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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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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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Objects Above My Word Processor

The chief looking down upon the sand

Seeing marble and glass

Wishes me reflection

 

The fisherman looking above it all

Seeing everything equal

Wishes me balance

 

The Prophet caught up on a tree

Seeing all trespasses

Wishes me forgiveness

 

The ring that continues to encircle me

Sees nothing— it is seamless

Wishes me Love.

 

The bell begs every moment to ring or gong

Seeing silence

Wishes me to listen awakened

 

The level bubble needs no explanation.

 
22 Comments

Posted by on April 8, 2017 in Existential, Philosophy, thoughts, Zen

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator February 2017

The Internal Seed

I never did pretend very well.

Truth was perception—

Dismissing objective proof,

For the answer to the basic question

 “How does popcorn pop”?

Mistakes, miss-judgments, funneled into the mind

Of tornadoes swirling heart-popping roofs off conjecture.

How long can one pretend to believe you can be received?

 Gently through the bluster of ignorance?

And, yes, I am not the person I am.

I am the one inside of you

That never does pretend, very well.

“Wake up!” Said, the knife and fork to the spoon.

  *****

I have lost many memories that I often find in my heart.

   *****

Go home and simply be honest

To your lover and rekindle

The one action you forgot.

 
7 Comments

Posted by on February 12, 2017 in Experimental, ignorance, Love, Spiritual, Zen

 

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