board, visible as eye could see —Oh shit! I braced myself against the rail on tippy-toes. leaning in the opposite direction, baptized by the sea.

      Tapping the “Captain” on the shoulder, I went below.I rocked and balanced myself with each swell of cresting ten-foot waves; catching myself descending with arms extended against the polished teak stairs and the polished walls into the belly of the bow.

      Remembering the keel’s markings “MY LIFE”; both hands against the wall, I balanced myself, being driven across the course of tomorrow.

       I will continue to sail —as sea mist foams against the closing rocks of the shore.

 
1 Comment

Posted by on March 14, 2020 in Prose Poetry, religion, Wisdom, Zen

 

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Family’s Christmas Song

Wake up! Wake up! It’s Christmas morn! We don’t care where we come from, or were we were born! We’ve seen the gifts in every one’s heart —we have the reason — from where this starts.

Good morning! Scrambled eggs, French toast, home fries, hot cocoa, and coffee dark and local roast. Adulthood peeking into childhood memories. Quietly giggling, mama kissing all our cheeks warm —papa getting dressed, telling us to get ready for church, “to celebrate a birth, in a stable long before we are born, another child in a family melody —poor as dirt”. Long before we understood —long before we could. And — as all children should.

We wake up! Awake, —on this Christmas morn; joyously understanding the meaning —and the chorus of our family’s Christmas song!

fresh wreath cabin tied

marks a home that welcomes song

from a Holy night

[In the Old Testament books, several hundred prophecies about the Messiah and His blessed Kingdom can be found. They are scattered throughout almost all the books of the Old Testament, beginning with the Five Books of Moses and ending with the last prophets Zachariah and Malachi. The Prophet Moses, King David, the Prophets Isaiah, Daniel, and Zachariah wrote the most about the Messiah.]

And so we are born.

 

(Pastel and Ink by R.K.Garon)

2019

 
11 Comments

Posted by on December 22, 2019 in Christmas, Love, Poetry, Prose Poetry

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator June 2019

I burnt my breakfast with brown butter and garlic.

It rose above the perfumed oiled scent of progress;

—creeping through the cracks of window sills

wafting  silently,  carrying the day’s

chain-linked smog…breaking in with

—my paycheck’s upcoming arena.

Oops, I meant, aroma;

at that moment I choose to linger

asking for a cherry tree.

I welcome the reservation that you

have set aside for me.

No need to build me a fence—

I am locked inside.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do I talk to myself? Him and me?

Of course! Who else would listen?

How would I know when to stoke the wood stove

and make coffee, home fries, and scramble eggs?

I always tell myself what to do.

I am vetted by my soul

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

what ever gets you through the door

 

with remorse for the past

forgiven for illusions

you can enter

and begin to teach

yourself

without your apologies

nor being forgiven

but with forgiving.

Hey!

whatever gets you through the door.

anyone up for coffee,

home fries, and scramble eggs?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Earth raises up seed

Shinning  light sinking on sea

Blinking bright new stars

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 
 

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Note Found On The Refrigerator Spring 2019 [and its Source]

“Go to the workshop where the universe was made, and see the Worker. But since the work has become a veil between you and the Worker, you can only see Him in His work. And since the workshop is His dwelling place, those on the outside cannot see Him. So enter the workshop — that is, non-existence — and see the work and the Worker together.”

MASNAVI II:759-62

JALAL AL-DIN Rumi

Pilgrim!
Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

Not all Princesses, can become Queens!

Not all Princes, can become Kings!

The gates of this Royal courtyard?

Only Nobles can come through,

regardless of origin,

for this castle to rule.

 

     Entrance may require everything and anything; bare feet, socks in sandals, just socks, wing-tipped shoes, polished with sheen, or anyone with a broken high-heel. All who are benevolent, where history is irrelevant, and find the moment is only a scene, may carry themselves through the gate that is without a latch or a key  .

Princes and princesses are born

from the same seed —free.

Independent of royalty,

they come to sit at the table

without dismissing similarities.

 

      Rising in fragrance through the courtyard, children arrive from the womb with porridge and cream. A meal fit for a king and queen.

      Outside the courtyard, some arrive at the gate incoherent and confused, having to learn to stop jumping in place and wait until the wings of Common Spirit carries them silently through.

      A kingdom awaits you here. The courtyard gate is the passage through —where you are bound to find your castle; where dreams are a story or two and where children are taught about their wings that once carried you, through.

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

 

 

   Little Pond Legends… R. K. Garon [ZQ Draft 2]

 

 
16 Comments

Posted by on April 15, 2019 in Children, Life, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Who Knows?

Who knows?

As i sit in anxious state waiting for Godot— hoping he never shows. Like a sparkle in a glass, asking me if i care to go? i will deny the invitation— i will stay and enjoy the sparkle— as all sparkles go.

Who Knows?

As i move in trepidation. Waiting for the fulfillment of my day, afraid of my responsibility when it is appears. So i deny its invitation— i will take this breath and walk behind it. Watching it fade, from rise, to descent, and feeling fear disappear.

who knows the mysteries

attributed to the ground i stand on

if traveled

i will have accepted its maze.

If understood,

I

will have accepted its direction.

 

 

Rev:14-19 *.*  ‘The Night Before Breakfast”

 
2 Comments

Posted by on February 16, 2019 in Beginnings, Nature, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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The Night Before Breakfast

     

     Caged on the edge of a forest without boundaries; wind chimes shivered in silence. Youth held its breath. The night squirrels feast and fly. The owls turn their heads judging distance from prey to ground against a midnight sky. I escape, I must make it through the night, I must make it, not just try.

     With empty pockets, abandoning the compass of my mind, I make haste with unforeseen insensibility up the path, as an invited house guest, for reflection and a warm breakfast before my morning flight, sorrow less and free.

A still reflection left on a spoon, sinks into a bowl of abandoned oatmeal.

 

Dark moss seeking sun

Birch bent with acknowledgement

Child runs to mother.

 

Grass rising in dew

Casts crushed footsteps aside

Seeks Father in child.

 

Never finding ether one.

 

1st. draft 1/14 Title Piece for vol.I of IV “The Night Before Breakfast”

revision:14 1/18

 
16 Comments

Posted by on January 19, 2019 in Children, Existential, Outlaw, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Widow Johnson and “Old Man Whiskers” [rev 6]

Wearing clean well-worn clothes,

widow Johnson visits old man whiskers, on invite.

Her mischievous greeting smile and wrinkling forehead (burrows of time —burrows of life)

quickly disappear as she walks through the door

carrying a deck of cards and a cribbage board.

 

He could tell she played this game before.

 

They have coffee, chit and chat

while she shuffles the cards

and ask him to cut, if he preferred that.

He does several times and they play cribbage.

15-2, 15-4, and a pair is 6 and on and on it goes.

Up one side of the board and down the other

until he’s skunked. Twice in the best of three.

 

Still counting each hole with one finger,

checking the peg’s last hole and repeating the score,

she takes his hand, winking at him,

leads him up the stairs to the bedroom,

as she sing-songs quietly, but quite clearly,

hearing widow Johnson giggling,

“LoooZaaaaa.”

 

The Night Before Breakfast {vol I “Mill Street”]  2013-1018

 
16 Comments

Posted by on November 17, 2018 in Erotica, Friendship, Life, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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Notes Found on the Refrigerator September 2018

Gossip vs Truth   [Koan]

Some sort of melodic minor,

the only note a hummingbird leaves;

fluttering away with the nectar

before the buzz of the bees.

*****

Oh quite down Fido!

You’ll have a heart attack.

*****

A Peaceful Exhale

Sometimes when I deeply inhale,

my body stands still to hear

the soft distant sound of chanting voices,

tuning in rehearsal

for their first and last symphony.

I, as the conductor, seem to arrive late.

However, each time I do the chanting stops

as I search for another apology.

A perfect crescendo in all voices

breaks out exclaiming,

“Stand still,

free refreshments are on the way!”

I take the podium asking all to rise

on the other side, in a peaceful exhale

In tuning. 

Epilogue:

Each time when I may disagree,

 I take a deep breath and cross over to the other side… another place to go

 to understand, to stand, and to carry my thoughts from compromise to truth;

I have  found myself on a mutual  side, having discarded ego .

 

 
17 Comments

Posted by on September 22, 2018 in Existential, Life, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Sittting still, Zen

 

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Garner-Jane’s 1st. Birthday 2018

Sweet Garner-Jane

I sat outside by the fire, occasional adding a log or two,

keeping it ready for s’mores; for Crosby and Garner-Jane’s crew.

I listened to the chatter along with laughter, coming from the porch and throughout the house,

listening as it mingled with the campfire smoke floating to the sky.

I could hear celebration of her future announced in love,

As Loud As Bright Could Be.

 

**********

 

 

 

 
2 Comments

Posted by on September 19, 2018 in Grandchildren, Love, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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