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Autumn Haiku(s) 2017

 

I taste food at dusk

I eat my meal in the light

by shadow of moon

 

Blue Haiku(s)

Blue mussels cling rocks

Tide and moon are true lovers

Boiling for supper

****

Blue skies parting leaves

Green grass below aging feet

Balance beneath me

****

Blue birds sang in spring

Announcing flower trumpets

Shook summer to rise

****

Morning Glory blue

Summer’s last call before fall

Welcomes winter frost

****

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16 Comments

Posted by on October 7, 2017 in Haiku, Morning Glories, Poetry, Sittting still

 

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Another Royal French Canadian Boîte à savon performance

The Bended Black Steel Arbor And The Morning Glory’s Vows [The Legend Of The Black Knight, from the Pine Cone Diaries]

    “Oh, bended steel arbor, planted firmly in the ground… father of the black knight. You have stood staunch through frost and snow until, in soft ground, I am able to rise upon you —and grow. With spring rain into summer sunshine you courted me becoming my first and only love; supporting me to stretch, to trust my wanderings, betting on me to win, lose, or draw.

    I will crawl up your season’s steel arbor. I will rise above your bended arch. I will cover you with the cloak of my groping summer hearts.

    With vines entwined, we will drink the sun— and hide to spoon beneath the moon; until I rise, unable to stand, so drunk from this climb, you will let me gently fall; bending to blossom our true desires. They will be bright sky blue, reflecting the sea; with a sprinkling darkness of the sky before the rain. And, every morning from their center’s light, they will release —the captured vanilla moon.

    They will stand staunch with the colors you expect in a parade. They will be a delightful explosion of blue and vanilla moon surprises. One maybe two— maybe some— sometimes maybe none, depending on the bees and the hummingbirds and how we are groomed. I will promise the birth of our black knight, in our season’s last bloom; expelling the sun for our love to take flight, fleeing from winter’s moon”.

 Bended black steel arbor planted firmly in the ground, pleasantly listening to a dream, streaming by, of an upcoming meeting and the exchange; now, of his vows. He begins to rehearse again, as he has in all three seasons. When suddenly— she peers from the earth— arrives with blinking, sun sparkled green eyes.

Well! Without hesitation, the bended black steel arbor, planted firmly in the ground, breaks out in his sincere well-rehearsed vows.

“Oh, love of love in my gloom and despair,

My patience is resilient as thou art fair.

 

Cast my season’s dis-pleasures in late summer air.

You arrive before fall, in regal fashion flair;

Paling all colors, that frost will peak and fade.

I have stood tall waiting and staunch.

Stretch and climb onto me. No time to yawn!

Awaken into your destined place. Embrace me,

Climb onto me, for the delivery

 Of our love’s, sweet morning glories.

 

Oh, love of love in my gloom and despair,

My patience is resilient as thou art fair.”

photos: Arbor: ZQ   MGz: by Zeezee Ceecee

 

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Weathered Swing [Shadorma]

~Yesterday~

Course old rope

Worn smooth in child’s hands

Seat of dreams

Grip loosens

Jump gleefully into sand

Falling only twice

 

~Today~

Holding hands

Watching the sun rise

Creaking swing

Swaying smooth

Humming together in time

Our first meeting song

 

~Tomorrow~

Without frown

With our last jump long

Pushing feet

Toes to Toes

Sunset’s breeze tuning our song

Rocking weathered swing

          I want to thank Rall [rallentanda.blogspot.com] for introducing this poetic form to me….The Shadorma is a Spanish poetic form made up of a stanza of six lines. (sestet) with no set rhyme scheme. It is a syllabic poem with a meter of 3/5/3/3/7/5. It can have many stanzas, as long as each follows the meter.

 
37 Comments

Posted by on September 3, 2017 in Love, Poetry, Zen

 

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Summer Morning’s Prayer Rain

 

I walk mindful

after an early summer’s rain—

trees drip shaking gently dry

warming my broad New Hampshire path

I am accompanied with a mid-August

morning breeze blowing softly through my hair—

feeling accepted—

 taught— within its secret wreath

 

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator July 2017

A Melancholy song

Songs are hidden in the words we speak. —sometimes in harmony

with the background hum of those we did not

know or ever meet.

 

 Our melody can sometimes be disheartening

 as well as our belly aching, vomiting

between the screeching cacophonous dominant notes

we may have perceived.

 

My music repetitively keeps playing yesterday’s Rock & Roll songs,

Rhythm & Blues songs, gospel’s black and white songs

—they are all fine—

 

 But, go to the window and lift the shade

and hum them—

 as you look at the sun and the future of rain.

 

Sing off-key if you must —loud and unalarmed.

Sing the songs that are hidden in the conscience that spoke without a word-

putting you in music unharmed.

 

Hum the song for unity in freedom

that has morally and musically given us;

without disrespect to life in the words

or thoughts written in our songs.

Or, what we sing.

*****

The Banjo Player

    I was talking to an old banjo player, pushing a 103 yrs old the other day. I asked him how his band was doing. “Well,” he said, wiping his face with one hand. “It’s over. There were four of us. One is dead, which left three of us unable to play his part and ours at the same time. Besides that, one is as Cuckoo as a broken string. The other young fella, in his late eighties, besides losing his hair has also, seemingly, lost the beat. Towards the end, we realized we were all playing different tunes insisting the other guy was messing up… and looking at each other with the stare of “each of us had better catch-up”. And, what was worst, when we were all on the same song, forgetting the words, we would automatically pick people out in the audience and break out into “Happy Birthday, to You…”.

We still keep in touch…”’

    There was a moment of silence, thinking he was reminiscing when he suddenly blurted out, “Now where was I? Oh ya! That was quite a box of good cigars”, sitting back in his chair with a great big smile.

*****

Oh sea glass greening

Passing through low and high tides

Speckling at my feet

*****

 The path once well-worn

 Through the passing of my youth

Is now overgrown

**** 

 
21 Comments

Posted by on August 12, 2017 in Existential, Experimental, Hi-Koo, Love, Poetry, Prose Poetry, war, Zen

 

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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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Times’ Bell (A Sonnet On Em7 Bass)

I listened to the bell ring at sunset

I hear the sound passing each day as death;

Knowing in the ‘morrow it will still ring,

Awakening me with yesterdays debt.

 

I yield to the monster of this day’s Light

With discipline. With matter. Not with fright!

The high notes settle silence with low notes

To kneel in sound whose vision has no sight.

 

Ah, but such is my luck! The damn thing rings

Morning, noon, and night. My life inspiring,

Regardless of my nature or my regrets.

They pale to my rise every morning.

 

Someday I shall be the first to wake it—

Or, bid good evening before sun’s exit.

 

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