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Notes found on the refrigerator…June 8th. & 9th. 2020

June 8th. 2020

     Skirmishes about; passed the villages below. A light mist of rain may calm the senses down. Releasing all opinions and doubt.

     We are all part of Nature. Plants on window sills, rooftops, or in the garden, seek no help; except for the generosity of their loved ones.

There are skirmishes about

the villages below;

they are casting idols of gold.

June 9th. 2020

oh my!

     i stopped at the village store and figured i would buy some scratch tickets. my luck lately has had its ups and downs.

     i bought three, three- dollar tickets, asking the clerk to pick only winners. please. She said “they are all winners until you scratch them”.

     i couldn’t smile at her, behind my cloth mask, so I winked. 😊

love is nature deep

sand dollar hidden on beach

an itch is scratched

 
2 Comments

Posted by on June 9, 2020 in Existential, Haibun Poetry, Nature, Zen

 

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Love: as ever has been

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

 
1 Comment

Posted by on May 24, 2020 in Beginnings, Love, Poetry, Zen

 

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black coffee lover

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.

 
13 Comments

Posted by on February 20, 2020 in Existential, Love, Outlaw, Poetry, Theater, Zen

 

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she is a lovely valentine’s morning

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

 

rev: 2/15/2020/RKG

 
3 Comments

Posted by on February 15, 2020 in Companionship, Love, Poetry, Zen

 

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clunking down the stairs [youth’s uncommitted changes]

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.

 
16 Comments

Posted by on January 25, 2020 in Beginnings, Existential, Poetry, Zen

 

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A Reality Sandwich and An Ice Cold Existential Beer

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

looked fine.

you pass by noticed,

i nodded with a smile.

 

and you

quickly

looked away

and everything disappeared.

 

no,

not of course,

my sandwich.

 

just an old flame

puffed in a white cloud of history,

dowsed by another sip

of an ice-cold beer.

 

Rev:2013/2019  Vol. II ~ Love: Hot Water, Crackers, & Ketchup  Soup~

 

 

 
16 Comments

Posted by on March 30, 2019 in Existential, Love, New Hampshire, Poetry, Zen

 

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Ever-Changing Tide

       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.

 

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Cabin Fever Mutterings From Sandwich Notch NH

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.

~~~~

 
19 Comments

Posted by on February 24, 2018 in Getting Old, Humor, Love, New Hampshire, Poetry, Zen

 

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Turn The Light Back On

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

 

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A November Divorce

 

     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

 
4 Comments

Posted by on November 11, 2017 in Divorced, Getting Old, Love, New Hampshire, Prose Poetry, short story, Zen

 

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