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Category Archives: Prose Poetry

The Soul of Maurice J. *[A dedication to Paul Lenzi]

*( written 5 yrs ago with another of my family’s  Patriarch’s Passing)

 

 It was three days

And three nights

Before he could rise again.

 

Death invites itself

Long before we receive

Its invitation.

 

The Soul with grace

And poise

Accepts the moment.

 

Who then is preoccupied

With judgement

Of this one;

 

Of this mist

That is dried by the sun

And returns as the pond?

 

The passage

Is insignificant

If balance has been achieved.

 

Only the witnesses

Are important

As another soul is freed.

 

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17 Comments

Posted by on July 14, 2018 in Existential, Friendship, Life, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator April & May 2018

       It happened one day, when I discover humility: from the beginning, to its beginning, when I was unable to peel an orange, bake bread— or, crack an egg… before I made my breakfast, drank my coffee and settled for cold cereal.

      I still get up for one more day’s length —from my inviting bed, and make  my many visits to my children and grandchildren; catching up with things I never heard, though has been repeated several times.  Any way, I usually, on my way out,  steal from large pottery bowls, an apple or an orange, sometimes cashews left on the counter tucked in-between in a smaller bowl.

     Waving a right handed good-bye and a thankful smile, I drive through Center Sandwich village, before sunset and well before the June’s moon  will rise.

     I get home, make a late supper, take in another amazing day; then I go to bed smiling with my beads in grateful prayer.

Presence is not known

Until it reveals itself

In true existence

******

Entertainment:

The greatest movie in the evening, I go and watch, when I become bored with myself and have no desire to make a meal or take a walk or even to pop popcorn and turn on the TV —I look out my window.

      I watch the leaves dancing on branches making songs from the wind; so I rise and go outside and join in on the chorus as a movie extra, in the production of the “H.M.S. Pinafore”.

Mystics from the past

carry you through the seasons

—you met once before.

**********

Stubbornness:

On Monday morning, he opened his door, ole slim Lewis just raised his price, at the corner store. Raisin’ the price of flour from 5 cents to 15 cents a pound, no less no more.

I can still hear mama sayin’, “I’d just as soon pick a handful of dandelions and trade them evenly for a pound of pork rinds than give him —the extra dime”.

Eatin’ potatoes,

without honey glazed biscuits,

               fried in pork fat rinds.

 **********

Acceptance:

He feels the strength of  her independence,

when she stepped forward —naked with strangers in a local stream;

far from her parents and her lover sitting, with tee-shirt

and dry swimming trunks, life guard symbol on his seam. He is wondering

whether to sit, or, to hold up her abandoned towel —to stand

up, to greet her, with a smile and without giving her any shit, holding out

both his hands.

Yo’ Bro’ wass’ happinin’?

Looks like love has seen a ghost,

Groovin’ and strollin’. 😊

  • Finally:

Memorial Day 2018

The threat of death whether on the street, or, worse yet,

being an actor in the theater of war. Death, is ever-present

in all of them; from desk, teaching, jungle, or sand.

Whether killed, captured, or not;

is this fear, whether dismissed in discipline, forgot.

It is because of them, under constant threat,

you can sleep tight, and won’t let the bed bugs bite.

 

R.I.P …mon père, mes oncles pendant la deuxième guerre mondiale et mon frère cadet, le Vietnam.

Je vous remercie.

Richard.

 

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Love’s Illusion~ rev:71a

     

Yes, Love, I was born with the first waxing moon.

Bald, without a thought for a tea’s afternoon;

—we embraced, dancing in every crook and cranny of my mind,

only to find myself as no one, and finding no place there.

~~~~

Oh failing heart, why did you forgo me?

To enter space where I would thirst?

Then, drowned me in a sea of deserts bleached sand.

Perhaps, in the essence of  moonlight and sunlight

—I will find You, where their lights both meet, and see

 what I have never lost nor have ever found.

 
 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator March 2018

I don’t want to do the dishes!

Screw it!

I have a saved pocketed packet—

from Wendy’s four for four dollars;

salt and pepper, fork, and a napkin.

I’ll eat out of the can.

     *****

They complained I stayed in bed all day.

That’s not true.

I get up to eat

and go to the bathroom.

     *****

[Chorus]

I have spent my life pleasing others

Whether friends, lovers, or out of respectability.

I did it without regret for the experiences.

 

Finding a self, by its self

In the grace of Mystery in an unknowing cloud

I now, have to learn how, to please myself

—without offending another.

     *****

I remember when I would waddle like a duck

—but being a Quack wasn’t always fun 😊

     *****

Repeat [Chorus]

 
13 Comments

Posted by on March 31, 2018 in Existential, Friendship, Life, Love, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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Easter in Center Sandwich NH

Lent 2018

Sound is muffled in lovers ears

With the pounding of their hearts

Racing from all their fears.

 

We hear life’s music in its hustle and shuffle

And become doubtful of the truth.

 

Never deciding on what our hearts are to wear;

or, we should go naked, as we should go, before You

—accepting my knee.

     *****

 

Blossoms are near, as well as the seed catalog.

Winter supplies are low.

We discuses what we liked and what we will not sow.

Of course, not because of taste or preference,

But, what our garden could not grow.

     *****

Spring light*

The mountains are responding

to the spring sun. Awakening the deep valleys below.

Streams are slowly filling from the melted snow,

As we in Center Sandwich NH

Open our windows and open our doors.

 

*Photo by R.K. Garon outside Kathleen’s cottage on Holderness Rd. Center Sandwich, NH

 
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Posted by on March 28, 2018 in Easter, Lent, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator February 2018

Innocence in the heart without harm to itself or anyone else

Can be cast into confusion and turmoil as it walks the streets of experience.

 

Prehistoric predators can’t help themselves —DNA continues in undeveloped self.

They eat green leaf eaters expelling them to the soil for resurrection.

—Eventually predators eat themselves; caught in a bad diet and in a false argument.

 

Never looking down the street’s —of the in between alleys,

—innocence, never understanding, drifts pass them, in wisdom.

 

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

 

I do have some literary Masters renting space in my head.

But, as the landlord, I express my thoughts —with the acceptance of their rent.

So far, they haven’t complained about how their money is spent.

 

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

The brook that never freezes

flows from my winter heart into spring.

It never ceases to bring me new and warm summer things.

 

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

 

I feel like having a hot dog on a stick

roasting over a Hermit Island campfire,

watching the glowing flickering flames

send sparkles above the tide—

rising beyond the moon.

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

 

As long as I am not confined to the yard or a cell or a dormitory, I suppose, I’m doing well.

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

 
22 Comments

Posted by on March 18, 2018 in Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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A Tale of The Weathered Sundial’s Ever-Moving shadow

Years have passed:

 

when we were young, we could tolerate physical pain,

emotional blizzards, and blinding rain.

We sought recognition, fortune, and sometimes illusions fame.

 

We chased stars in glittering summer nights keeping sentry for sunrise,

celebrating each dawn with a brand new name.

We could even cry, winning or losing, without forcing a fight.

 

We could talk, discuss, and compromise.

We recognize the beauty in unsuspected surprise.

We were always able to light a candle in the wind

 Finding our way back home on sad dark nights.

We often laughed at ourselves. Believing that pennies

we flipped, fluttering to the bottom of wishing wells

 

We’d became Peter Pan and Wendy

never growing old. And, totally ignoring Tinkerbell,

we watch our directions flow.

 

Following our hearts and the work of our hands

we traveled roadways, highways, and paths;

where distance seemed far and time immeasurably fast.

 

We floated above concrete, soft tar, and beaches with ankle deep sand.

Even paths that were crooked and twisted in shallow water or on solid land.

We were always on each other’s map!

 

We frolicked in spaces that love only knows

where time, never existed;

along with places, where sadness, was only a short visit.

 

Eventually, I suppose, age and Peter Pan eclipses

those days, when we are young.

 

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

There is only time now:

 

when we are old. We sit with aches and pain.

Confused, misunderstanding,

we complain.

 

Our clothes begin to slip or are frayed or they just don’t fit;

along with our recognition, fortune, and the reality of expected fame.

We wear sweaters and warm cotton hats on cool summer nights,

 

seeing only darkness as a distant fading light.

We Sleep uneasily on worn, thin but forgiving linen.

We, sometimes, forget ourselves with mixed memories,

stuttering on birthdays, which have evaporated in wishing wells.

 

We try to avoid being stubborn—  guilt ridden for actions mistaken,

poor mathematical intelligence, slips of jealously, pride,

and recognize that we, as we knew, is we that is forgotten.

 

From steel to rust, from rock to gravel,

from coal to diamond

and back to dust.

 

The sound of muted bells tick off the clock, like muffled thunder

under the hoofs of deaths’ mercenaries; some from heaven,

and maybe one or two from hell.

 

We may shed a warm small tear, becoming a prism, to glitter

In the sliver of a waning moon; signaling with joy—

tomorrow’s brand new day,

 

with its bright sun chasing

A weathered Sundial’s ever-moving shadow

 

~The Night Before Breakfast~ Vol. I                                        Another Draft Revision

 

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