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Category Archives: thoughts

Last Evening’s Dream

 

Dawn flirts the tips of yawning waking leaves.

My eyes catch sunlight, rising from an open window.

A hundred morning creases peak through the linen

above smooth sheets. I light a cigarette from across the room,

watching you sleeping, bathe in the first morning’s sunbeam.

I saw you, still smiling, rumpled and stretching out last evening’s dream.

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17 Comments

Posted by on May 12, 2018 in Beginnings, Erotica, Existential, Love, Poetry, thoughts, Zen

 

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Releasing Illusions From The Shore

Creation’s sand sifted from our hands—

clutched for a moment by gravity

as it flowed, streaming silently,

to settle —in small scattered piles within us.

 

Thought and mood changes from grain to grain.

Perils and adventures rise and fall—

again and again from one position to the next.

 All things change us—

All pleading for illusions un-hooded truth—

 

 Only a mindful soul in peaceful acceptance

Prepares the meeting room table

for each sunset, for each full moon, for each new sunrise—

Guests are encouraged to speak

with innocence and understanding

as they… the children are;

where they become the sand—

Released from the creation of their hands.

 *****

(In silence, I mourn Creation’s loss, from above…

there is not a child born, that does not —seek our love).

   ~~~~~

From sand to diminishing pottery, my soul pours out the last of life.

It’s existence to non-existence, in remembrance

—of holding its last grain of sand.

 

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The Glass Sword

[Children all over the world are being slain without an enemy, other than ours.]

Each evening puts tears in our eyes

as we watch the world

with arrogance, stupidity, and greed

carnage souls and minds.

***

I know we are getting old.

But, what did we teach them?

Are they awake? What have they learned?

***

I thought we buried the sword!

If we have left the handle above the ground

—place it back on the slain bodies deep,

and shatter it where it was found.

***

Kneel and be still.

Then rise, as the new day, with bright eyes.

And, continue to teach each other;

why we all, see the beauty of each sun set

—and why we all, look forward to each sun rise.

~

 “Children are our second chance to have a great parent-child relationship.”

 Laura Schlessinger

 

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Notes That Started The Morning Fire.

I burnt my breakfast with brown butter and garlic.

It rose above the perfumed oiled scent of progress;

—creeping through the cracks of my window sills

wafting  silently,  carrying the day’s

chain-linked smog…breaking in with

—my paycheck’s upcoming arena.

Oops, I meant, aroma.

For a moment I choose to linger

asking for only 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? Me and him?

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,

Me:

The web, trickling inadvertently behind me, as I walk through space

Connects me to another square that I had left!

Never touching the ground, I wait with patience

in silk expectation —for a life, now to be defined.

Him:

The thread of your existence is never behind!

Nor could it manufacture a web to connect

to illusive time!

Shake off that wiggle… trickling inadvertently behind!

 

           

Hey! Anyone up for coffee, home fries, and scramble eggs?

 
7 Comments

Posted by on February 8, 2018 in Experimental, Life, Outlaw, Poetry, thoughts, Zen

 

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Annie~

     I never know where you are —In the Alps, Himalayas’, Europe, or in the mountains of New Hampshire? I miss you, your stories, and the personal footnotes of the un-condensed adventures;how you accepted them, good or bad, and passed through them. So quiet and shy in your beautiful observations —yet bold and independent in your actions.

     I hope you are well, happy, and peaceful in India; a beautiful country made more beautiful —welcoming your presence.

Your grace continues

to precede you as lady

pink slippers follow

 
1 Comment

Posted by on January 18, 2018 in Haibun, Haiku, thoughts, 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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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

 
20 Comments

Posted by on December 16, 2017 in prose, Sittting still, thoughts, Zen

 

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