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
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.
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
Above urgent toes, pushing small glazed pinecones,
a late December wind was bristling with snow spitting
at heels in a steady pace crunching frozen pine needles.
Owls hoot! Shadows dart! Dead limbs snap!
Moonlight guides them to a glowing rising bend.
Boot soles slide on unseen ice —but, balance is regained.
The remaining sun begins to fade from dusk.
Curling nesting squirrels brightly tick eventide;
finding themselves short of distant village lights.
Snow, now steadily blowing in a whiteout slant
mellowed the glow from the windows
of the houses, steady burning lamps.
The wind tore through their over-coats
threads fluttered and shredded behind them
as they hastened to saved empty seats.
In scented moonlight, they caught the smoke
that waffled thru stone chimneys
—they were welcomed arrivals in houses of warmth;
they were seated in the glow at table side,
where they lit the center white candle —awaiting Christmastide,
along with the joyful hearts of expectant families.
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
I went to the settings
—no adjustment required.
Suggested, I plug them in
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
The clear Vodka bottle stood full, unopened on the top of the refrigerator. It has been there for hours, turning into days, weeks, and months. Every time I opened the refrigerator door— I would looked at it, and sing “Choices.” (Written by Billy Yates and Mike Curtis made popular by George Jones), and I would go about my routine day. But, eventually— one evening I took the bottle down and placed it on the counter. I found a clean mason jar and placed a few cubes of ice into it—poured from the bottle two mason jar fingers—staring out the kitchen window, I saw the full moon looking like a lost silver dollar—I raised my glass.
Let loving hearts ache
Release all blame and accept
The seedlings of trust
In case your curious:
Sundown was sinking from a ridge on Holderness road
Inviting me, or so I thought, to turn off –my one light on.
(The one I had turned on, when darkness was creeping along).
I could see as I stared out from my large window—
the only one in my cave— a dimming invitation
for a quick evenings celebration; honoring a season’s resignation.
I wanted to meet her –to greet her,
Before the winter moon rose to extinguish
her completed season’s accomplishments.
I left the house in a goose down vest,
donning my formal Pendleton— wide brim’s best.
Without a thought, I walked many steps
going about my way.
Until I opened my eyes
on an illuminated path of autumn amber pine needles
glowing from the rising moon and sunlight’s sunset.
They met and greeted me with giggles and mutual song.
I caught their transition between darkness and dawn.
They kissed each other… as the moon
asked me— to go inside
and turn the light, back on.
Photo by RKG… Holdernes Rd. Center Sandwich NH