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Good Afternoon

Who knows, as i sit in an anxious state

waiting for Godot; hoping they never show,

like a sparkle in the glass, asking me if i care to go?

 I will deny its invitation —to stay and enjoy the sparkle,

as all sparkles go.

 

Who Knows as i move in trepidation,

waiting for the fulfillment of my day?

Afraid to recognize it when it is here.

So i deny its invitation —to listen as it fades,

rolls, descends, and disappears.

 

Who knows the mysteries attributed

to the ground i stand on?

If traveled, i will have accepted its maze,

if understood —i will have accepted its direction.

 

Who can remember,

that we can go through the eye of a needle

with the sparkle of a moment?

i believe, only in the beholder’s mind

and conscience, threaded within our soul.

 

Good afternoon.

 
11 Comments

Posted by on February 29, 2020 in Existential, Poetry, Wisdom, Zen

 

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the change in my pocket [rooming house, basement floor]

“…if you do not know yourselves

then you are in poverty,

and you are the poverty.”

                                                                 logion 3, The Gospel of Thomas

 

i emptied my pockets with rattling and scattered coins on the dresser.

facing me, an obtrusive un-welcomed ever-present mirror.    

i could not look away; i was centered within its paint chipped borders.

off to the edge, a stack of black-and-white old family photos;

mixed in with a bunch of sticky colored Polaroid’s

of a motorcycle weekend and penny arcades at Weirs Beach.

and, blurry ones of a start-up rock and roll band

“jamming” at the Beanstalk variety store.

(it’s still at the junction of route 106 and Canterbury road).

i can hear the screeching tires on the curves of Gunstock

and the giggling, lovemaking, in a pup tent between laps.

the racers often change the lead before the lovers

pressed themselves, arm and arm, against the fence again.

i can see in their Polaroid eyes, nothing cared except to be there.

it was a black and white transition for me then.

 

 

pushed up against the mirror, an old mason jar

half full with silver coins. nickels, dimes, quarters,

and one unspent Kennedy half-dollar. a permanent resident.

i found that faded earth smeared mason jar digging in an old bottle dump;

carried it in my backpack, hitchhiking down many promising roads.

never did fill it. always dipped into it. emergency funds, you know.

 

 

on the floor beside the dresser, getting harder to push aside,

squats a fading bluish plastic water cooler jug, three-quarters full of pennies.

my retirement, i suppose.

 

i begin to sort copper from silver and silver from copper.

jar vs. jug.

i smile at myself trying to find something

that i may have forgotten in my pockets.

something, with at least one or two digits to fold.

the mirror returns my smile. we stare at the lines on our faces

listening to each distinctive clink, clunk, and thud

fade into its equally appropriated space.

 
7 Comments

Posted by on February 8, 2020 in Existential, Poetry, Poverty

 

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Bits and Pieces [The Legend Of an Old Man and the Balloon Popper]

You could tell by his long thinning hair below his bowler hat

Strings pulled and floating behind him

Was an old man, holding within shaking hands,

All sizes of brightly colored balloons; embossed in abstract bold print

Announcing all of his life’s successes and failures.

Strolling along the streets,  skipping past the alleys,

Looking up at his balloons,

He would speak to himself in a loud but timid pitch;

“Free! Life’s balloons! 

Pick a color. Go ahead, pick a size above the strings,

Pick anyone you please.”

 

No one ever did. Bits and pieces in his pace as he slowly moved,

In constant pursuit with purpose, holding his balloons.

              

***

Carrying a large white plastic handbag

Strapped between sagging breasts and tucked behind aging wings,

Carrying bulging contents that peeked in-between striding elbows,

Was an old Angel with a dull Halo; suspended above short cropped bluing grey hair.

With systematic jerks of her head looking up and down the streets,

She would give directions to her wings like a bird of prey.

A determined hunter; for that old man she did seek.

 

Her search begins in the dampness of dawn.

Always walking on the opposite side of the street ready to cross if need be.

She never stops looking, never stops shaking her head.

 

Gripped with white knuckles in one hand

Unable to be released, were bits and pieces

That glittered on the copper needle she carried.

               ***

Day of enlightenment almost caught up with the old man.

But, it did not. He was ambushed yesterday,

In the blur of wings and a redemptive screech,

Every balloon he carried was popped.

          ***

The old man continues to walk in a crushed cap,

Carrying  strings over his shoulder, begging

“Free! Sturdy strings! Free well tugged twine.

Have this one, please take this one,

I have had them now for much too long.”

i gaze at my reflection at  bits and pieces, starfish,

crabs, and broken shells in a shallow

tidal pool

Written on Star Island,Portsmouth,NH on a writers retreat..rev.2020

 
15 Comments

Posted by on January 18, 2020 in Existential, Life, Outlaw, Poetry, Zen

 

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Family’s Christmas Song

Wake up! Wake up! It’s Christmas morn! We don’t care where we come from, or were we were born! We’ve seen the gifts in every one’s heart —we have the reason — from where this starts.

Good morning! Scrambled eggs, French toast, home fries, hot cocoa, and coffee dark and local roast. Adulthood peeking into childhood memories. Quietly giggling, mama kissing all our cheeks warm —papa getting dressed, telling us to get ready for church, “to celebrate a birth, in a stable long before we are born, another child in a family melody —poor as dirt”. Long before we understood —long before we could. And — as all children should.

We wake up! Awake, —on this Christmas morn; joyously understanding the meaning —and the chorus of our family’s Christmas song!

fresh wreath cabin tied

marks a home that welcomes song

from a Holy night

[In the Old Testament books, several hundred prophecies about the Messiah and His blessed Kingdom can be found. They are scattered throughout almost all the books of the Old Testament, beginning with the Five Books of Moses and ending with the last prophets Zachariah and Malachi. The Prophet Moses, King David, the Prophets Isaiah, Daniel, and Zachariah wrote the most about the Messiah.]

And so we are born.

 

(Pastel and Ink by R.K.Garon)

2019

 
11 Comments

Posted by on December 22, 2019 in Christmas, Love, Poetry, Prose Poetry

 

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Mother’s day Notes Found On The Refrigerator 2019

 

faded

after winters’ welcomed visit

in fall’s final embrace

life arises from a warm colorful quilt.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

ever so bright

a glitter of rain

against the bark of a tree

—colors glowing in its prism—

is the same light

seen in all life.

 

 

—and its source—

has been made known,

for all that look.

—is all they can see—

 

Photo: R.K.Garon ~The Night Before Breakfast~

 

 
18 Comments

Posted by on May 11, 2019 in Children, Life, Love, Mothers, thoughts, Zen

 

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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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A Reality Sandwich and An Ice Cold Existential Beer

ashland, new hampshire—

two in the afternoon

a burger with a thick slice of onion,

mustard on the side

and a cold bottle of beer.

 

looking out a large pane window,

everything from where I sat

looked fine.

you pass by noticed,

i nodded with a smile.

 

and you

quickly

looked away

and everything disappeared.

 

no,

not of course,

my sandwich.

 

just an old flame

puffed in a white cloud of history,

dowsed by another sip

of an ice-cold beer.

 

Rev:2013/2019  Vol. II ~ Love: Hot Water, Crackers, & Ketchup  Soup~

 

 

 
16 Comments

Posted by on March 30, 2019 in Existential, Love, New Hampshire, Poetry, Zen

 

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Who Knows?

Who knows?

As i sit in anxious state waiting for Godot— hoping he never shows. Like a sparkle in a glass, asking me if i care to go? i will deny the invitation— i will stay and enjoy the sparkle— as all sparkles go.

Who Knows?

As i move in trepidation. Waiting for the fulfillment of my day, afraid of my responsibility when it is appears. So i deny its invitation— i will take this breath and walk behind it. Watching it fade, from rise, to descent, and feeling fear disappear.

who knows the mysteries

attributed to the ground i stand on

if traveled

i will have accepted its maze.

If understood,

I

will have accepted its direction.

 

 

Rev:14-19 *.*  ‘The Night Before Breakfast”

 
2 Comments

Posted by on February 16, 2019 in Beginnings, Nature, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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The wind sends messages

     

      The wind sends messages through pine wood doors, around skyscrapers and street lights. Through the matrix of the suburbs, over the mountains, across the pastures, sown fields, and vineyards; repeating her message to the sea.

      I heard one night as the wind passed through, that the moon is made of cheese. I smiled and snickered when suddenly my hat blew off my head, hearing very distinctly “oh pull-eeez”.

Winds play limbs at night

Moon dances in their shadows

Winter snow smiles

 
15 Comments

Posted by on February 2, 2019 in Haibun, Haiku, Humor, Zen

 

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Dark Chocolate

      I was looking through old pictures today —some scratched and beginning to fade.  You were beautiful, impressionable, and innocent; packing lunches and having picnics, going home after chilled wine, crackers, Vermont cheddar cheese, and dark chocolate.

      My heart sank. I had to put them away —unable to find the joy in reviewing history. Remembering all the missteps I made when I was young, fearless, sometimes arrogant, misunderstanding love and its commitment. I drank the wine not savoring the chocolate.

      I will get back to them someday —but, for now, this evening, I will listen to Lake Winona. In-between the silence and dobs of the lake’s small rolling waves. I place the photographs beneath the bed I made.

 

Sit still to listen

Lake is playing a love song

Remember the tune

 

 

Originally written : Aug 8, 2016 …Rev 12: 1/26/2019 5:26 PM

 
22 Comments

Posted by on January 26, 2019 in Haibun Poetry, Haiku, Love, Zen

 

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