Pine Cone Diaries
I walk mindful
after an early summer’s rain—
trees drip shaking gently dry
warming my broad New Hampshire path
I am accompanied with a mid-August
morning breeze blowing softly through my hair—
taught— within its secret wreath
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.
The house on Mason Road
is set in the woods with a dirt driveway.
—Mail box leaning
is the only indication of an entranceway.
Both for the snowplows and visitors.
—One, hopefully will miss—
The other, with blinker on
—will turn in
Around the wooded curve to a clearing
where there, sits a house on Mason Road.
King, Princes, and Queen of the peaceful
Open Fire Tribe, harmoniously reside;
surrounded by pines, hardwoods,
— and one apple tree.
Two Princes protect the entrance
With a bold plastic pink flamingo
—ready to pounce
On imaginary villains who mean to do “good” harm!
Prince Popo? First with a plastic hammer; if the shadow has a cast.
Prince Gavyn? Waits for introductions, ducking once or twice
in the invisible clash… eventually both smile with relief
as they are greeted with the sight of bright white teeth,
—giving the signal to continue,
to all walk towards the fire
with hugs and handshakes when possible
—Since most of them have their arms full.
Bringing food, twigs, beer, wine, whiskey, and wood
for an evening’s non-occasion meeting of the Fireside Tribe.
Conversation and laughter overtakes everything
as tradition prescribes,
—they put all things,
other than their ancestors,
And their continued fellowship
Her long royal green stem, twenty feet high
or so it seemed, to the lawn below,
emerged from a patch
–of uncut grass.
With grace, top-heavy, carrying seeds for birth
she bends in all directions to the wind without discretion.
sometimes leaning too close to the ground!
—The ancient breeze
has to straighten her up for the wedding in fall
to disperse her seeds. As long as the wind and the mower
respect her vows of matrimony
That keeps her Mother’s Kingdom
Season after seasons
I listened to the bell ring at sunset
I hear the sound passing each day as death;
Knowing in the ‘morrow it will still ring,
Awakening me with yesterdays debt.
I yield to the monster of this day’s Light
With discipline. With matter. Not with fright!
The high notes settle silence with low notes
To kneel in sound whose vision has no sight.
Ah, but such is my luck! The damn thing rings
Morning, noon, and night. My life inspiring,
Regardless of my nature or my regrets.
They pale to my rise every morning.
Someday I shall be the first to wake it—
Or, bid good evening before sun’s exit.
“Over and over and over you begin.
Drop, fall, falling and fall
In love again— as the seasons pass,
See your hearts reflection
Looking through the window
One elbow on the windowsill.”
You grew from a seed, fallen from an oak. In your fall
You were embraced in the womb of bright-colored fallen leaves
—quilted for the comfort of winter
—made just for you.
It is nature’s well-attended consummation.
Cleansed by snow, baptized in spring rain,
Encouraged by the earth beneath you,
The sun of life above you—
You grew with patience, understanding, and perseverance.
Now, having watched all seeds grow: let me fall again
—in age with roots entwined and with fallen branches
To nourish you, with patience, understanding, and perseverance
—to build your own home in harmony with nature’s beautiful quilt,
As you drop, fall, falling, and then fall in love again
Over and over and over, you begin.
The chief looking down upon the sand
Seeing marble and glass
Wishes me reflection
The fisherman looking above it all
Seeing everything equal
Wishes me balance
The Prophet caught up on a tree
Seeing all trespasses
Wishes me forgiveness
The ring that continues to encircle me
Sees nothing— it is seamless
Wishes me Love.
The bell begs every moment to ring or gong
Wishes me to listen awakened
The level bubble needs no explanation.