RSS

Tag Archives: ~The Night Before Breakfast~

Easter in Center Sandwich NH

Lent 2018

Sound is muffled in lovers ears

With the pounding of their hearts

Racing from all their fears.

 

We hear life’s music in its hustle and shuffle

And become doubtful of the truth.

 

Never deciding on what our hearts are to wear;

or, we should go naked, as we should go, before You

—accepting my knee.

     *****

 

Blossoms are near, as well as the seed catalog.

Winter supplies are low.

We discuses what we liked and what we will not sow.

Of course, not because of taste or preference,

But, what our garden could not grow.

     *****

Spring light*

The mountains are responding

to the spring sun. Awakening the deep valleys below.

Streams are slowly filling from the melted snow,

As we in Center Sandwich NH

Open our windows and open our doors.

 

*Photo by R.K. Garon outside Kathleen’s cottage on Holderness Rd. Center Sandwich, NH

Advertisements
 
Leave a comment

Posted by on March 28, 2018 in Easter, Lent, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual

 

Tags: , ,

Just Before We Met (A Love Song in Terza Rima Key of C)

Ignoring your past, being born anew,

in replica of lake’s new fallen snow,

 from my heart, I dreamed. Was it untrue?

 

 

Whizzing through the clouds, passing through rain drops

as crystal hail, sputtering and bouncing off my umbrella;

splattering above my shoes, on wet sidewalk.

 

 

How could I have caught you with all my faults?

 I stretched out open palms to break your fall;

stinging hands, melting, absorbed into salt.

 

 

I dropped you. I almost had you in flight.            

I go by the place where you had fallen;

to introduce myself, for that lost night.

 

 

To say that we both come from the same place,

from the same space, just before we met.

 

     Written with clenched hands in spring clouds.

Seeking what I had lost;

 miss-understanding the meaning of love

 —as just a common heart, that is always lost.

 

 

Edit8: This is ,a revision dob 2013 piece …in an attempt to write in “terza rima”, w/ a twist on-line 14 and an epilogue, oops! 😊

 
22 Comments

Posted by on March 10, 2018 in Experimental, ignorance, Life, Love, Poetry, Robert Frost, Zen

 

Tags: , , ,

Releasing Illusions From The Shore

Creation’s sand sifted from our hands—

clutched for a moment by gravity

as it flowed, streaming silently,

to settle —in small scattered piles within us.

 

Thought and mood changes from grain to grain.

Perils and adventures rise and fall—

again and again from one position to the next.

 All things change us—

All pleading for illusions un-hooded truth—

 

 Only a mindful soul in peaceful acceptance

Prepares the meeting room table

for each sunset, for each full moon, for each new sunrise—

Guests are encouraged to speak

with innocence and understanding

as they… the children are;

where they become the sand—

Released from the creation of their hands.

 *****

(In silence, I mourn Creation’s loss, from above…

there is not a child born, that does not —seek our love).

   ~~~~~

From sand to diminishing pottery, my soul pours out the last of life.

It’s existence to non-existence, in remembrance

—of holding its last grain of sand.

 

Tags: , , ,

Annie~

     I never know where you are —In the Alps, Himalayas’, Europe, or in the mountains of New Hampshire? I miss you, your stories, and the personal footnotes of the un-condensed adventures;how you accepted them, good or bad, and passed through them. So quiet and shy in your beautiful observations —yet bold and independent in your actions.

     I hope you are well, happy, and peaceful in India; a beautiful country made more beautiful —welcoming your presence.

Your grace continues

to precede you as lady

pink slippers follow

 
1 Comment

Posted by on January 18, 2018 in Haibun, Haiku, thoughts, Zen

 

Tags: , ,

A Tale of The Weathered Sundial’s Ever-Moving shadow

Years have passed:

 

when we were young, we could tolerate physical pain,

emotional blizzards, and blinding rain.

We sought recognition, fortune, and sometimes illusions fame.

 

We chased stars in glittering summer nights keeping sentry for sunrise,

celebrating each dawn with a brand new name.

We could even cry, winning or losing, without forcing a fight.

 

We could talk, discuss, and compromise.

We recognize the beauty in unsuspected surprise.

We were always able to light a candle in the wind

 Finding our way back home on sad dark nights.

We often laughed at ourselves. Believing that pennies

we flipped, fluttering to the bottom of wishing wells

 

We’d became Peter Pan and Wendy

never growing old. And, totally ignoring Tinkerbell,

we watch our directions flow.

 

Following our hearts and the work of our hands

we traveled roadways, highways, and paths;

where distance seemed far and time immeasurably fast.

 

We floated above concrete, soft tar, and beaches with ankle deep sand.

Even paths that were crooked and twisted in shallow water or on solid land.

We were always on each other’s map!

 

We frolicked in spaces that love only knows

where time, never existed;

along with places, where sadness, was only a short visit.

 

Eventually, I suppose, age and Peter Pan eclipses

those days, when we are young.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is only time now:

 

when we are old. We sit with aches and pain.

Confused, misunderstanding,

we complain.

 

Our clothes begin to slip or are frayed or they just don’t fit;

along with our recognition, fortune, and the reality of expected fame.

We wear sweaters and warm cotton hats on cool summer nights,

 

seeing only darkness as a distant fading light.

We Sleep uneasily on worn, thin but forgiving linen.

We, sometimes, forget ourselves with mixed memories,

stuttering on birthdays, which have evaporated in wishing wells.

 

We try to avoid being stubborn—  guilt ridden for actions mistaken,

poor mathematical intelligence, slips of jealously, pride,

and recognize that we, as we knew, is we that is forgotten.

 

From steel to rust, from rock to gravel,

from coal to diamond

and back to dust.

 

The sound of muted bells tick off the clock, like muffled thunder

under the hoofs of deaths’ mercenaries; some from heaven,

and maybe one or two from hell.

 

We may shed a warm small tear, becoming a prism, to glitter

In the sliver of a waning moon; signaling with joy—

tomorrow’s brand new day,

 

with its bright sun chasing

A weathered Sundial’s ever-moving shadow

 

~The Night Before Breakfast~ Vol. I                                        Another Draft Revision

 

Tags: , , , , ,

The Advent Ghosts

Above urgent toes, pushing small glazed pinecones,

 a late December wind was bristling with snow spitting

at heels in a steady pace crunching frozen pine needles.

 

Owls hoot! Shadows dart! Dead limbs snap!

Moonlight guides them to a glowing rising bend.

Boot soles slide on unseen ice —but, balance is regained.

 

The remaining sun begins to fade from dusk.

Curling nesting squirrels brightly tick eventide;

finding themselves short of distant village lights.

 

Snow, now steadily blowing in a whiteout slant

mellowed the glow from the windows

of the houses, steady burning lamps.

 

The wind tore through their over-coats

threads fluttered and shredded behind them

as they hastened to saved empty seats.

 

In scented moonlight, they caught the smoke

that waffled thru stone chimneys

—they were welcomed arrivals in houses of warmth;

 

they were seated in the glow at table side,

where they lit the center white candle —awaiting Christmastide,

along with the joyful hearts of expectant families.

Google

 
4 Comments

Posted by on December 23, 2017 in Advent, Existential, Love, Poetry, Spiritual

 

Tags: , ,

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

 

Tags: , , , , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: