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Tag Archives: New Hampshire

Dump Days— Wednesday and Saturday New Hampton, NH 03256

People, who have a lot of things
use them, and have a lot of things still left over.

People, who, have a few things,
use them, and have no left over’s.

People, who have no things, who seek many things,
end up using only a few things, and, have nothing left over.

All, who have things,
become one thing.

My things, became empty from use,
They were dug from the earth, and made in a factory
through creation, imagination and mistakes.
Useless now, worn, exchanged, or sat on a flea market table where even gypsies refused to take
are now ready to be disposed of—
on this pleasant day, at the New Hampton dump,
at 12:15 P M. on a bright and sunny Saturday.

 
21 Comments

Posted by on July 23, 2017 in New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries, prose, Zen

 

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Holderness Rd. Center Sandwich, NH

    I looked out my window this morning slowly moving towards the door… smiling, I saw the first snowfall lightly covering the back yard and exposing at its edge, new white paths into an open woods.

     (It was usual autumn foliage, sensuous in its finale. Out doing summers delightful green crescendo. Very colorful introductory and passing of those two seasons can never negate spring’s promising return with greater lovers that give them birth and death. They still, however, tease her about her promiscuity).

I was delighted to see, winter keeping his engagement.

    Kitchen is brewing, filling the room with the aroma of bold roast coffee. I can hear the kicking off of boots… the stocking pitter-patter of feet, of the artist, above me; carrying wood from the woodshed’s wheelbarrow, and scratching and scraping, stoking the cooling wood stove.

Our winter season has begun.

Seasonal borders

Between sun and snow falling

The line is lovely

 
28 Comments

Posted by on December 10, 2016 in Haibun, Haiku, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, prose, Zen

 

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Seasonal Thoughts From Center Sandwich, New Hampshire

 In late  autumn, in-between the mountains, a sinking sun

glows bright orange. Silhouetted on ridges above the valleys —

pines, leafless maples, stark  bare oak trees.

 

I notice a single leaf wobbling

on a low birch branch near me.

I presumed, waiting on the winter wind

for her  invitation to an early frost

and a late autumn’s— evening’s fling—

 

I remember

encircling wooden posts with rusting wire fences

for a dance floor, dancing my first  winter waltz

with the chill wind, red cheeks blushing warm—

 

–Snow glistening across the meadow

Pushed through the White Mountains—

Enjoying delightful winter flakes on my tongue.

 

 

Kicking snow into white clouds announcing

my next boot’s intention 

— lest’ I slip.

 

Twirling in traditional steps of solid granite stature.

Dipping, stomping, sliding, gabbing a handful of snow

kissed, licked, and eaten cold.

 

we would play and dance to a robust measure of silent music;

then, with symphonic pause  –time for another last thought—

I would be  pushed home

 whistled in snowflake crescendo,

pulling up my collar,

 and tightening my wool hat

towards drifting wood stove smoke

and supper on the kitchen table

with a cup of hot chocolate that was perfectly warm.

 

Thoughts – as I watched,

late autumn sun setting on

my New Hampshire home.

 

I went inside with an arm full of wood.

Smiling at the leaf’s anticipation

For her first fling— as mine was

in a late autumn childhood.

 
17 Comments

Posted by on November 13, 2016 in Love, New Hampshire, Pine Cone Diaries, Prose Poetry

 

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Waking Up A Writer’s Cramp

You:

Sweet writers! exclaimed! Or, un-exclaimed!

Let your dreams float without utterance

Or sound—  above the waterfall’s rainbow of your brain

And it’s frothy, delightful misty vocabulary—

words waiting, hovering  beyond intelligence,

to be spelled.

Soul’s wind, embraces them , often to dispel

them Into wispy clouds—

As they carry the words only you can share,

in treasured remembrance

   ****

Me:

In sleep, recognizing crashing waters

Seeing a person in a barrel who dared to land there,

at the bottom

 splintered and torn

For only a dime

Will cost me to be awakened—

I awakened, and paid the price—

with lead pencil in hand

To scribbled away; “I’m OK! Yup! I am OK.

There will always be a place to start.

Beginnings, never end”.

Us:

And so, remembering,

Why we start—

And why, we will never finish.

ZQ writing

 

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White Mountain Forest

In the reflection of sunrise light,

Tipping blades of grass with tiny crystal prisms,

Clinging dewdrops

Glitter all the colors of life—

I catch my shadow in stride, until each is one.

Both! (My shadow and I) Each, both in transition

Until we find the secret peace of the forest—

I am an early morning guest

Waking, yawning, knowing

How I will be received;

With scent of pines and wild blueberry dreams—

I will see you soon, my old friend.

 

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the Governor of Lake Land And the Duchess of Wales ( The Wedding of the Elves) rev.14

The Procession:

 “In order to get in you have to get out; in order to get out, you have to get in”,

chanted the chorus of fireflies swooping through a darkening sky

dressed as ceremonial monks, seeking each other by light.

 I am moss grown on the North side of this Oak,

 leaning with invitation, towards that sound and sight.

Released from the shadow into the glow of life

we both shall rise.

 So as this tree, so as will I.

The ceremony:

Introduced into yellow candle light, visible in the glow,

Embracing the heat, they skip through the orange of a burning wick.

Flickering light in rhythm with the flame, making shadows that mirror each other

In the magical reflection of make-believe and melting lollies.

 

The bride and groom burned the floor they danced on.

Softening the wax into a glistening pool of history;

Consuming each other into a golden ring.

 

Darkness fell in the clearing.

The bride and groom completely embraced,

Each struck a match

Having gone beyond chance and cinders,

In the glow of their “now-forever” dance.

The Celebration:

 

Early spring rain drifting, shifting,

Collecting before sunrise,

Melts winter on a window’s darkened pane.

Gray clouds, low to the ground,

Shrouds a New Hampshire’s wood stove smoke,

Exhaling its last chord in crackling sound.

 

Approaching southern winds

And warm fireside thoughts embrace the Governor of Lake Land

And the Duchess of Wales.

Cradling a magical elf in a blanket of down,

A waking new-born with smiling eyes

Is gently moved from arms to arms.

 

They relight the candle;

Invite the monks (the fireflies),

And the moss, earlier described.

 

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A Different Child

The Birch, leaning between poplars, oaks, maples, and pines;

In clouded moon, rising without shine,

Bows the parent, in winter’s heavy fallen snow.

 

Winged mother’s samara seeds, “Helicopters” twirling

Shorn in flight, sent with a hundred and one spins

In falls’ October wind, falls in completion.

 

A birch is born.

 

Dark and silver, purity in light of night,

With bark that glows between doubt, of left or right,

Feeling lost on my path in winter’s moonless dome,

 

Last winter’s child,

Tall and slightly bending, guided me

Brightly home.

 

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