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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.

 

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

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.

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

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22 Comments

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

 

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Just Before We Met (A Love Song in Terza Rima Key of C)

Ignoring your past, being born anew,

in replica of lake’s new fallen snow,

 from my heart, I dreamed. Was it untrue?

 

 

Whizzing through the clouds, passing through rain drops

as crystal hail, sputtering and bouncing off my umbrella;

splattering above my shoes, on wet sidewalk.

 

 

How could I have caught you with all my faults?

 I stretched out open palms to break your fall;

stinging hands, melting, absorbed into salt.

 

 

I dropped you. I almost had you in flight.            

I go by the place where you had fallen;

to introduce myself, for that lost night.

 

 

To say that we both come from the same place,

from the same space, just before we met.

 

     Written with clenched hands in spring clouds.

Seeking what I had lost;

 miss-understanding the meaning of love

 —as just a common heart, that is always lost.

 

 

Edit8: This is ,a revision dob 2013 piece …in an attempt to write in “terza rima”, w/ a twist on-line 14 and an epilogue, oops! 😊

 
22 Comments

Posted by on March 10, 2018 in Experimental, ignorance, Life, Love, Poetry, Robert Frost, Zen

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator January 2018

Embrace liberty with visions unimaginable

assist each other— Your soul is also theirs.

Greet each day in the Absolute freedom of living.

~

Each inhale —exhale

releases the sun and moon;

why tomorrow always wears a gown.

~

Whatever we learn

It is natural to see what truth will be;

regardless of our opinion.

 ~

 

“a painting of cakes won’t fill the belly!” Kuei shan

Foolish Nostalgia

I had a dream where I entered a playground of memories

Lush with trees, shrubbery, sand boxes, and swings.

 

  With a smile

I walked past where absence was lost.

 

In my dream,

I caught myself walking past awakening.

 

Now— here I am

Hungry—

 

wondering what’s for breakfast?

 
14 Comments

Posted by on February 4, 2018 in Life, Nature, Poetry, Zen

 

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Five Verses From a Brief Visit This Solstice With Ch’an

On Judgment:

“If we didn’t see things fine and coarse

How could prejudice exist?”

~Relying on Mind~ Ch’an master Seng-Ts’an (J., Sozan)

 

~~~~~

I practiced non-discrimination

and had smiled often at my gestures—

until I was slapped by a whisk.

~~~~~

I understand how wrong I’ve been

and the shame I have brought to the other—

Each day wakes me quieter  —clearer than ever.

~

Moments may be still –yet moves forever.

~~~~~

Causes are great —equal to the clouds

one may be greater than the other.

Dew is clear as no sound is loud.

~~~~~

What is it that I see— to bench myself in judgment?

Opinions are statutes!

Saddle my horse—

Giddy-up! I shall ride with the outlaws.

~~~~~

How does one heal from history

With its invisible scars and drooping eyes?

Thatch a new roof— and shush the flies.

“Jesus said:

If two make peace with each other

In this single house,

They will say to the mountain

“Move away”

And it shall move.””

 

~The Gospel of Thomas~[48p n] presented by Huge McGregor Ross

 

 

 ~Pine Cone Diary~ -proof 2018

 
16 Comments

Posted by on January 20, 2018 in Beginnings, Outlaw, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, Sittting still, Zen

 

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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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Turn The Light Back On

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

 

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A November Divorce

 

     I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat. I haven’t been to one of those since I was single. Now, older as things get ignored, I wait until I run out of socks and underwear. Oh, and tee shirts they’re always along side two or three more.

     Two pillow cases in and only one with all folded, coming out. Sometimes, it’s both being carried out when I take the sheets, towels, a couple of dress shirts, and a few blue jeans, at the heel with frayed threads falling out. But today its tee shirts, socks, and underwear; one pillow case, the other carried inside out.

      I have been in my robe all week, tee shirts and underwear underneath. Yesterday I was remembering a place with a washer and a dryer. Where it was my turn to do the laundry, a turn I would keep. I would turn on a blaring rock and roll radio station, sorting whites from colors. Sometimes I would inject a little shuffle and dance as I  measured softener and twenty-mule team borax, half a cup or more singing out loud almost in a holler.

       From gentle to hard-core, as the cycles went. Washing, drying, and folding. Picking up the kitchen in-between the squashing and swirling I would sweep the floor. With things sorted from white, colors and who knows what. I did two maybe even three loads. But, ah, back to my rented room in its ultimate bore.

     On my inherited mother’s nicked kitchen table, on a lace doily gathering dust, sits a blue antique bottle and this summer’s dried flowers. I laid my car keys and emptied my pockets making them lighter of contents, putting them on her table.

     Two straight-backed chairs next to yesterdays mail, the morning sun struck the table, breaking through the windows hazed of last night’s cigarette smoke, I heard a voice from my past, as my mother spoke, telling me to at least, “keep yourself clean, don’t live precariously, do your laundry, every week, listen to me, please!”

     I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat.     I haven’t been to one of those since I was single or with my mother as a child; since my divorce.

Photo by RKG

 
4 Comments

Posted by on November 11, 2017 in Divorced, Getting Old, Love, New Hampshire, Prose Poetry, short story, Zen

 

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