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Tag Archives: Gift

Note Found On The Refrigerator Spring 2019 [and its Source]

“Go to the workshop where the universe was made, and see the Worker. But since the work has become a veil between you and the Worker, you can only see Him in His work. And since the workshop is His dwelling place, those on the outside cannot see Him. So enter the workshop — that is, non-existence — and see the work and the Worker together.”

MASNAVI II:759-62

JALAL AL-DIN Rumi

Pilgrim!
Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

Not all Princesses, can become Queens!

Not all Princes, can become Kings!

The gates of this Royal courtyard?

Only Nobles can come through,

regardless of origin,

for this castle to rule.

 

     Entrance may require everything and anything; bare feet, socks in sandals, just socks, wing-tipped shoes, polished with sheen, or anyone with a broken high-heel. All who are benevolent, where history is irrelevant, and find the moment is only a scene, may carry themselves through the gate that is without a latch or a key  .

Princes and princesses are born

from the same seed —free.

Independent of royalty,

they come to sit at the table

without dismissing similarities.

 

      Rising in fragrance through the courtyard, children arrive from the womb with porridge and cream. A meal fit for a king and queen.

      Outside the courtyard, some arrive at the gate incoherent and confused, having to learn to stop jumping in place and wait until the wings of Common Spirit carries them silently through.

      A kingdom awaits you here. The courtyard gate is the passage through —where you are bound to find your castle; where dreams are a story or two and where children are taught about their wings that once carried you, through.

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

 

 

   Little Pond Legends… R. K. Garon [ZQ Draft 2]

 

 
16 Comments

Posted by on April 15, 2019 in Children, Life, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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An Autumn’s Juxtaposition: The Spiders In The House Plant

My houseplants have been on the porch all summer.

The moon, white as vanilla, sends an evening chill

announcing a late October frost.

They must be carried inside, some hung

from my kitchen’s skylight windows.

 

Picking them up and carrying them through the porch, we welcomed each other.

As I open the storm door, I thought I heard a tiny critter voice chatter;

barely heard, but definitely noticed on the right side from my good ear,

inviting me to look closely at the plants. But, I chose

to quickly put them down on the porch floor.

 

I was a little concerned about my state of mind.

A worry, I must admit, since I was born.

 

Peering cautiously through the leaves of the one plant on the right side,

I spied a silver spider web laced between stems and leaves.

On closer inspection, I saw two critters with long skinny legs;

one in the center of the web and the other, on its furthest edge.

In the center, standing on six of his eight legs,

with one hand on his hip and another extended towards me,

I believe, to introduce himself with a hand or whatever I was supposed to shake.

Without hesitation, he began to speak, quite clearly, in my one good ear.

“Hey! Big Guy!

Bigger of biggest fellows!

I apologize for my intrusion your glorious immensity.

Speaking for the half of which I represent;

This of course, includes only me, for the other half has not yet agreed.

I am asking for your support in avoiding the outside tonight

and perhaps throughout the next two seasons.

For me, big guy, you show wisdom, compassion and a good taste in women.

I plead for you to save us, me and the little lady, where we could be killed

or die freezing outside. We are the third generation that has shared

 this house and we do wish to continue to abide.

 Love the light! Love the dark! Love what you have done inside.”

 

Startled as he spoke I felt dumbfounded,

out of breath, without words in the bellows.

 “Hey you! Snap out of it! Hey! Big Guy! Bigger of biggest fellows!

 I have just heard from the other half. The Mrs. has also agreed to plead

quietly to you. Asking for the joy to watch the early seasons go by…

 weaving harmlessly among the leaves”.

Aghast, with natural concern, I pushed the plant away from my face.

I picked them up, still a little suspicious of the others,

I hurriedly brought them all inside, two at a time.

 

 

I made a pot a coffee; setting a cup in a saucer with a spoon,

sugar, and next to them, a carton of cream.

 

 

In the dimming light of late autumn

I placed the spider plant on the kitchen table.

Facing the shiny silver web, we started talking away

with spinning yarns and silver threads of family and friends;

all of whom have lived here. Reminiscing, laughing, I, drinking fresh coffee

and they, drinking from teacups, with warm evenings dew.

 

(We spoke about our parents, grandparents,

children, and all the visiting inhabitants.

Some I never knew existed and some apparently they ate.

I have yet to meet the others that are staying here;

evidently, they have cousins from the fiddleheads estate,

having arrive earlier, deciding to winter in the cellar downstairs.)

 
 

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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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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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Princess Highgrass

Her long royal green stem, twenty feet high

or so it seemed, to the lawn below,

emerged from a patch

                                                            –of uncut grass.

With grace, top-heavy, carrying seeds for birth

she bends in all directions to the wind without discretion.

sometimes leaning too close to the ground!

                                                            —The ancient breeze

has to straighten her up for the wedding in fall

to disperse her seeds. As long as the wind and the mower

respect her vows of matrimony

                                                           —and miss

The patch

That keeps her Mother’s Kingdom

Season after seasons

                                                            —green.

 

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Many Growing Seasons, Before

I Have come to a tree that has fallen and decayed

Nurturing the forest floor, leaving me with this gift,

This piece of hardened wood,

With traces of legends and resemblance.

 

I stare into this piece of healed branch,

That has lost its self-

A knot that shares its parent’s history

 

Before broken off— had grown many faces

Now left as a petrified knot generations ago;

Embossed with stories of a future prince,

From twig— many growing seasons before.

wood-knot

(Many times, I have spent turning, staring, reading this tree knot I kicked up, on one of my walks through the Open Gate Farm, do give it some attention. Oh, and the other side is just as imaginatively interesting. (Photo by: R.K. Garon))

 
20 Comments

Posted by on January 28, 2017 in Poetry

 

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My Gift To You

     I began giving gifts, on the proper occasion, in the last few years or perhaps even, further than that, of things I have owned and have held fondly. They were meaningful to me, enjoying the memories of where and why I had them.

     Their presence… through the years, eventually faded into the bookcase or on an empty shelf, or, on top of the piano; until once a year I dusted them.

     Now, memories have assimilated into experience and knowledge. So please accept these pieces of my life that has been shared many times, as I pass on this gift of acceptance to share with you.

 

fresh pines tied in red

marks the door that welcomes gifts

in a special light

Merry Christmas to all my writer and creative friends.

 
30 Comments

Posted by on December 15, 2016 in Haibun, Poetry

 

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The Meal

The meal, whether earned or grown,  

Prepared for yourself or by another,

Is one of the greatest gifts of all.

 

Intention that turns labor into delight,

 Into anticipation, preparation,

Hurry, and timing for moments to memory.

 

Set on clean plates, in wonderful presentation

Framed with silverware and folded napkins.

 

Once eaten, will disappear into joy and satisfaction,

As all the greatest gifts, do happen.

rev:3

 
15 Comments

Posted by on November 20, 2016 in Friendship, Love, Poetry, Zen

 

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White Mountain Forest

In the reflection of sunrise light,

Tipping blades of grass with tiny crystal prisms,

Clinging dewdrops

Glitter all the colors of life—

I catch my shadow in stride, until each is one.

Both! (My shadow and I) Each, both in transition

Until we find the secret peace of the forest—

I am an early morning guest

Waking, yawning, knowing

How I will be received;

With scent of pines and wild blueberry dreams—

I will see you soon, my old friend.

 

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Sea Shell ashtray

 

   Walking Rye Beach mid-morning, I got lucky. Swept against the rocks, by its fierce ocean parents, I kicked up in shallow sand, a whole, still intact, not easy to find on Rye’s rocky coast a half of a clam shell. Yup! I got lucky. Cause’ just up the street to Hampton Beach, they cost a pretty penny. I slipped it into my pocket.

    When I got home, I brushed, with my fingers, any sand that would remind it, other than where it came from… other than where it is.

I did the same with the pocket I carried it. Turning it inside out and shaking everything free, every tidal grain of beach sand. Knowing I wouldn’t get it all.

I placed it on a table, on my porch. I heard, without ears, spirits, east, west, south, and north… applauding me for a gift well received.

    Anyway, it sits on a small iron table next to my chair. And, once in a while, having my morning cigarette and coffee, or, my evening cigarette and tea, I often wonder where you went? Were you boiled, fried, or, slithered down someone’s or something’s throat? Or maybe, your shell was cast away with a porpoise’s kiss and lives as a child of Poseidon, dancing your life away to the contemporary bands of Atlantis.

    I think of you… leaving this shell for me and my cigarette, whether through sacrifice or a beloved life. I still keep this gift, left for me— to find.

 

Hard life floating smoke

Seashell sits empty in bliss

Happy cigarette.

Ash tray Sea Shell frame

 
 

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