Tag Archives: Love
Love is an illusion (friendship is instinctive), be just like me or perish (enjoy diversity), only self-serving interests (sharing and participating in another’s), laughing at calamity (understand and re-structure) …
…Love, the unimaginable truth, and its Divinity to commune with understanding family and neighbor, that creates quilted communities, is real. No material of its fibers and colors are independent of itself; unless it stands alone void of inclusion.
Less we push It into something abstract that dis-avows it. Love is not a contract, it’s an allegiance; morally and with mutual integrity that displays Itself, as an outward sign of friendship. Set to become the binding mystery of Love.
August is lazy
stillness does not seek a fight
an agreement made
a note to my children:
You were all born with an Angel on your shoulder
Disguised as a small invisible white bird.
Look at you now! All grown up with a smile;
And without a frown, that ultimately always shines,
As bright as the moon clears the clouds.
Who knew how each of you would grow up;
with your mother and I. (in each smile and frown!)
As you were born
Sitting on your shoulder
we heard a white bird
Which our hearts still hear.
two mourning doves: (haibun)
relationships are being defined in the environment of the nest they live in.
–some in a tree with no leaves that once held dreams.— the true skeleton behind the feathers exposes its heart.
rattling off to a branch, bones tickling each other, they wait for another Love’s morning.
sunlight drying dew
summer’s warmth removes the sheet
pillow soft asleep
We have watched the sunrise
below the mountains and settle behind the sea.
We have ridin’ the wind,
Walked beach sands and bused to Boston.
We have taken pain
To the Joy of understanding.
We have taken each other
Further than any of us have ever gone;
By just being present.
True to ourselves. True to each other.
We have been
As we are; as ever has been.
~Rt. 132 North~ R.K. Garon
“From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw —
I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone –“
“Alone” Edgar Allan Poe
High in a dying butternut tree, above the climbing bittersweet,
a pair of sparrows sat entwined.
Bobbing and pecking, with tail feathers visible,
they pushed and pulled, constructing a nest
from winters fallen twigs and kites’ missing strings.
Both unaware of the advancing wings on seductive winds
gliding in the heat of post-World War II victory;
with bold brown patches and brasso colored flares
flirting shamelessly with all the birds in nesting trees.
Mother: after laying her eggs, suddenly took flight on a south east breeze:
wings spread, open feathers, abandoning history.
Father: in haste, wondering who was first;
found in the chase, with another mate
in a steeple of an abandoned Christian church.
Four hatching, cracked through egg shells
in a nest below a large branch, in a dying butternut tree.
Small insects dropped, in sacrifice, as meals
to their gratefully awakening beaks.
Weeks passed in the aging butternut tree
providing shelter, meals, and summer comfort.
The first hatching, though weak,
fluttered, stretched, and skittered
to stand on quick strengthening feet;
to peek and seek for something he felt, was missing.
Something unable to find, something not complete.
Something to teach him about sky, ground, gravity
and all that scary in-between.
Innocence in the face of dilemma,
all of them eventually perched on the ragged brim.
Taunted by instinct and haunted by uncertainty;
to leave and fly, to land on air, or just plain fall and disappear.
Watching them teetering on the rim,
the brave-born, with a sweeping two wing lurch
pushed them off before him.
Falling! Falling! They fell then dipped into swooping grace.
Wings with instinctive motion, caught them in flight.
Never looking back, they disappeared swiftly
between the pines, the hardwood’s, and the butternut’s plight.
The last sparrow, now with confidence, excited without anxiety,
leaning chest first, feathers outstretched, he jumped too.
Falling much too close to the butternut tree
he became entangled in the vines of the creeping bittersweet.
Tumbling, swirling, crackling, he landed with a broken wing.
Oh mother, oh father, in his screaming,
he spoke not a word. It was only in their hearts
that they heard him fall.
fall vapor catches and thaws the last standing rose;
on dew turning into a frost greeting –
caught in my last breath of summer,
i linger in between that space
understanding the rose —seen
slipping gracefully into winter.
oh, how could i have embraced you?
knowing, i must let you go!
with that said, i sigh a good-bye
with ego and pride;
windy hair and your bright blue eyes.
Romeo, Juliet, and those perfect Bob Dylan lines
that created a pause in time to hear the tide
of changing times.
now, i also must go. but, instead of leading
—i must follow the petals fall.
a peeling self in love,
always blossoms anew in the soul
that never touches the ground
Happy Birthday Abe, Dylan and the rest of you : )
I smell the sweet wind over the dunes
in a warm Maine summer morn.
Papa said it’s fine to dive into the Sea
between breaking waves and sky.
I took his advice.
I surface out of breath, with a smile.
Dusk faded into flickering flashing lights.
Chocolate milk and sparkling stars
captured in growing eyes.
Mama said, “Let them go,
There is no room in the car.”
We left them on the shore of the Sea
closing our eyes
as they were saved in memory;
with sparks of lightening in echoes of light.
It was time to go home.
But, she added “not until dawn”.
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.
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
you pass by noticed,
i nodded with a smile.
and everything disappeared.
not of course,
just an old flame
puffed in a white cloud of history,
dowsed by another sip
of an ice-cold beer.