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Tag Archives: Existenlism

A Curriers Blind Date In Manchester NH

*****

 I was invited to an Art show that was painted

long before I was born—

Seven decades ago.

 

Its beauty was impressive.

Yet—  I kept walking along

Smiling at each ornate frame, checking my watch,

flirting with my chaperone—  waiting to go home.

 

History with all its beauty and faults

cannot survive without sharing its thoughts

—as they did on my evening’s drive home.

 

Drowsy with perception’s wine,

its indigestible sandwiches 

sprinkled with beauty and awe

unable to personally imagine or to be explained.

 

 I will see her again.

*****

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20 Comments

Posted by on August 26, 2017 in Companionship, Love, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator August 24, 2017

As an intelligent, compassionate person I cover all the bases of the perceived truths— Before I discover my reality without bias of mind or heart but within my soul— Then, I can begin an argument —open for discussion for covering all our bases— with the illusions of what we have seen.

i have sifted through sand

tripped on stones

slipped on pine needles

have lost my balance on occasion

a few times—  falling

—but never has my path

been more appealing

than the steps before

 

i am who I’ve been

I certainly am not

who I was— as dust in the wind

as scent in the pines

as tomorrow is in each day

as yesterday—

 is unable to hold time.

*****

 
17 Comments

Posted by on August 24, 2017 in Existential, Experimental, Love, Nature, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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Dump Days— Wednesday and Saturday New Hampton, NH 03256

People, who have a lot of things
use them, and have a lot of things still left over.

People, who, have a few things,
use them, and have no left over’s.

People, who have no things, who seek many things,
end up using only a few things, and, have nothing left over.

All, who have things,
become one thing.

My things, became empty from use,
They were dug from the earth, and made in a factory
through creation, imagination and mistakes.
Useless now, worn, exchanged, or sat on a flea market table where even gypsies refused to take
are now ready to be disposed of—
on this pleasant day, at the New Hampton dump,
at 12:15 P M. on a bright and sunny Saturday.

 
21 Comments

Posted by on July 23, 2017 in New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries, prose, Zen

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator June 2017

21st. century compass has no true North.

It circles quickly left— counter clockwise

 then, clockwise right—  endlessly spinning

in no direction

                                    —until you step on it.

                        Then…

                                    with crystal glass chips or plastic pieces

in the soles of your  steps—  they become new footprints.

Without arrows, digital flags, religion, or discrimination;

moving your steps equally forward in moral direction

for all the children

—We have wished for

Or given birth to—

Wishing peace in each movement

—life in progressive harmony.

—Forgiving each other in step

—without history’s cruel march

of forgotten sins.

*****

How dare you say I ran away!

I escaped!

            — Gun fire, violence in the street,

Whispers about how I look or speak.

I am huddled in an alley finding nothing new.

We agreed for something else—  beyond  boundaries

            —Kicking ass and often hitting the ground

covering our face, committed to our personal space.

I went over the wall

and fucked the barbwire

                                    — escaping with the  truth.

***** 

Ladies I would invite you up for champagne and lobster

but, since I can’t get it up anymore—

would you like cheese and crackers?

Oh, you old ladies of lords!

Let me open the door

and light a candle

that excludes us from history books

banishing us from false assumption

enjoying each others company

—eating crackers and cheese.

     *****

When I said— what I said

and then— did something different

It was not false.

I just moved on—

not convinced of that particular truth.

*****

Sooooooooo…

Scolding me at 70 years old,

having burst in my youth with fire,

is about as productive as a wet match.

 *****

Although, I believe in the right of your opinion

and should be shared—

I also believe  you will treat our intelligence

and our ignorance, with the stipulation—

of mutual respect.

*****

Why do you insist on haunting

me with my past?

I have been forgivin’

…and have made retribution

from history into history

as I have clicked my mistakes

Into humanities recycle bin.

****

The sun has set

into memories—

as so have you—

In the morning glow

of love— my  tears of dew

—misting rainbows from my heart

falling to the ground

eventually dries

in full sunrise

in my opening eyes.

Yes, I miss you.

Though I will rise to dance in the morrow’

with the day’s first quest

half-smiling—  after— sleeping alone.

*****

  All I can do, is adjust the jib until you hoist the sail”

                                                            —I said

As she was running calm waters with only the kicker on

                                                            —leaving the bay

Not needing any wind, just a cool facial breeze

                                                            —ignoring everything I say.

 Still—

in  silence, the wind picked up.

We stood nodding to each other, fore and aft, tightening the main sail.

                                                            —we sat together hand splashing water

                                                            leaning— into a beautiful day

*****

Life is not a bowl of cherries

it’s a nutty fruit bowl of reality

—in full color

transcribed from black & white

over dark ripened rectitude

—spoiled by miss-steps, success,

and the feeling

you’re the only cherry in the bowl—

with sprinkled sugar and heavy cream.

Perhaps, as sour or perky as we are

we still spit the pit onto the floor

of destiny—

bowing on or mats,  kneeling in our pews,

and howling at the empty bowl

—of the rising moon.

 

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The House On Mason Road, In Sandwich, NH

The house on Mason Road

is set in the woods with a dirt driveway.

                                                —Mail box leaning

is the only indication of an entranceway.

Both for the snowplows and visitors.

—One, hopefully will miss—

The other, with blinker on

                                                —will turn in

Around the wooded curve to a clearing

where there, sits a house on Mason Road.

King, Princes, and Queen of the peaceful

Open Fire Tribe, harmoniously reside;

surrounded by pines, hardwoods,

                                                — and one apple tree.

Two Princes protect the entrance

With a bold plastic pink flamingo

                                                —ready to pounce

On imaginary villains who mean to do “good” harm!

Prince Popo? First with a plastic hammer; if the shadow has a cast.

Prince Gavyn? Waits for introductions, ducking once or twice

in the invisible clash… eventually both smile with relief

as they are greeted with the sight of bright  white teeth,

                                                —giving the signal to continue,

to all walk towards the fire

with hugs and handshakes when possible

                                                —Since most of them have their arms full.

Bringing food, twigs, beer, wine, whiskey, and wood

for an evening’s non-occasion meeting of the Fireside Tribe.

Conversation and laughter overtakes everything

as tradition prescribes,

                                                —they put all things,

other than their ancestors,

 And their continued fellowship

                                                —aside.

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator May 2017

Thankful twigs, children of the blight:

Used as kindling from Camelot to Brooklyn, with ancestry in branches of Majestic Elms—

Extinct in the flames of purification they crackled and glowed in memories

Of the beautiful Main streets with bustling thoroughfares.

—when they, in regal tradition, stole the whole show.

Some interesting research digging around on the subject (for whatever, when it popped up in my mind) about the Elm tree… and perhaps I was looking for something about our future? Understanding and approaching it with history’s humility

: https://growinghistory.wordpress.com/2012/02/28/some-history-of-historic-plants/

 

*****

            No matter where I have been, in my heart I have always heard “welcome son!” And, I am as sure as my sisters have heard addressed— personally to them. The question that accompanies such a greeting is; where exactly are we? That we are being received and welcomed? And, of course, how our etiquette suddenly begins and our exit should end.

Rain falls hard on thorns

Roses soon to bloom perk up

Both will co-exist

*****

Whoa, Silver! Here comes the black stallion to welcome the Pinto.

*****

I sit here by the firelight of life, feeling old, tired, and worn out.

I sit proud with a peaceful heart after battles lost and won—

I notice the imprint of my shield, above the fireplace,

Nicked and gashed in gallant memory as history touts.

It has been sold. Two weeks ago. For bread, vegetables, lettuce, meat,

And sprouts.

I am neither happy nor angry

Nor am I hungry.

 

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Lost Is The Chaser

You have always loved early morning light.
Raising shades pushing closed curtains open.
Each flash from room to room? Presence left bright.

I have followed steps morning to dusk.
I have watched you sigh with a darker sky
And laugh at the sun, for late waking up.

I have caught you in my afternoon arms
I felt your escape from curtain to shade                                       From door to door, calm and without alarm.

 Briskly from room to room almost a dance.
Occasionally you gave me a smile
with blinking dark eyes, in a quick side-glance.

Lost is the love that never can be caught.
Lost is the chaser that never can stop.

Note: Inspired by a modern sonnet by Robert Frost’s “Acquainted With The Night”. ( a must read for all future and current Poets, in my opinion :). The written poem is beneath the video 

 
17 Comments

Posted by on May 6, 2017 in New Hampshire, Poetry, Robert Frost, Sonett

 

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