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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.
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
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
I went to the settings
—no adjustment required.
Suggested, I plug them in
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
The clear Vodka bottle stood full, unopened on the top of the refrigerator. It has been there for hours, turning into days, weeks, and months. Every time I opened the refrigerator door— I would looked at it, and sing “Choices.” (Written by Billy Yates and Mike Curtis made popular by George Jones), and I would go about my routine day. But, eventually— one evening I took the bottle down and placed it on the counter. I found a clean mason jar and placed a few cubes of ice into it—poured from the bottle two mason jar fingers—staring out the kitchen window, I saw the full moon looking like a lost silver dollar—I raised my glass.
Let loving hearts ache
Release all blame and accept
The seedlings of trust
In case your curious:
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
On a pond in Center Sandwich, New Hampshire
—there was ripplin’ dimples on the shore
—toe dunkin’, foot slippin’ in mucky mud sinkin’.
—Tad poles at their feet were being ignored
As Lulu and Larry stepped further from shore.
“Watch out for old ‘Sticky tongue’!
That bullfrog is as big as a horse!
And he knows you’re in his ponnnnnnnduh.”
Shouted, older brother Horace
From the window of the family car.
Lulu heard a snap and a hard slap
on the water by her side.
Looking for Larry, finding only a big ripple
circling, melting at her knees in a chilling rise.
There he was! gone!* without a bubble or a scream
in ‘Sticky Tongue’s pond on a hot summer’s eve.
PS: Horace rolled up his window as running Lulu joined him –they locked all the car doors and hit the floor. As for Larry? His parents are still lookin’ fer’.
Yup! Cross my heart and hope to die .I don’t swim there, but I fish there; catching on a hot summer day, a wiggly reflection on the surface of the water, of sticky tongue’s lair.
This is for those of you who sit at the end of a movie and listen to the music reading the credits:
I received this glittering notebook as a gift from a wonderful writer friend Kelli T.–teaching as Adjunct faculty (English of course) at Plymouth State University NH—now living the glamorous life 😊 in Minneapolis. A great writer whom I have accepted gracious encouragement from.
The notebook has been kicking around for a while, buried among many journals. Some leather-bound, cloth bound, some on paper bags and some on any colored napkins.
PoPo, my 10 yr. old grandson who has such an imaginary virtual reality and somehow still maintains human sensitivity, along with his older brother Gav, were staying with me for the day. Which I enjoy often.
Trying to figure out how to get their creative attention, my attention was drawn to this glittering notebook. I reached over, sparkling as ever, opened it and wrote the first draft.
I made them French toast and as they were eating it (plenty of butter and syrup), I read them this draft. When I finished they chuckled, continuing to eat, PoPo asked me to lock the door.
Contemporary Poetry has un-cuffed many creative minds
As the tide washes the shore with an ever-changing sea
As the ships sail away with Shakespeare and Yeats
Leaving us with Ferlinghetti*
“… Ferlinghetti, felt strongly that art should be accessible to all people, not just a handful of highly educated intellectuals”.
A storm is coming! What shall we do?
Where should we go?
Take care of things.
–Then safely and honorably leave.
—Settle in where you are now
Away from the path of the storm”.
A path we both have weaved
Crumbling— flooding— grabbing
The unborn, above the Holy indiscriminate stream.
A storm is coming! What shall we do?
Where should we go?
Let us follow our hearts
With the light of our soul.