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The Soul of Maurice J. *[A dedication to Paul Lenzi]

*( written 5 yrs ago with another of my family’s  Patriarch’s Passing)

 

 It was three days

And three nights

Before he could rise again.

 

Death invites itself

Long before we receive

Its invitation.

 

The Soul with grace

And poise

Accepts the moment.

 

Who then is preoccupied

With judgement

Of this one;

 

Of this mist

That is dried by the sun

And returns as the pond?

 

The passage

Is insignificant

If balance has been achieved.

 

Only the witnesses

Are important

As another soul is freed.

 

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17 Comments

Posted by on July 14, 2018 in Existential, Friendship, Life, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Mindless Scribbling

 

My heart is balanced with nothing.

Bags of emptiness, once full of expectations,

finally, have become

light as a feather.

 
15 Comments

Posted by on July 8, 2018 in Beginnings, ignorance, New light/New life, Poetry, Zen

 

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The Legend of the Last Tribe at Little Pond (Center Sandwich, NH)

An angel flying closer to land and seeing, from its view, a better direction

for completing their mission —continued with more traveling

for the possibility to land in the space of extinction,

where new growth can sprout.

 

The tribe, now down to only the chiefs, children, and wives,

trudged in complete innocence, as in birth,

towards ZoralinQ. Carrying with them this incredible link.

 

When suddenly, they found on the path, their feet on an edge

holding the link at arm’s length above an abyss.

Questioned among them, received no answers.

 

Nothing new, What possible course?

So, they all decided to grab the existing link

To become the angel landing,

 

for the possibility to land in the space of extinction,

where new growth can sprout.

 

“To this day, I often hear their chant,” an old fisherman says,

“usually in the twilight of a waning moon”.

photo and wood carving R.K. Garon

 
 

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Notes Found On The Refrigerator June, 2018

~Five Short Haibun(s)~

   

   1.

     She swam naked with her friends; I sat on the shore haunted by “Original Sin”. I watched fully dressed, as summer would allow, watching her swim.

Eve in confidence

allowed spring to leave and bow

to summer solstice

 ***

2.

     I’m following a long lineage of incompetency that has gotten lucky at times. But, most times, mistakes were flown over my head and wondered, “what the heck was that?’ Then, those lucky times, what I wanted to do, seem completed, with what I did.

sit dandelion

the mower has yet to come

enjoy the green grass

 ***

Dandelion comp

        

 

 ***

3.

(Last Night’s Lover)

     She deferred her last glass of wine to what she felt, before passing out in a warm summer evening sleep.

     Awaking before sunrise, she looked and found the keys to her car that she had illegally parked on the curb, between two maple trees.

     Leaving her underwear between the sheets and without a parking ticket, she smiled as her tires chirped with a happy squeal and went south for the winter.

spring rain on lush greens

drips on dandelion weeds

loving what it feels

***

4.

      Who puts a half piece of toast with jelly and peanut butter in the frig at midnight, after eating the first half ten minutes before?

 

lightning bug shines

in the dark of yesterday’s

story still untold

 ***

5.

     So, you told me that life never ends. yet… you want me to sign a contract in blood, with my soul; nailed to a post of my past —as you fiddled with us in Rome and roasted us silently in hell.

     You promised us redemption and angels as brides! And they, would receive us into life ever after. But, what are you doing for us now? Without anger or flood to keep our heads above the waters.

what season is light

when darkness seems to prevail

in hearts without love

*photo by R.K.Garon in his cave and his "barn".
A Special Thanks to Björn Rudberg for introducing me to Haibun and Bashō.
 
22 Comments

Posted by on June 23, 2018 in Haibun, Haiku, Love, New Hampshire, Spiritual, Zen

 

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Let us Pray

     Sir/Madam do not interpret with your own mind, the words of Divinity; having to explain what is held In the temple of my Soul.

     You only speak as the sinner you are. Now then, let us pray.

Without umbrella

Scent aromatic in clouds

Spring rain wakes summer.

 

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The Ghost of Alonzo

     After a late Easter Vigil Mass; Alonzo and I crept and crawled under the beds of sleeping friends in the “Big Boys” dormitory at the Orphanage. Sister St. Jean was in her rocking chair sound asleep. Hearing her snore, was our cue to slip out of our beds, stuff the pillows under the blankets to make it look, from a distance, we were still asleep.

     Shushing each other with a finger over our lips we doubled checked Sister St. Jean, to see if she was still there, in the creaking rocking chair. She was assigned every other Friday night to guard the dormitory room. We knew, as usual on that night, that she would be out like a light before the first shine of the moon. We had her in our first class that morning, when the first bell rang.

     Waiting for her infamous rhythmic bass sound, and the silence of the chair on opposite sides of the well-lit hallway, divided by the Holy snore, in its silence, we met. Pointing at the doubled doors, which were opened for the warm spring air and the moon that was brightly illuminating the escaping concrete stairs.

    We tiptoed down, hanging on to each other’s hands and the other on the rails. Then we ran independently through wet grass with our heels sticking slightly into the mud of the warm spring garden before we climbed the fence between the two brick walls. I chipped my tooth as I fell on the other side. Alonzo picked me up, shook my hand and never saying good-bye, continued to run past me as he was waving one arm.

     Looking around, finding myself outside, I walked the long block around the orphanage at least twenty or thirty times. Circling many times, I was getting to know my way better each time. Eventually I understood and had to resign, that I had no place to go, now. And the sun was beginning to rise after my adventure that began after sundown. I knocked on the front door where I once entered several years ago, to go back, again inside. As I went in, walking back to the dormitory, I could hear the corridors murmur, “he has found away to leave here”.

They will serve my meal

I have found the heart of thorns

                                     may I find the way.

**

Stood the Archangel

with the serpent under foot

                                          handing me her sword.

 
16 Comments

Posted by on June 2, 2018 in Existential, Haibun, Prose/Short Story, religion, Zen

 

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Notes found on the refrigerator April & May 2018

       It happened one day, when I discover humility: from the beginning, to its beginning, when I was unable to peel an orange, bake bread— or, crack an egg… before I made my breakfast, drank my coffee and settled for cold cereal.

      I still get up for one more day’s length —from my inviting bed, and make  my many visits to my children and grandchildren; catching up with things I never heard, though has been repeated several times.  Any way, I usually, on my way out,  steal from large pottery bowls, an apple or an orange, sometimes cashews left on the counter tucked in-between in a smaller bowl.

     Waving a right handed good-bye and a thankful smile, I drive through Center Sandwich village, before sunset and well before the June’s moon  will rise.

     I get home, make a late supper, take in another amazing day; then I go to bed smiling with my beads in grateful prayer.

Presence is not known

Until it reveals itself

In true existence

******

Entertainment:

The greatest movie in the evening, I go and watch, when I become bored with myself and have no desire to make a meal or take a walk or even to pop popcorn and turn on the TV —I look out my window.

      I watch the leaves dancing on branches making songs from the wind; so I rise and go outside and join in on the chorus as a movie extra, in the production of the “H.M.S. Pinafore”.

Mystics from the past

carry you through the seasons

—you met once before.

**********

Stubbornness:

On Monday morning, he opened his door, ole slim Lewis just raised his price, at the corner store. Raisin’ the price of flour from 5 cents to 15 cents a pound, no less no more.

I can still hear mama sayin’, “I’d just as soon pick a handful of dandelions and trade them evenly for a pound of pork rinds than give him —the extra dime”.

Eatin’ potatoes,

without honey glazed biscuits,

               fried in pork fat rinds.

 **********

Acceptance:

He feels the strength of  her independence,

when she stepped forward —naked with strangers in a local stream;

far from her parents and her lover sitting, with tee-shirt

and dry swimming trunks, life guard symbol on his seam. He is wondering

whether to sit, or, to hold up her abandoned towel —to stand

up, to greet her, with a smile and without giving her any shit, holding out

both his hands.

Yo’ Bro’ wass’ happinin’?

Looks like love has seen a ghost,

Groovin’ and strollin’. 😊

  • Finally:

Memorial Day 2018

The threat of death whether on the street, or, worse yet,

being an actor in the theater of war. Death, is ever-present

in all of them; from desk, teaching, jungle, or sand.

Whether killed, captured, or not;

is this fear, whether dismissed in discipline, forgot.

It is because of them, under constant threat,

you can sleep tight, and won’t let the bed bugs bite.

 

R.I.P …mon père, mes oncles pendant la deuxième guerre mondiale et mon frère cadet, le Vietnam.

Je vous remercie.

Richard.

 

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