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Quadrille #38

( write a poem of precisely 44 words, including the word dream.)

Notes found on the refrigerator[8/14/17]

    I was brought up to be a Jesuit Priest, but destined to live the life of a monk. Escaping the nun’s training, because of their aversion to listening to Hank William’s “Your Cheatin’ Heart” playing in the background— I dreamed as the early mystics.

 

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator July 2017

A Melancholy song

Songs are hidden in the words we speak. —sometimes in harmony

with the background hum of those we did not

know or ever meet.

 

 Our melody can sometimes be disheartening

 as well as our belly aching, vomiting

between the screeching cacophonous dominant notes

we may have perceived.

 

My music repetitively keeps playing yesterday’s Rock & Roll songs,

Rhythm & Blues songs, gospel’s black and white songs

—they are all fine—

 

 But, go to the window and lift the shade

and hum them—

 as you look at the sun and the future of rain.

 

Sing off-key if you must —loud and unalarmed.

Sing the songs that are hidden in the conscience that spoke without a word-

putting you in music unharmed.

 

Hum the song for unity in freedom

that has morally and musically given us;

without disrespect to life in the words

or thoughts written in our songs.

Or, what we sing.

*****

The Banjo Player

    I was talking to an old banjo player, pushing a 103 yrs old the other day. I asked him how his band was doing. “Well,” he said, wiping his face with one hand. “It’s over. There were four of us. One is dead, which left three of us unable to play his part and ours at the same time. Besides that, one is as Cuckoo as a broken string. The other young fella, in his late eighties, besides losing his hair has also, seemingly, lost the beat. Towards the end, we realized we were all playing different tunes insisting the other guy was messing up… and looking at each other with the stare of “each of us had better catch-up”. And, what was worst, when we were all on the same song, forgetting the words, we would automatically pick people out in the audience and break out into “Happy Birthday, to You…”.

We still keep in touch…”’

    There was a moment of silence, thinking he was reminiscing when he suddenly blurted out, “Now where was I? Oh ya! That was quite a box of good cigars”, sitting back in his chair with a great big smile.

*****

Oh sea glass greening

Passing through low and high tides

Speckling at my feet

*****

 The path once well-worn

 Through the passing of my youth

Is now overgrown

**** 

 
21 Comments

Posted by on August 12, 2017 in Existential, Experimental, Hi-Koo, Love, Poetry, Prose Poetry, war, Zen

 

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PoPo Teaches Grandpa A Lesson [rev2]

How stupid am I?

Well it starts out like this—

My Grandson, leaving a summer math class
carrying a piece of folded paper

—Followed by his gracious and grinning teacher

I asked, “What is that?”

Pointing to his hand holding the paper,

Hoping it wasn’t a note from the “warden”

Being shot by one of his righteous and never wrong Heroes.

He handed it to me—
It was a bunch of math problems
He needed to solve before tomorrow’s class.

Looking at it with a quick glance,

Spotting the first problem to be solved—

I asked, “What’s 9 times 3?”
Looking at the sky,

As we were going towards the car
Quietly said, “27”

Hmmmm!

Then he turned towards me and asked,
“What’s 9 times 0?”
I said “9”! Quite proudly—

 Both he and his teacher burst out laughing
As she patted my grandson

On the back, saying, “see you tomorrow.”

Opening our car doors, he said,
“Grandpa, you know what ever number times zero
Will always be zero.”

 Driving off

I looked in the rear view mirror
And saw him wearing my baseball cap
Usually left in the back—

He was wearing it backwards
And giving me this shit eatin’ grin.

It was a long ride back

Thinking how smart I really am.

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator June 2017

21st. century compass has no true North.

It circles quickly left— counter clockwise

 then, clockwise right—  endlessly spinning

in no direction

                                    —until you step on it.

                        Then…

                                    with crystal glass chips or plastic pieces

in the soles of your  steps—  they become new footprints.

Without arrows, digital flags, religion, or discrimination;

moving your steps equally forward in moral direction

for all the children

—We have wished for

Or given birth to—

Wishing peace in each movement

—life in progressive harmony.

—Forgiving each other in step

—without history’s cruel march

of forgotten sins.

*****

How dare you say I ran away!

I escaped!

            — Gun fire, violence in the street,

Whispers about how I look or speak.

I am huddled in an alley finding nothing new.

We agreed for something else—  beyond  boundaries

            —Kicking ass and often hitting the ground

covering our face, committed to our personal space.

I went over the wall

and fucked the barbwire

                                    — escaping with the  truth.

***** 

Ladies I would invite you up for champagne and lobster

but, since I can’t get it up anymore—

would you like cheese and crackers?

Oh, you old ladies of lords!

Let me open the door

and light a candle

that excludes us from history books

banishing us from false assumption

enjoying each others company

—eating crackers and cheese.

     *****

When I said— what I said

and then— did something different

It was not false.

I just moved on—

not convinced of that particular truth.

*****

Sooooooooo…

Scolding me at 70 years old,

having burst in my youth with fire,

is about as productive as a wet match.

 *****

Although, I believe in the right of your opinion

and should be shared—

I also believe  you will treat our intelligence

and our ignorance, with the stipulation—

of mutual respect.

*****

Why do you insist on haunting

me with my past?

I have been forgivin’

…and have made retribution

from history into history

as I have clicked my mistakes

Into humanities recycle bin.

****

The sun has set

into memories—

as so have you—

In the morning glow

of love— my  tears of dew

—misting rainbows from my heart

falling to the ground

eventually dries

in full sunrise

in my opening eyes.

Yes, I miss you.

Though I will rise to dance in the morrow’

with the day’s first quest

half-smiling—  after— sleeping alone.

*****

  All I can do, is adjust the jib until you hoist the sail”

                                                            —I said

As she was running calm waters with only the kicker on

                                                            —leaving the bay

Not needing any wind, just a cool facial breeze

                                                            —ignoring everything I say.

 Still—

in  silence, the wind picked up.

We stood nodding to each other, fore and aft, tightening the main sail.

                                                            —we sat together hand splashing water

                                                            leaning— into a beautiful day

*****

Life is not a bowl of cherries

it’s a nutty fruit bowl of reality

—in full color

transcribed from black & white

over dark ripened rectitude

—spoiled by miss-steps, success,

and the feeling

you’re the only cherry in the bowl—

with sprinkled sugar and heavy cream.

Perhaps, as sour or perky as we are

we still spit the pit onto the floor

of destiny—

bowing on or mats,  kneeling in our pews,

and howling at the empty bowl

—of the rising moon.

 

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Metaphor Notes About “Involvement”

Where ever you started or finished,

First or last, the game was won.

It all began when you dressed for them all.

Starting positions? Often left opened.

But, acknowledging there were better players on the team

That you should have passed to, when your ass

Was about to get massive grass stains

For failed fancy footwork and tripped by your own feet,

Flying in the air praying a Holy Mary,

For no broken bones.

*****

               Oh, shit! At 70, I wake up having to remember all this again?

 Start the bus!

*****

               Hey! I am on my way out of here, a shot of Vodka, V8 juice and a note on the chalkboard thanking all the players   

                               That dressed for them all.

 

 
14 Comments

Posted by on May 20, 2017 in New light/New life, prose, thoughts, Zen

 

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Haibun Monday: From the kitchen of poets

Lines/excerpts from: “Family Christmas Songs” combined w/ “New Years Eve at Mill Street ” from the Poetry Vol. Night Before Breakfast, to capture and edit for  this weeks Haibun theme..

ZQ

 

 ~ Baked beans in the pot resting with salt pork, hot dogs browning in a small amount of butter on the stove top, brown bread, peeking’ from wrapped aluminum foil nested by the bean pot steaming, drifting, filling the house with a familiar Saturday night smell. Grandma, the matriarch, while straightening and re-arranging Christmas decorations is shuffled off as the children and their families drop in with hugs and greetings. They shed coats for memories of new years past, recognizing the dining room table and the familiar plates, glass salt and pepper shakers, bread and real butter to toast merriment of a seasons’ joy and the ever-present beginning of a new year.~

All proclaiming it

That true nature within us

Is the prophecy.

 

Note: The Long version “New Years Eve at Mill Street ” w/o the Haiku which belongs to :”Family Christmas Songs”.is linked, if interested.

https://rkgaron.wordpress.com/2013/12/29/new-years-eve-at-mill-street

 

 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator May 2017

Thankful twigs, children of the blight:

Used as kindling from Camelot to Brooklyn, with ancestry in branches of Majestic Elms—

Extinct in the flames of purification they crackled and glowed in memories

Of the beautiful Main streets with bustling thoroughfares.

—when they, in regal tradition, stole the whole show.

Some interesting research digging around on the subject (for whatever, when it popped up in my mind) about the Elm tree… and perhaps I was looking for something about our future? Understanding and approaching it with history’s humility

: https://growinghistory.wordpress.com/2012/02/28/some-history-of-historic-plants/

 

*****

            No matter where I have been, in my heart I have always heard “welcome son!” And, I am as sure as my sisters have heard addressed— personally to them. The question that accompanies such a greeting is; where exactly are we? That we are being received and welcomed? And, of course, how our etiquette suddenly begins and our exit should end.

Rain falls hard on thorns

Roses soon to bloom perk up

Both will co-exist

*****

Whoa, Silver! Here comes the black stallion to welcome the Pinto.

*****

I sit here by the firelight of life, feeling old, tired, and worn out.

I sit proud with a peaceful heart after battles lost and won—

I notice the imprint of my shield, above the fireplace,

Nicked and gashed in gallant memory as history touts.

It has been sold. Two weeks ago. For bread, vegetables, lettuce, meat,

And sprouts.

I am neither happy nor angry

Nor am I hungry.

 

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