RSS

Tag Archives: ~The Night Before Breakfast~

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

 

Advertisements
 

Tags: , , , ,

Breakfast Before Their School‘s Mid-Terms

          In the foothills of New Hampshire, on the threshold of the White Mountains, the sun began to warm the valley. The warm spring morning sprayed glistening frost into fog. Another growing up season had passed. The children were getting dressed with some apprehension.

            I looked out the kitchen window and I could smell, feel spring, and see it lightly, loftily, taking its place. The morning greeted me with multiple shadows getting more confident and larger behind cereal bowls and warm buttered coffee cake.

Budding on branches

Spring’s new born generation

Peaks beyond shadow

dVerse~ Haibun Monday: The Shadow Knows 4/3/2017

 
 

Tags: , , , ,

[Many scenes of consciousness with eight characters; One narrator, a Table of six Judges, (three Cyclops, three Angels) and one defendant.]

I Will Have The Last Word

(a scene)

Narrator:

In equal seats at the round table, each with a voice on the scale of justice,

Sat three Cyclops in disguise; wearing sunglass monocle and

Red tinted bald head rubber caps.

On the opposite side, three Angels sat with pleated wings of sea-gull feathers,

Waiting to argue for him but feeling queasy and unable.

Table:

All speaking in unison, “You have only a few words before the ultimate gavel

Echoes you, to a sentence of silence.”

“Do you understand? You only have a few words”,

 Repeated one of them, Under their breath

With a voice of compassion.

Defendant:

Everything that was bad or good,

Smiles and cries, and all those moments in-between,

Became reams of litigation suspended in litter.

 

Bound for this uncomfortable meeting,

 I showed up wearing only a t-shirt,

 Unshaven and a few items in a half empty paper bag.

 

I took my seat on a steel-gray folding chair

Without the cushion of a good history;

Braced with the events that allowed this chance, to convene.

  

Then, they began to strip-mine my life, looking and digging

Into the ground of my relatives, mentioning buried outlaws;

 Ancestors still connected to my bones.

 

All my errors descended into a million pieces of recycled confetti.

They dismissed every excuse to free me.

They found nothing of value, stating, they were unable to release me.

 

They discounted everything I had borrowed,

Insisting on their uselessness when I returned them.

I shouted above my ignorance:

 

“Dance, dance, dance you Cyclops, around my mistakes.

Fuel your caldron with distasteful acknowledgement,

Envy the situation that is not present.

And you! Preen your Angel feathers without dissent

With the oil of penance.”

 

(another scene)

Narrator:

Peering across the table, with silver cups in front of everyone

Except in front of him, he noticed in the center of the table,

A scarred brown plastic tray, sat one tin cup.

He grabbed it, banging the empty cup for their same drink

Insisting for a better portion and perhaps

forget this nightmare and let him go.

Let him go home.

Table:

 “What is it now, that everything is drunk?” Spoke one Angel.

“What is it now that you can savor?” Said one Cyclops,

Sipping his cup, on the opposite side of the table.

They all replied, in a confident anthem:

“We are all of the same dust. We are unbound, released from gravity

Without offense. Unlike you, sitting, fidgeting, now bound guilty

Before judgment.”

 

Defendant:

From this agenda, this torture

 I squealed, I rat-ed out and rolled on my ego.

               Confessing to be, in mind, an accomplice without heart.

 

 I pleaded “mercy” to the table exclaiming, “guilty!”

 

I swooned, I almost fainted. I felt the floor roll beneath me

Like silt in a receding tide.

Standing, grasping what became actually visible.

 

I kicked my chair from the table, sent it flying behind me.

I swept my space clean.

 

 Narrator:

               An empty cup pinged to the floor spilling fear where it belonged.

The echo, stretched, crawling unsuccessfully to find the exit door.

Defendant:

Who am I now, as I try to rise above this table,

Trying to escape the infinite loop that leaves the measure of me to others?

Where swearing and praying becomes a side bar for approval or complaint.

They sit across from each other, saying the same things in redundancy;

Syllable after syllable, arriving at the same conclusion, using different words.

 

(another scene)

Narrator:

He quietly sat down across wingless angels and puffy black-eyed Cyclops.

Humbly took his assigned seat at a long aluminum rectangular table,

In the State, prison dining hall.

He placed his scarred brown plastic tray carrying a milk carton

And his scooped up meal.

Today is his first day; his first spoon towards a year and a day.

(One thousand and ninety-seven left).

Saturday night: he eats folded white bread dipped in beans

Savoring the franks. He will probably eat smelt on Fridays.

 

Defendant:

I see the end recoiling back, hiding in this cosmic dust

Of breath and conscience death, .Each moment for me is mine

Within a circle without chairs of decision or indecision,

Where forgiveness, atonement and contentment has to begin.

“I am not afraid.”

 

Narrator:

Those were his last words

 Before the gavel burst into unconsciousness.

 

 
 

Tags: , , , ,

The Tale of Angelica’s Bull Fight

“Within its small circle one finds life, death, ambition, despair, success, failure, faith, desperation, valor, cowardliness, generosity, and meanness—all condensed into the actions of a single afternoon or even a single moment.”   Conchita Cintrón, (matadora)

She climbed out of bed, shook her head, and stood steady.

Twisting her torso, tipping on her tippy toes,

Selecting her most colorful clothes,

She smiled at the sunlight through wide-open windows.

    Yesterday in school, never expecting her path to be blocked  by a very, very, large un-reeling bull, snorting words in puffs of curses and personal innuendos; of her color, her religion, her weight, her choice of clothes, her friends, and the painful statements of her heritage, mother, father, stepfather, stepbrother, uncles, and aunts.

    The bull pushed her mentally and physically with such ignorance and arrogance of stampeding shame, Angelica relinquished.

Feeling demeaned, gouged, her heart bleeding and sore

By the misunderstanding,

The miss-handling of life that allowed itself to snort,

To spit, to bare its teeth, and then, become completely,

Unbelievably cruel with pain.

    Rushing home, closing the door to her room, her head buried in a tear-dampened pillow, no longer able to cry, she fell asleep. On a small table by her bed, laid a dry red carnation taken down from above her headboard’s framed poster of “Conchita”

In her dreams, sitting in a wicker chair

Between the bed and her clothes, left on the floor,

Appeared Conchita “matadora.” Visibly aching, poked by a mean bull

They called “Chiclanero.”

    From situations to experiences, from the offensive to the pervasive, to mistakes made and recapturing sensibility, their stories and Conchita’s occasional swishing animations of a flowing red muleta, filled the room in the spirit of lifting anger and disappointment in gestures without conciliation, with the tip of her fingers, closing the door, revealing her struggling life, as a perfect Matadora. No, as a perfect matador.

Softly ending into dawn.

Their conversation subsided

In a night filled with excitement and adventure.

Conchita, whispered why they met

And what to forget, in a kiss good-bye;

Saying “what makes bleeding stop is within the strength of gentleness, perseverance and dignity, in one stroke of a kind, brave, and… in an unimaginable act”.

 

[A Historical Note About Conchita Cintrón:

     She intended the final corrida of the 1949 season, in Jaén, Spain, to be the last of her career. She appeared in the ring together with the matadors Manolo Vázquez and Antonio Ordóñez. After performing on horseback with the bull, Cintrón rode to the box of the presidente and asked for permission to dismount for the kill. Permission was denied. This was her signal to leave the arena, and leave the killing of the bull to the novillero assigned to her for that task. Instead, she dismounted, grabbed his sword and muleta, caped the bull and prepared it for the kill. She actually went in for the kill and then dramatically let the sword drop to the sand. The bull charged. Cintrón stepped from his path and simulated the kill by touching his shoulders with her fingers as he rushed by. Pandemonium erupted in the stands and the audience threw hats and red carnations at her feet. ]

 

 

Angelica climbed out of bed, shook her head, and stood steady

Twisting her torso, tipped on her tippy toes,

And smiled at the bright sunlight through wide-open windows.

 She stepped out of her room in her most colorful clothes;

(Dressed with the sword of precision “La Diosa de Oro” left behind.

Rushing to school, that morning, she knew

Her famous day had just begun.

[Rev 14]

 

 
10 Comments

Posted by on February 19, 2017 in bullying, Children, ignorance, New light/New life, Prose Poetry

 

Tags: , , , ,

Show Me How (A Message From Joan of Arc)

 

In my need, why are you talking to me ancestral spirit?

Bringing me to my knees in guilt.

And now? —to graceful humility.

Yes, our resurrection is foreseen

In the light—of all our children’s

Friendships, courtship, and  dreams!

Yes, of course, why? — late we sleep

Sleeping through the night

And not awakened with history’s presence.

—Bringing us constantly to our knees

In guilt, in weakened humility? And now

In our need

Gracefully show us what to do

And show me  how.

***

Note: Thinking about the Churches, and all common belief  or non-belief  religions.                                               I grew up… with Jesuits giving me my early education, the Southern Baptists gave me my enthusiasm, the Roman Catholics gave me discipline, the friends Service Committee gave me peace, and Zen gave me enlightenment… I’m sure that is the same process for all families of their personal Faith and the path they take . I believe, we need to move into some ACTION … it should not be our surprise to submit our “Just” presence into injustice. Whether as a group, or as an individual. All the “me” (meeeez) become us.

 
9 Comments

Posted by on February 4, 2017 in bullying, Existential, ignorance, Love, poems, Spiritual, Zen

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

Immortal Lover

How can the infinite space of the universe capture

And descend into my arms

Another heart with a mind

So unfamiliar to mine?

 

[From where could it fall?]

 

An experience that might as well be from the stars

Blinking, shinning, glittering,

 Far too far from it all.

Yet, sends its notice to me through heart and senses  

Dusting my mind in powdered confection.

 

I thank the morning for logic unimaginable,

Quietly sharing toast with melting honey,

Black coffee and smiles unspeakable.

rev.6

 
13 Comments

Posted by on October 6, 2016 in Love, Poetry

 

Tags: ,

 
%d bloggers like this: