My heart is balanced with nothing.
Bags of emptiness, once full of expectations,
finally, have become
light as a feather.
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Tag Archives: Pine Cone Diaries
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
Redemption Dove ~>
Oh mourning dove, sing to me this evening in the last glow of sunset —so clear and so resound in song —with hope for me to remember what was lost, now if sought, could be found. You echo through the forest, on the edge of fields, sidewalks, and across the parks.
I open my window wrapping myself in my sheet and blanket as I sink into my pillow. I close my eyes to hear your song. Falling asleep, I understand your repetitive melodic low-high pitched notes, as I move through age.
I listen to sounds about my life; with its many ups and downs. Finding in your chorus, a gift of an early morning spirit, that has forgotten yesterday —woo, WOO, wooing, into a ‘morrow, without the cloak of fear.
Large black crows in flight
carnivorous in their plight
landing —find new life.
*Please Note: …By virtue of their melancholy call, mourning doves have been fittingly named. Their distinctive “wooo-oo-oo-oo” sounds may evoke a feeling of grief over the loss of a dearly beloved.
But far from representing death, the symbolism of mourning doves gives us optimism with its spirituality. Beyond their sorrowful song is a message of life, hope, renewal and peace.
An Autumn’s Rush
Dripping trees from an autumn rain
shake off summer leaves to cushion my path.
Some circle and drift, falling softly in my hair.
They, accompanying their colors,
bright orange, reds, and yellow-green,
crown me —with a passing season’s wreath.
A northern New Hampshire wind threads steadily through the pines.
I continue to exhale gray smoke from my cigarette.
With your memory, I slide through Franconia Notch a step above slow
—soaking wet, cigarette still lit, chasing a summer’s love
before my path and its pine scent, are covered by snow.
*****
*Originally written in Sept. 2014 with several edits since
Love’s Illusion~ rev:71a
Yes, Love, I was born with the first waxing moon.
Bald, without a thought for a tea’s afternoon;
—we embraced, dancing in every crook and cranny of my mind,
only to find myself as no one, and finding no place there.
~~~~
Oh failing heart, why did you forgo me?
To enter space where I would thirst?
Then, drowned me in a sea of deserts bleached sand.
Perhaps, in the essence of moonlight and sunlight
—I will find You, where their lights both meet, and see
what I have never lost nor have ever found.
Offspring’s
I watched:
Fall leaves flutter and swirl —raised to dance in the arms of a Spring wind;
settling them down at the base of the trees, where they were born.
Father Winter has gone.
I saw:
His summer’s mistress awaken in moist dawn, not giving a damn.
Cuddling her offspring’s with sunshine –she sang them lullabies.
Coloring them with a promising growing up, with their Father’s pride.
photo: R.K. Garon
Full Moon Depression
Sweet seductive depression, she puts you slowly in bed
unable to get up.
She holds you in her grip until your mind cries
—with the empty feeling of a heart abandoned;
she bites you with illusions of guilt
and buries you with all your sins
in her embrace of despair
Edward Munch vampire II 1895
