Category Archives: prose
People, who have a lot of things
People, who, have a few things,
People, who have no things, who seek many things,
All, who have things,
My things, became empty from use,
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.
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.
Between sun and snow falling
The line is lovely
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
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
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,
on a well-stretched tambourine.
The merchant moved with confidence,
assurance in his gait;
with a smile so well advertised,
it overlapped distinction
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,
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.
There they were!
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 Chapter III Pine Cone Diaries