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Tag Archives: New Hampshire

Notes found on the refrigerator…June 18th. 2020 QUAR

QUAR Notes: [Haibun Journal]

R.K Garon

June 18th 2020 QUAR

 

Ode to my Coleus and her best friends:

 

      Oh! Coleus of majestic colors of red, yellow, and green, standing tall among the pansies and petunias.

            The pine New Hampshire mountains, as a back drop, gives the admirer a reflection in the mind. Colorful fantasies even to the blind.

black and white is stark

rainbows from dark clouds bend light

shadows disappear

******

     This time, just before dusk, I’ve noticed, on several occasions, a black butterfly. The only reason I notice it, she flutters around the sunflowers, never touching them, and just as quickly, I notice her whizzing by my ear as she flies away. “Sleep tight” I’ve heard. 

      Now, what the hell is that all about? As I said my prayers.

Chair in the garden

Flowers or vegetables

Space is required

 
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Posted by on July 12, 2020 in Existential, Haibun, Haibun, Haiku, Quarantine QUAR, Zen

 

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The Legend of the Last Tribe at Little Pond (Center Sandwich, NH)

An angel flying closer to land and seeing, from its view, a better direction

for completing their mission —continued with more traveling

for the possibility to land in the space of extinction,

where new growth can sprout.

 

The tribe, now down to only the chiefs, children, and wives,

trudged in complete innocence, as in birth,

towards ZoralinQ. Carrying with them this incredible link.

 

When suddenly, they found on the path, their feet on an edge

holding the link at arm’s length above an abyss.

Questioned among them, received no answers.

 

Nothing new, What possible course?

So, they all decided to grab the existing link

To become the angel landing,

 

for the possibility to land in the space of extinction,

where new growth can sprout.

 

“To this day, I often hear their chant,” an old fisherman says,

“usually in the twilight of a waning moon”.

photo and wood carving R.K. Garon

 
 

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Easter in Center Sandwich NH

Lent 2018

Sound is muffled in lovers ears

With the pounding of their hearts

Racing from all their fears.

 

We hear life’s music in its hustle and shuffle

And become doubtful of the truth.

 

Never deciding on what our hearts are to wear;

or, we should go naked, as we should go, before You

—accepting my knee.

     *****

 

Blossoms are near, as well as the seed catalog.

Winter supplies are low.

We discuses what we liked and what we will not sow.

Of course, not because of taste or preference,

But, what our garden could not grow.

     *****

Spring light*

The mountains are responding

to the spring sun. Awakening the deep valleys below.

Streams are slowly filling from the melted snow,

As we in Center Sandwich NH

Open our windows and open our doors.

 

*Photo by R.K. Garon outside Kathleen’s cottage on Holderness Rd. Center Sandwich, NH

 
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Posted by on March 28, 2018 in Easter, Lent, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual

 

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Cabin Fever Mutterings From Sandwich Notch NH

Spring Will Be Early This Year

 

My young friend in her late 50’s, is experiencing hot flashes.

I, on the other hand, in my 70’s am cold all the time;

often checking to see if I’m dead as sunlight passes.

 

This winter has been a very cold one.

We have to flip to see who controls the thermostat.

Warm, if I’m the winner—an evening well done and that’s that.

 

Loser, I have to wear hand warmers, two sweaters,

a 100% wool lap blanket and a hat.

Or, as previously noted

 

—she sits on the porch,

Oblivious of accelerating spring flowers.

 

Ain’t love grand?

Unable to figure it out

But we always accept

It’s beautiful and mysterious whereabouts.

~~~~

 
19 Comments

Posted by on February 24, 2018 in Getting Old, Humor, Love, New Hampshire, Poetry, Zen

 

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Ice Fishing With Only One Tip Up (An Ode to sweet Pepper Relish)

Emma-Rose Ice fishing

sweet pepper relish

What else could I wish

On a Bob-House-Grilled hamburger.

Buns stuffed in my mouth with a death grip

pulling up my Derby winning fish

drooling only a lil’ bit

 of that darn sweet pepper relish

A ditty for E-R & Red beard : )

 
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Posted by on February 3, 2018 in New Hampshire, Silly stuff

 

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Turn The Light Back On

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

 

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Lulu and Larry [The Legend of ‘Little Pond’]

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:

Note:

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.

 

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A Lady In The Mirror

      It was a great race between Reflection and Essence; running through the mountains and across the lakes of New Hampshire. They crossed the border through Pittsburg into Canada, where only shadows could follow.

       Chasing each other or being chased they finished their race in the old City of Quebec; drifting into a boarding house up one flight of stairs— across from the Château Frontenac. And, there on a rooming house mirror— they caught up.

 

She is the reflection— that is, in essence, what becomes ~A Lady in the mirror~

Reflection’s true Essence? Perhaps what we are like, before we are born.

 

Photo by RKG: Quebec City, Quebec Canada late 1970’s

Written; 10/30/2017

 
 

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The Illumination of Beatrice in the Glass cube

Town Hall meeting in ZoralinQ NH 1864

Moderator has yielded to an open floor:

Young Woman (who taunted Beatrice) rose and walked to the center of the assembly in the Middle aisle:

Thank you Moderator for allowing me to speak on behalf of my acknowledgment— that I will  never be friends with Beatrice nor will anyone else in this settlement.

            Pain in harmony with joy— is in the world we choose. One cannot be without the other. However, the joys of love without the souls acceptance, made Beatrice seem shallow, mired in the misunderstanding that settled in her heart.

            Laugher’s joy was often at her expense; causing confusion— what laughter was, or, for that matter, for her, what it really meant. Beatrice learned to be silent, as everything in her life was her fault, always her accident. Reprimanded, then silenced.

            Assembly, I am not here to fill in all the details I found within her copious notes, but I do want to read for you—  from the small piece of white cardboard that Beatrice wrote. (Looking at the moderator as he nods approval).  I believe she left this behind for me. To help me understand what I had seen, all of us watching her leave—  in a Royal Carriage, fit for a Queen.   

Young Woman holding a white piece of cardboard begins to read:

            “Every evening just after dusk, I prepared myself for bed. Knowing I would sleep, again, in a mysterious space hidden only in my head; unable to be found during the light of day. Not that I was afraid, it had been repetitious for some time. The mounting source of my anxiety was waiting for what I had to accept, when and how it ended.

                                    Sleep would capture me in a glass cube. At first, it would hold me a short time then melt away during my sleep leaving me with pleasant memories, of myself in a glass cube. Each night however, I was held in that glass tube longer and longer until I was released just before daybreak. Each time, as always, I remained silent, though this time I awoke with a gasp.

                                    A few nights ago, the moment I fell to sleep, I found myself already captured, in the floating glass cube. But, this time at the bottom, water was starting to trickle in. I assumed it was a stream of illusion from another dream.

                                   As the night wore on, the water was filling the square of the cube unable to speak or scream I began hitting the glass with my feet and hands trying to break the glass. As the water continued to rise by feet broken and my hands bloody with muscle and flesh showing— I saw a bright light, so blinding I thought it was the light of eternity. I still do not know if I was in the water or above the water when the light began to dim, fading; it illuminated the cube as it shattered, and drained.

                                    I awoke unscathed to an open window with the breeze blowing the curtains, creating a strobe that flashed a soft incoming new day’s sun. I went to my desk and wrote you this note wishing you a better life and a peace sublime”.

~Beatrice~

Young Woman, as she returned to her seat, several other young people stood up, one at a time, each repeating :

           “I believe she left that behind— for ME. To help me understand what I had seen, watching her leave— in a Royal Carriage, fit for a Queen”.           

 
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Posted by on October 22, 2017 in Prose/Short Story, short story, Spiritual, Theater

 

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A Curriers Blind Date In Manchester NH

*****

 I was invited to an Art show that was painted

long before I was born—

Seven decades ago.

 

Its beauty was impressive.

Yet—  I kept walking along

Smiling at each ornate frame, checking my watch,

flirting with my chaperone—  waiting to go home.

 

History with all its beauty and faults

cannot survive without sharing its thoughts

—as they did on my evening’s drive home.

 

Drowsy with perception’s wine,

its indigestible sandwiches 

sprinkled with beauty and awe

unable to personally imagine or to be explained.

 

 I will see her again.

*****

 
20 Comments

Posted by on August 26, 2017 in Companionship, Love, Prose Poetry, Zen

 

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