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Notes found on the refrigerator April & May 2018

       It happened one day, when I discover humility: from the beginning, to its beginning, when I was unable to peel an orange, bake bread— or, crack an egg… before I made my breakfast, drank my coffee and settled for cold cereal.

      I still get up for one more day’s length —from my inviting bed, and make  my many visits to my children and grandchildren; catching up with things I never heard, though has been repeated several times.  Any way, I usually, on my way out,  steal from large pottery bowls, an apple or an orange, sometimes cashews left on the counter tucked in-between in a smaller bowl.

     Waving a right handed good-bye and a thankful smile, I drive through Center Sandwich village, before sunset and well before the June’s moon  will rise.

     I get home, make a late supper, take in another amazing day; then I go to bed smiling with my beads in grateful prayer.

Presence is not known

Until it reveals itself

In true existence

******

Entertainment:

The greatest movie in the evening, I go and watch, when I become bored with myself and have no desire to make a meal or take a walk or even to pop popcorn and turn on the TV —I look out my window.

      I watch the leaves dancing on branches making songs from the wind; so I rise and go outside and join in on the chorus as a movie extra, in the production of the “H.M.S. Pinafore”.

Mystics from the past

carry you through the seasons

—you met once before.

**********

Stubbornness:

On Monday morning, he opened his door, ole slim Lewis just raised his price, at the corner store. Raisin’ the price of flour from 5 cents to 15 cents a pound, no less no more.

I can still hear mama sayin’, “I’d just as soon pick a handful of dandelions and trade them evenly for a pound of pork rinds than give him —the extra dime”.

Eatin’ potatoes,

without honey glazed biscuits,

               fried in pork fat rinds.

 **********

Acceptance:

He feels the strength of  her independence,

when she stepped forward —naked with strangers in a local stream;

far from her parents and her lover sitting, with tee-shirt

and dry swimming trunks, life guard symbol on his seam. He is wondering

whether to sit, or, to hold up her abandoned towel —to stand

up, to greet her, with a smile and without giving her any shit, holding out

both his hands.

Yo’ Bro’ wass’ happinin’?

Looks like love has seen a ghost,

Groovin’ and strollin’. 😊

  • Finally:

Memorial Day 2018

The threat of death whether on the street, or, worse yet,

being an actor in the theater of war. Death, is ever-present

in all of them; from desk, teaching, jungle, or sand.

Whether killed, captured, or not;

is this fear, whether dismissed in discipline, forgot.

It is because of them, under constant threat,

you can sleep tight, and won’t let the bed bugs bite.

 

R.I.P …mon père, mes oncles pendant la deuxième guerre mondiale et mon frère cadet, le Vietnam.

Je vous remercie.

Richard.

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Redemption Dove ~>

     Oh mourning dove, sing to me this evening in the last glow of sunset —so clear and so resound in song —with hope for me to remember what was lost, now if sought, could be found. You echo through the forest, on the edge of fields, sidewalks, and across the parks.

      I open my window wrapping myself in my sheet and blanket as I sink into my pillow. I close my eyes to hear your song. Falling asleep, I understand your repetitive melodic low-high pitched notes, as I move through age.

      I listen to sounds about my life; with its many ups and downs. Finding in your chorus, a gift of an early morning spirit, that has forgotten yesterday —woo,  WOO, wooing, into a ‘morrow, without the cloak of fear.

Large black crows in flight

carnivorous in their plight

                               landing —find new life.

 

*Please Note: …By virtue of their melancholy call, mourning doves have been fittingly named. Their distinctive “wooo-oo-oo-oo” sounds may evoke a feeling of grief over the loss of a dearly beloved.

But far from representing death, the symbolism of mourning doves gives us optimism with its spirituality. Beyond their sorrowful song is a message of life, hope, renewal and peace.

 

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An Autumn’s Rush

Dripping trees from an autumn rain

shake off summer leaves to cushion my path.

Some circle and drift, falling softly in my hair.

They, accompanying their colors,

bright orange, reds, and yellow-green,

crown me —with a passing season’s wreath.

 

 

A northern New Hampshire wind threads steadily through the pines.

I continue to exhale gray smoke from my cigarette.

With your memory, I slide through Franconia Notch a step above slow

—soaking wet, cigarette still lit, chasing a summer’s love

before my path and its pine scent, are covered by snow.

*****

*Originally written in Sept. 2014 with several edits since

 
8 Comments

Posted by on May 17, 2018 in Erotica, Love, New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, Zen

 

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Day Carries No Memory

     I cannot remember anything since childhood except abstract flashes that had broken or brightened my life. I, was told by Jesuit mystics, that memories could become misunderstood, as I grew up, until they become distilled from what I saw, without bias, speech, or photographs   —I had to smuggle in sacrifice into wisdom.

     “Thus, so shall you write. But, remember there is no permanence.”

do not wait for thought

day carries no memory

when winter melted

 
8 Comments

Posted by on May 14, 2018 in Haibun, Haiku, Life, Ode to The Budha, Zen

 

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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.

 
17 Comments

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

 

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Bobby, Michelle, and Priscilla [A Mid-1950’s Tale]    

 

 Lightning in a thunderstorm flashing —streaking through the sky.

Hidden in shadows —frightened by the glow;

Richard ran home in darkened skies

before the thunder —could shake the ground.

 

Quickly finding a door unlocked, he opened it.

Kerosene cook stove glowing; he took his seat at the table with a sigh

—finding himself, not alone, with baby Bobby

and his older sisters, Michelle and Priscilla inside.

(this day after 5 yrs. having been separated by age and gender, we left together from St. Peter’s Orphanage, holding each other’s hands, knowing this is, are only home)

 
13 Comments

Posted by on May 3, 2018 in Friendship, Life, Love, Sisters

 

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Love’s Illusion~ rev:71a

     

Yes, Love, I was born with the first waxing moon.

Bald, without a thought for a tea’s afternoon;

—we embraced, dancing in every crook and cranny of my mind,

only to find myself as no one, and finding no place there.

~~~~

Oh failing heart, why did you forgo me?

To enter space where I would thirst?

Then, drowned me in a sea of deserts bleached sand.

Perhaps, in the essence of  moonlight and sunlight

—I will find You, where their lights both meet, and see

 what I have never lost nor have ever found.

 
 

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