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Category Archives: thoughts

Objects Above My Word Processor

The chief looking down upon the sand

Seeing marble and glass

Wishes me reflection

 

The fisherman looking above it all

Seeing everything equal

Wishes me balance

 

The Prophet caught up on a tree

Seeing all trespasses

Wishes me forgiveness

 

The ring that continues to encircle me

Sees nothing— it is seamless

Wishes me Love.

 

The bell begs every moment to ring or gong

Seeing silence

Wishes me to listen awakened

 

The level bubble needs no explanation.

 
22 Comments

Posted by on April 8, 2017 in Existential, Philosophy, thoughts, Zen

 

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The silver spoon

The silver spoon

Spilling gibberish, drool, and cream

In this morning’s Lobster Bisque

Screamed at him for not

Eating Cheerios in 1% milk

With silverware, or even

A plastic spoon.

(None would have to be polished

Rubbed by servants

And served, to feed

 Your fat reflecting face).

“We are both, growing worthless

In history” fading as it dripped

and slurped from

Puckering lips.

 
11 Comments

Posted by on April 4, 2017 in Existential, Poetry, Politics, thoughts

 

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Note Found On The Refrigerator 3/19/2017

Don’t Shout!

            Shhhhhhhsh, your mind—

            For as long as it takes—

            Understanding the needs, we relieve

            Within our presence.

            Our life’s last ground is guided

By our first chance.

            You know we hold each other

            Responsible for our love.

           

 
14 Comments

Posted by on March 19, 2017 in Love, Sittting still, thoughts, Zen

 

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Quadrille #28 Submission

Easter Pilgrimage

 

Sir/Madam do not interpret

With your own mind, words of “Divinity”,

Explaining what is held

In the temple of my Soul?

You only speak as the sinner you are.

Now then, let us pray.

Without umbrella

Scent aromatic in clouds

Spring rain wakes flowers.

 
13 Comments

Posted by on March 13, 2017 in Easter, Haiku, Poetry, Spiritual, thoughts, Zen

 

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A riddle answered in humility—

Nothing has to be proven to me

that you are better than I am

 we both know it.

Why the proof?

 
16 Comments

Posted by on October 15, 2016 in Poetry, Spiritual, thoughts, Zen

 

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Saint Peter’s Orphanage 1950

Starless night, cold gray fog creeping up steel posted gates;

In spaces of bowing heads and hands being held,

Shadows grow and withdraw under muffled haloed lights.

 

Creeping through the entrance, they all looked up to see

Guarding the gate; a damp dew dripping concrete statue

Standing with a heel on a serpent

 an Archangel with flared wings wielding a sword.

Forever to be their best friend.

 

The witnesses passed by slowly. The children, carrying paper bag suitcases

In one hand and the other clasped tightly to each other.

 

Unpredictable darkness merges into a softly glowing doorway.

Their father quickly blesses himself

Whispering a Hail Mary, takes out four quarters.

 

Placing one in each daughter’s hand,

And slipping one in each boy’s pants pocket.

He gently knocks on a well-polished oak door.

 

Dim yellow light emerges.

Sister Saint Helen opens the vestibule.

 

Smiling, she places the paper bags on a large mahogany table,

Shushing them together, closing the heavy, silent, well oiled, orphanage door

She nods good-bye to the children’s father.

 

Sealed in, they become frightened like birds

With a broken wing.

 

 

Two bedroom flat above the American Legion, a band is playing downstairs.

Hat on the kitchen table, the young father sighs as he pops open a beer.

It’s been five years since the war.

Six years since he graduated High school

And, two years since the boy’s mother left them.

Acknowledging his inability

To come to grips with his situation;

Being abandoned by love, a turn of the cycle begins.

Tears blur his eyes; his heart sinks,

Then floats on Holy melancholy consolation.

 

1956

1956

(Forty years later, father having passed away in a veterans home)

 I’m sending you, mother and father, your youngest son September 24, 2016

Welcome him to a place where the Butter nut tree

And the bitter-sweet is still called home.)

 

rev:13

 
18 Comments

Posted by on October 2, 2016 in Getting Old, Love, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, thoughts

 

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Sea Shell ashtray

 

   Walking Rye Beach mid-morning, I got lucky. Swept against the rocks, by its fierce ocean parents, I kicked up in shallow sand, a whole, still intact, not easy to find on Rye’s rocky coast a half of a clam shell. Yup! I got lucky. Cause’ just up the street to Hampton Beach, they cost a pretty penny. I slipped it into my pocket.

    When I got home, I brushed, with my fingers, any sand that would remind it, other than where it came from… other than where it is.

I did the same with the pocket I carried it. Turning it inside out and shaking everything free, every tidal grain of beach sand. Knowing I wouldn’t get it all.

I placed it on a table, on my porch. I heard, without ears, spirits, east, west, south, and north… applauding me for a gift well received.

    Anyway, it sits on a small iron table next to my chair. And, once in a while, having my morning cigarette and coffee, or, my evening cigarette and tea, I often wonder where you went? Were you boiled, fried, or, slithered down someone’s or something’s throat? Or maybe, your shell was cast away with a porpoise’s kiss and lives as a child of Poseidon, dancing your life away to the contemporary bands of Atlantis.

    I think of you… leaving this shell for me and my cigarette, whether through sacrifice or a beloved life. I still keep this gift, left for me— to find.

 

Hard life floating smoke

Seashell sits empty in bliss

Happy cigarette.

Ash tray Sea Shell frame

 
 

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