Dump Days— Wednesday and Saturday New Hampton, NH 03256

People, who have a lot of things
use them, and have a lot of things still left over.

People, who, have a few things,
use them, and have no left over’s.

People, who have no things, who seek many things,
end up using only a few things, and, have nothing left over.

All, who have things,
become one thing.

My things, became empty from use,
They were dug from the earth, and made in a factory
through creation, imagination and mistakes.
Useless now, worn, exchanged, or sat on a flea market table where even gypsies refused to take
are now ready to be disposed of—
on this pleasant day, at the New Hampton dump,
at 12:15 P M. on a bright and sunny Saturday.

 

Metaphor Notes About “Involvement”

Where ever you started or finished,

First or last, the game was won.

It all began when you dressed for them all.

Starting positions? Often left opened.

But, acknowledging there were better players on the team

That you should have passed to, when your ass

Was about to get massive grass stains

For failed fancy footwork and tripped by your own feet,

Flying in the air praying a Holy Mary,

For no broken bones.

*****

               Oh, shit! At 70, I wake up having to remember all this again?

 Start the bus!

*****

               Hey! I am on my way out of here, a shot of Vodka, V8 juice and a note on the chalkboard thanking all the players   

                               That dressed for them all.

 

 

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

 

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

 

Blameless Hurried Follies

Sins and whims follow swift currents.

            (errors in delight move faster than light)

Skipper and passenger, in myriad murmurs,

            (Mind and heart argue and fight)

blame the sinking of the soul, in all events,

            (each acknowledging neither is right)

On their leaning, to close to the brim.

            (capsizing the balance of each other’s sight)

 

Their voyage unable to transcend the peak of the waves,

            (oh, but their argument will not let them sleep)

float to the bottom in lifeless bubbles;

            (with promises and assurances unable to keep)

seeking passage without having to pay.

            (Feeling blameless, wolf’s victim as sheep)

For neither the price, nor for the rescue or salvage.

               (follies, human salvation, shallow as deep)

****

“…Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.” 

A Psalm of life

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

On the trail to ZoralinQ:

The Merchant and the Gypsy

Oh my God, open my heart so I can see

So that my mind can soul the truth, I know.

 

Let me resonate the Love that chimes the light

into life and silences darkness by showing me the moon.

 

I have no lamb to sacrifice nor special gift to wrap.

Let dusk welcome me with the fruits of my day

Let me sleep at Your feet knowing You

and who I am; inseparable through Love.

 

Awaken me from the shelter of my self

with the vibration that transcends’ my own sound

abundantly impoverished in these words.

 

A merchant and a Gypsy came dancing through euphoria.

Skipping, banging cymbals thumped and jingled

to the beating of a racing heart.

 

They skittered here and there,

forwards and backwards,

sliding sideways and all about.

 

The gypsy with ringing bells

from dangling strings of magic beads

had clipped on her hip, in a loop on her belt,

my image

on a well-stretched tambourine.

 

The merchant moved with confidence,

assurance in his gait;

with a smile so well advertised,

it overlapped distinction

and recognition

of a very familiar face.

 

silencing the bells, with permission of the Gypsy

he displayed a wooden pony, which “he had to sell.”

 

“Rode through heaven and hell; to promises of fulfillment!”

for this moments “Special”.

Winking with sincerity and honesty,

stroking the slightly scorched metallic paint.

   

with the sweep of his hand and a nod to the Gypsy

came a thumping sound and the resuming of the bells.

 

Clouding dandelion puffs, pumpkins, and snowballs,

not to mention the “no vacancy sign” in my head,

popped the Gypsy in my face

but at a distant with quite a lot of space.

 

One arm outstretched rattling her un-clipped tambourine,

painted face playfully disguising her many races

of father, mother, birch, oak, eagle, dove, worm,

excetra, excetra.

flashing images of gala fantasies,

in unimagined mysteries of blended colors

rode the quivering wake of her tambourine.

 

Mind painted galleries stretched from history

 and pulled from the future to the present.

Music, pottery, healing herbs,

seeds, grain, sand, and necessities;

all found in the scratches

beneath the merchants’, shiny thing.

 

Starting from her toes to her nose she shook and rattled

erasing the image on her tambourine.

 

Things started falling out of her pockets

Treasures found on her path; those discarded and forgotten.

fallen through the holes in my pockets.

 

She was willing to exchange, with me,

these common things;

for things hoarded from the merchant,

not knowing, that I still keep.

 

He, the merchant, still quite involved,

knowing the value of my inventory,

smiling, completely disagreed to oversee.

 

Poof!

There they were!

Gone!

Their campfire was as bright as the moon that framed them.

I watch the sparks of their fire being poked,

blinking with bright sparkle into a glowing sky;

lifting light from gold to silver to ember and back into dark.

In an eyelid blink

bowing in such graceful arks,

the merchant and the gypsy, exited with my mind.

As the curtain of decision and indecision lowered

I saw the wick of infinity

in the hands of my soul’s standing applause.

The Night Before Breakfast: An Outlaw Journal    Chapter III Pine Cone Diaries   

 

Notes Found On The Refrigerator February 2014

Self-pity is a stone

thrown on a still pond

 that ripples only misery

with everything it touches;

eventually to dissolve, I suppose,

on the banks among the reeds

before the pond returns

 to its peaceful

state.

 

********

Guilt:

The snake has legs

carries a dagger in its  boot

curled up to the warmth of its prey

plays heads or tails with a two-faced coin.

You know it has slipped in

when you hear the closing  door

awakening with a  dagger in your chest.

It’s best to forgive, be forgiven, and forgit.

Good-night, now shoo! Git.

 

***********

 

Who dares give shit to the dishwasher for dropping a dish?

 

**********

Love?

I’m not talking about beating the piss out of something

to straighten out dents!

 

I’m still a romantic;

a flower, a kiss,

a small candy heart

that says in fading blue letters

“I love you.”

A card or two

even if it’s from your mother

just another remarkable reminder,

in addressing the word “you.”

 

********

 

regardless, of your creativity fella,

it still needs to be somewhat refined

as raw gold, or silver, or coal, and

in this particular instance

even mud. 

 oh, up your nose with a rubber hose!

Oh, oh, “F” plus 

 

*********

 

Traveling the birds path that leaves no trail

the sickle of time, the cycle of life,

became ripples from a circle in my eyes.

The splash has wet my face.

I morn less for time and change,

awakened to see

what the center had to divide.

Learning to put things where they belong;

most of them, I found,

empty under my wings.