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Tag Archives: Existenlism

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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Offspring’s

I watched:

Fall leaves flutter and swirl —raised to dance in the arms of a Spring wind;

settling them down at the base of the trees, where they were born.

Father Winter has gone.

 

I saw:

His summer’s mistress awaken in moist dawn, not giving a damn.

Cuddling her offspring’s with sunshine –she sang them lullabies.

Coloring them with a promising  growing up, with their Father’s pride.

photo: R.K. Garon

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator February 2018

Innocence in the heart without harm to itself or anyone else

Can be cast into confusion and turmoil as it walks the streets of experience.

 

Prehistoric predators can’t help themselves —DNA continues in undeveloped self.

They eat green leaf eaters expelling them to the soil for resurrection.

—Eventually predators eat themselves; caught in a bad diet and in a false argument.

 

Never looking down the street’s —of the in between alleys,

—innocence, never understanding, drifts pass them, in wisdom.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

I do have some literary Masters renting space in my head.

But, as the landlord, I express my thoughts —with the acceptance of their rent.

So far, they haven’t complained about how their money is spent.

 

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The brook that never freezes

flows from my winter heart into spring.

It never ceases to bring me new and warm summer things.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

I feel like having a hot dog on a stick

roasting over a Hermit Island campfire,

watching the glowing flickering flames

send sparkles above the tide—

rising beyond the moon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

As long as I am not confined to the yard or a cell or a dormitory, I suppose, I’m doing well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 
22 Comments

Posted by on March 18, 2018 in Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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The Gift Of Free Will At Sunrise

      I shall not seek Thee —in a stiff collar of white or colorless turbine. Or, robes of wool…covering skin dark or light over bones disguised in cloaks of Yellow, Orange, Brown, and lest not we forget Cremora White!

      —You have no need to convince me of the fig leaf on my soul! I have acknowledged its presence. I will find its place in the empty void.

      I shall find You —by going forward and leaving me alone.

In valley below

winter thaws upcoming spring

On Holderness Road

 

 
 

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“Pensées sur “l’être et le néant”

(Thoughts on “Being and nothingness” Jean-Paul Sartre)

In late afternoons, the winter sun slips

through a hazy kitchen window —casting a small bright light

on the wooden floor.

Some days I walk around it.

Some days I walk through it.

Some days, I never even see it!

Then —there are some days when I spot it.

I pick it up —and put it in my shirt pocket;

the one closes to my heart,

collecting warm engagements for my upcoming spring.

~~~~~

Owl’s nest sits high in the shadow of a branch

Wind flickers in glint moonlight through the leaves

—of the predator’s eyes.

Prey —feasting on ignorance,

feeds on “chance.”

Unaware of their “self’s” demise.

Sun light? —To either of them?

Is always an enlightened surprise.

~~~~~

 
21 Comments

Posted by on January 27, 2018 in Existential, Poetry, Sartre

 

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A Tale of The Weathered Sundial’s Ever-Moving shadow

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.

Confused, misunderstanding,

we complain.

 

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

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator November 2017

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

—nothing

I went to the settings

—no adjustment required.

Suggested, I plug them in

And printed,

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

 
20 Comments

Posted by on December 16, 2017 in prose, Sittting still, thoughts, Zen

 

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