Tag Archives: Relationship
We have watched the sunrise
below the mountains and settle behind the sea.
We have ridin’ the wind,
Walked beach sands and bused to Boston.
We have taken pain
To the Joy of understanding.
We have taken each other
Further than any of us have ever gone;
By just being present.
True to ourselves. True to each other.
We have been
As we are; as ever has been.
~Rt. 132 North~ R.K. Garon
an experience from the stars. blinking, shinning, glittering,
far too far from it all; sends its notice to me through heart and senses,
dusting my mind in powdered confection.
how can the infinite space of the universe capture and descend into my arms
a heart and mind so unfamiliar to mine?
from where could it fall?
i thank the morning for logic unimaginable;
quietly sharing toast with melting honey,
black coffee and smiles unspeakable.
dawn flirts the tips of bare trees
sunlight fluttering through curtains
through a cracked open window’s —winter breeze
a million moon beams transcend from a prism above crinkled sheets
i lite a cigarette from across the room
watching her smile in morning’s sleep
foot prints crinkled on glass became engraved
with the crack and snap of every step;
for every promise never made, or ever kept.
unable to sit still, push and pull had nothing to yield.
like a new suitcase with old clothes making another roll,
clunking behind me down the stairs.
i am afraid, I have made changes equal to a reupholstered chair.
both, may look different, but, it’s the same old framework
hidden under there.
mistakes in chaos spins from flower to seed,
whether from garden or weed.
all is to be released from the wind of time,
hoping not to drop on stone
or any memory, we leave behind.
ashland, new hampshire—
two in the afternoon
a burger with a thick slice of onion,
mustard on the side
and a cold bottle of beer.
looking out a large pane window,
everything from where I sat
you pass by noticed,
i nodded with a smile.
and everything disappeared.
not of course,
just an old flame
puffed in a white cloud of history,
dowsed by another sip
of an ice-cold beer.
Under slow shrinking shadows of a receding August sun, squatting near a dribbling tidal pool, four children stare attentively to a small snail; as it furrows and squiggles through the sand, racing to meet the outgoing tide. They were sent there to “think”. To work out the “argument” they had among themselves.
They were told to go to the cove; “to seriously think about what each other had said and what they shouted to each other”.
All four, ignoring each other, watched quietly as the small snail furrowed and scrunched up little piles of sand behind it. The trail squiggled slightly left, then slightly right. It was heading towards the trickling edge of an out-going tidal stream.
Like corrected mistakes,
Never straight with their curves and bends;
Listening to instinct, racing the tide, the snail
Made steady headway towards the sea.
The children glanced up occasionally to see what the other was doing. They could see the tide ebbing away in a methodical hush. The sun sinking, shed its soft orange and crimson color glistening on the expanded beach sand.
No one was talkin’. All of them, were still trying to remember what the stupid argument was all about anyway? It wasn’t a fight! Hey! None of us cried! We didn’t tell anybody to shut up! That’s for sure. we just had… an aah, aah, a disagreement!…as their minds ping-ponged in thoughts and rattled on.
With purpose, the snail inched on
Ignoring the circling birds and their potential grip
For an eventual fatal drop to the flats;
Between shallow tidal pools
And, dry jagged rocks.
It was getting cooler. They hardly took their eyes off the steady movement of the snail. Except of course, to sneak a peek; checking on each other. They began inching themselves closer together to keep warm and hoping the others “weren’t still mad at them” for whatever they said, or for whatever they got wrong.
Never dawdling, clinging to its direction
Pushing the sand aside, racing to catch the tide,
The snail forged on.
Tide water was slipping into drying sand with each forward push and receding splash. The children, realizing it was getting late, were looking up at each other more frequently. They could smell supper on the camp grill. They were ready to go back.
Approaching the last rolling ripple of retreating tide
The snail stopped, as if out of breath.
But, only for the moment.
Suddenly, the ocean swelled and peaked into a fast rushing froth, it grabbed and pulled the snail. It slid, tumbled, snapped up in surf and foam, flipped, and swallowed into the bubbling, boiling sea.
All four children, now on their feet watching, caught sight of the snail scooped up in retreating swirling sand and glittering pebbles of a retreating wave. “There!” The children shouted to each other, pointing to a distant crescent wave pulling away from the shore, “There” on the surface, sitting tall, proud and smiling, was the snail. He looked back at them, waved and shouted an exhausted but jubilant, “Tally Ho!”
They simultaneously faced each other, eye to eye. “Huh?” Then, pumping their fists, all exclaimed, “It made it! YES!” Then grabbed each other’s hands with a burst of laughter; apologies were unanimously accepted. They skipped and dragged their feet making their own squiggly trail, left then right along the warm drying beach.
Supper on the grill, chocolate milk, and stories of a “swooshed up snail they ‘FOREVER’ followed,” were animated in the evenings’ bright open fire light of flaming marshmallows, burning, blown out, and squished on chocolate squares between graham crackers and pushed into sticky lips with anticipated delight.
I heard it all slide into the clapping sound of incoming waves announcing the tides transition from low to high. It was bedtime, clean up, and evening prayer. Kissing me on the cheek and with a blessing, they all took their day in stride, sharing in the applause of the snail’s completed race and an encore for the ever-changing tide.
Listening to the tide, as we watched the children disappear into the tent, I on one knee poke the dying fire. Good thoughts were sent to the children; forgetting their disagreement without anger, melancholy, or disappointment. And, a mindful poke from Katie’s marshmallow stick, smiling at each other, as she spread the dimming embers, for a happy jubilant snail.
Draft 12: Pine Cone Diary… Hermit Island, Me.
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.
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
I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat. I haven’t been to one of those since I was single. Now, older as things get ignored, I wait until I run out of socks and underwear. Oh, and tee shirts they’re always along side two or three more.
Two pillow cases in and only one with all folded, coming out. Sometimes, it’s both being carried out when I take the sheets, towels, a couple of dress shirts, and a few blue jeans, at the heel with frayed threads falling out. But today its tee shirts, socks, and underwear; one pillow case, the other carried inside out.
I have been in my robe all week, tee shirts and underwear underneath. Yesterday I was remembering a place with a washer and a dryer. Where it was my turn to do the laundry, a turn I would keep. I would turn on a blaring rock and roll radio station, sorting whites from colors. Sometimes I would inject a little shuffle and dance as I measured softener and twenty-mule team borax, half a cup or more singing out loud almost in a holler.
From gentle to hard-core, as the cycles went. Washing, drying, and folding. Picking up the kitchen in-between the squashing and swirling I would sweep the floor. With things sorted from white, colors and who knows what. I did two maybe even three loads. But, ah, back to my rented room in its ultimate bore.
On my inherited mother’s nicked kitchen table, on a lace doily gathering dust, sits a blue antique bottle and this summer’s dried flowers. I laid my car keys and emptied my pockets making them lighter of contents, putting them on her table.
Two straight-backed chairs next to yesterdays mail, the morning sun struck the table, breaking through the windows hazed of last night’s cigarette smoke, I heard a voice from my past, as my mother spoke, telling me to at least, “keep yourself clean, don’t live precariously, do your laundry, every week, listen to me, please!”
I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat. I haven’t been to one of those since I was single or with my mother as a child; since my divorce.
Photo by RKG