Notes found on the refrigerator…June 11th.-13th. 2020 QUAR

June 11^th. 2020

 Thursdays have always seemed to be quite days for me. yet on Fridays, I groom and saddle the horse… and ride her into Monday; tired and happy I walk in with a smile, saddle sore, bow legged, and never wearing spurs.

owl sees at night

daytime sees quick moving grass

best of days are here

 

June 12^th. 2020

      I went to the coast today to help an old, self-quarantined friend, Miss Holly. Before heading off from the mountains, I texted her a note. Asking her to text me and let me know what she needed; I would pick it up on my way there. Please text me the list, because I may forget what you have said over your speaker phone; while you were watching the jewelry channel. 😊

     The first text listed four items. The second text added another five. The last text included provisions for a bunker and don’t forget toilet paper.

     No problem. When I arrived, she sprayed all the bags with disinfectant. I could hear “thru her deep suit diving mask” saying a loud “thank you” and bowing with grace, “ be safe”.

     She couldn’t see the smile behind my mask; so I winked at her and told her “I would see you next week. I’ll call and check on you during the week”.

*****

June 13^th. 2020

 

     Miss Holly, has sold her house and has moved into a “senior village”. As usual she’s a little paranoid of people spaced within 300 feet or less of her property. She feels safe there but she still locks her door.

     After I run her errands, from groceries to printer ink, to medication, and to the next town for a scooter battery…( that was impossible to replace, having sat there for 2 years melted to the casing). I would sit, as I usually do, a little tired and smiling, on Miss Holly’s porch. I open a bottle of beer, lite a cigarette and take out my notebook and given the space to write, enjoying where I am.

     I’ll often look up to see strolling villagers. I think there’s about a hundred of them; widowers, widows, old couples and friends. Not all stroll by, but those that do wave and we exchange our gratitude for the day.

Flower between rock

Rain washes the grass true green

Time is age well spent

 

Understanding Love [Haibun]*

     The screech of a bird on a nearby tree alerted me, that their prey was at my feet. I saw nothing but my heart beating, which through my shirt, slipped and fell at my feet, among the weeds.

     The bird screeched louder, followed by small chirps before landing on a branch next to me. I could see its eyes focused on my eyes.  

     I reached down and picked up my heart, tried to force it into my wallet, but it would not fit. So, I tried to stuff it into my pockets. Naw, that wasn’t it! I had no choice but to reconnect to my body, speech and mind. By the time, it was done…

summer bird is gone

leaving me with fall’s bright colors

quilt for winter snow

 

 

*Haibun (俳文, literally, haikai writings) is a prosimetric literary form originating in Japan, combining prose and haiku.

 

 

Notes found on the refrigerator November 2017

Although I enjoy the ease of a sidewalk

I often preferred cutting across the lawn

     *****

I can only do one thing at a time

Even if takes me two

Or three tries

 

I was listening to music on my earphones

And found the sound unclear—

I adjusted the volume

—nothing

I went to the settings

—no adjustment required.

Suggested, I plug them in

And printed,

Did you find this helpful?

Yes, I knew I should be grocery shopping

     *****

A Writer’s Confession:

     As a writer, I may not necessarily write about my own personal experiences.

 Although they influence perception and understanding, they often are not themselves; the words that are written. They are only reflections of me as a writer.

     My characters  are in constant flux… as I… also see and feel my way through each moment—

experiencing what others and what I see, and what  is being  seen —what we universally have in common ambiguity. Often I am just a humble hapless observer making it written into words as only it could be, from the source of a perceptive and creative writer.

     *****

How are we able to see the darkness

in the center of the light

and be able to see the light

in the center of darkness?

We see its impermanence.

as in all nature

every day is greater

doing what you need

 

Notes found on the refrigerator October 2017

Contemporary Poetry has un-cuffed many creative minds

As the tide washes the shore with an ever-changing sea

As the ships sail away with Shakespeare and Yeats

Leaving us with Ferlinghetti*

“… Ferlinghetti,  felt strongly that art should be accessible to all people, not just a handful of highly educated intellectuals”.  

*****

A storm is coming! What shall we do?

Where should we go?

“Go home!

Take care of things.

 –Then safely and honorably leave.

—Settle in where you are now

Away from the path of the storm”.

A path we both have weaved

Crumbling—  flooding— grabbing

 The unborn, above the Holy indiscriminate stream.

 

A storm is coming! What shall we do?

Where should we go?

Let us follow our hearts

And mind

With the light of our soul.

*****

 

When your heart and mind are in tune*

being Holy is being human.

*Tuning is the experiences between right and wrong

Celebrated and balanced without guilt or animosity.

  *****

 

A Lady In The Mirror

      It was a great race between Reflection and Essence; running through the mountains and across the lakes of New Hampshire. They crossed the border through Pittsburg into Canada, where only shadows could follow.

       Chasing each other or being chased they finished their race in the old City of Quebec; drifting into a boarding house up one flight of stairs— across from the Château Frontenac. And, there on a rooming house mirror— they caught up.

 

She is the reflection— that is, in essence, what becomes ~A Lady in the mirror~

Reflection’s true Essence? Perhaps what we are like, before we are born.

 

Photo by RKG: Quebec City, Quebec Canada late 1970’s

Written; 10/30/2017

 

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