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Notes Found On The Refrigerator July 2017

A Melancholy song

Songs are hidden in the words we speak. —sometimes in harmony

with the background hum of those we did not

know or ever meet.

 

 Our melody can sometimes be disheartening

 as well as our belly aching, vomiting

between the screeching cacophonous dominant notes

we may have perceived.

 

My music repetitively keeps playing yesterday’s Rock & Roll songs,

Rhythm & Blues songs, gospel’s black and white songs

—they are all fine—

 

 But, go to the window and lift the shade

and hum them—

 as you look at the sun and the future of rain.

 

Sing off-key if you must —loud and unalarmed.

Sing the songs that are hidden in the conscience that spoke without a word-

putting you in music unharmed.

 

Hum the song for unity in freedom

that has morally and musically given us;

without disrespect to life in the words

or thoughts written in our songs.

Or, what we sing.

*****

The Banjo Player

    I was talking to an old banjo player, pushing a 103 yrs old the other day. I asked him how his band was doing. “Well,” he said, wiping his face with one hand. “It’s over. There were four of us. One is dead, which left three of us unable to play his part and ours at the same time. Besides that, one is as Cuckoo as a broken string. The other young fella, in his late eighties, besides losing his hair has also, seemingly, lost the beat. Towards the end, we realized we were all playing different tunes insisting the other guy was messing up… and looking at each other with the stare of “each of us had better catch-up”. And, what was worst, when we were all on the same song, forgetting the words, we would automatically pick people out in the audience and break out into “Happy Birthday, to You…”.

We still keep in touch…”’

    There was a moment of silence, thinking he was reminiscing when he suddenly blurted out, “Now where was I? Oh ya! That was quite a box of good cigars”, sitting back in his chair with a great big smile.

*****

Oh sea glass greening

Passing through low and high tides

Speckling at my feet

*****

 The path once well-worn

 Through the passing of my youth

Is now overgrown

**** 

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21 Comments

Posted by on August 12, 2017 in Existential, Experimental, Hi-Koo, Love, Poetry, Prose Poetry, war, Zen

 

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Roses and Thorns

Roaring chariots down thunder road

Equal to—

Spring’s breaking ground to surface a rose

All of it, is noise—

 To awaken the dreamer to follow the sound

To chose—

Drummer and screamer or singer of songs

 

Silence has no meaning

Unless we are there before the sound

 

Until then—

Protest the ears that share the same mind

But not the heart—

That listens alone, before expressing

The blessings below or above the ground—

Splintering wagon wheels

With roses and thorns

 

 
9 Comments

Posted by on September 11, 2016 in Beginnings, Existential, war, Zen

 

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Bonsoir Mémé et le Pépé, Bonsoir

 (curtain rises…both are getting into bed)

Mémé: I’m not asking you to cheat

            Only to tweak. (turning over, back to Pépé)

 Pépé: I refuse to participate, in the choices they make,

can’t you see, Just let it be!

(he does the same and turns over. now both are lying back to back)

Mémé: Get off your arse then, and turn off the light!

            There ain’t nothing right… left to be seen this night.

Pépé: I thought it was your turn

To turn out the lights, tonight.

Mémé: You want to fight?

(as a matter of fact)

            I still got a good right.

(giggling)

Pépé: What is it that you want me to do?

            Again. Before I lay down.

(slowly getting up)

Mémé: Go and tell the grandchildren

            To stop this, this… “Messing around!

…La vie ne est plus le pont de d’Avignon.”

Pépé:  

  (re-enters and gets into bed facing mémé)

            Bonsoir Mémé.

Mémé: Bonsoir Pépé.

(Both start humming  ‘Sous le pont de d’Avignon’)

(Curtain closes)

 

On the lighter side, in my “research”, I stumbled on this and if you have the time… [growing up with this song, I couldn’t help but smile when I saw this.]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1W1-hZQNdC4

 

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War

 

Water Jug

Papa is in the garden

Weedin’ pullin’ sweat drippin’

Momma told me to “stop playin’

And go git him some water.”

 

I’m a big boy now,

Time to stop playing soldier

And help out with the growin’.

 

Grandpas ‘s in a wheelchair,

Grandma ‘s rockin’,

Momma ‘s peelin’ potatoes,

And baby cousin sleepin’. 

 

Time to stop playin’ soldier

And help out with the growin’.

 

Well is gittin’ dry,

Hard to keep pumpin’.

Big brother? died in Viet Nam.

Big sister? died in a country unknown.

 

Time for me to stop playin’ soldier

And help out with what’s bein’ grown.

 

Momma told me to “stop playin’,

Go get me some water too,

Don’t need you next,

to be leavin’ me alone.”

 

 

 
53 Comments

Posted by on May 8, 2015 in Children, Fathers, Mothers, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, war

 

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On The Seventh Day

“…time comes of the revolution of the heavens and day began with the first revolution.” Meister Eckhart

 

Thus, every mornings awakening,

Creation’s heaven touches the earth…

Moved from above; Seals the floor below.

Flight no longer a place to go.

All angels, wings clipped for walking,

Appeared on that day forever more.

 

****

Killing, is the arrogance of creation

Directed towards an empty sky.

Blasting through the earth,

Making shattered holes for souls to sink

Unaccompanied; heaven is unable to grasp

In flight below its floor.

 

 
40 Comments

Posted by on August 10, 2014 in Beginnings, Eckhart, Existential, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, war, Zen

 

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I need to take this call: on Bullying at all levels


“I want to be judged by the innocent.” 
~Note Found On The Refrigerator~

 

It is a source of humor,

a real knee slapper

targeted “faults”

spittle in the laughter.

specifications, whispered about.

Measured things of imperfection,

calibrated with latex glove

against the length of a snot.

Wine slurred dis-approval.

Tsk, tsk, between sips of West Coast grapes

and New York City Lattes.

 

I have to leave now.

Bushwhackers in the bush

throwing full beer can slurs.

 

when I think about it

Why would  I go without this upheaval;

shame, detaining progress of escape.

 

I need to leave now.

I cannot sit without a syllabus.

I need to prepare my right to prevail;

present my argument

for this incredible obstacle you present,

in knowing me.

Mimicked

like a mirror on the fun house wall.

 

I am leaving  now.

Excuse me,

but I need to take this call.

 

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We Still Can’t Find The Words

World Peace

 “…All we are saying Is give peace a chance.”

                                                               John Lennon

 A thousand devils dancing on a pinhead twirling, almost falling,

catching each other in sizzling embrace. Winking, hooting, and hollering

celebrating the death of common sense with un-precedent disgrace.

Chanting:

“Needle threading cloth. A suture for a dressing.

 In and out, out and in. A thimble on the thumb.

 A thimble on the index. Another zero sum.”

 

Suicide bombers! Soft targets! Murder of children!

Children murder parents! Prophets poison followers!

Followers assassinate prophets! Sentences punctuated with gunshot!

Where are the archangels and cherubims?

Where is my Father’s Catcher in the Rye?

Where is the Lord of the dance?

Where is that Spark that ignites the lullaby of Peace?

 

We can sing the song, John, 

winking, hooting, and hollering.

But, we still can’t find the words.

***************************************************************************************

I have taken the liberty of adding these two links in remembrance of a 1969 occasion

Song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGJqck5y91o

Lyrics: http://www.lyrics007.com/John%20Lennon%20Lyrics/Give%20Peace%20A%20Chance%20Lyrics.html

A special thank you for Helena, Kay Salady, Michelle, and Skipmars for their comments on its 2012 draft [He Never Had A Chance] hosted by Gooseberrygoespoetic/ Poetry-Picnic.

 
6 Comments

Posted by on September 22, 2013 in ignorance, John Lennon, Love, Outlaw, poems, Poetry, religion, war

 

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