Tales from the Bong

Mindfulness Begins at Home

One toke…and, another one set and ready to go.  Mid exhale!  A knock to the off the hinge trailer door.

“Who is it?”imageedit_3_7733415927

No answer arrived.  Just a chill reminding me of my father’s work-boots climbing cement steps.

In between a puff, a gag and all consuming red eyes…

Mindfulness ambled in wearing rainbow pride.

He asked if I had stopped by the free pile?  You know the one.  The one at the town dump.  He told me…a fortune of awareness sat there.  Sat there in a floral, funeral urn.  He seemed to think carrying the ‘awareness’ jug on this day, was my turn.

Confused and disoriented and slightly stoned…

I stuttered, “Leaving yesterday morning with icicles hanging from the short hairs…  I had been given the message from the Goddess…you must go.”

So, I went to the old beater, duct taped the hood, hopped in, stepped into a pile of snow.  Just a little hiccup with the broken windows and the direction of the wind that blows.

Mr. Mindfulness appeared quite bewildered.  Scratching his dread lock wig…I could see he saw me as, half baked.

“Look”, I said.imageedit__5544031091

“Its like this.  I got to Easy street and Pay It Forward square.  I don’t remember ever seeing a four way stop there.  ‘Truckin’ came on the FM.  You know the verse:”

Most of the cats that you meet on the streets speak of true love,
Most of the time they’re sittin’ and cryin’ at home.
One of these days they know they better get goin’
Out of the door and down on the streets all alone.

Enjoying the windchill of 30 below.  Admiring the workings of signs and what they mean to say.

I turned straight around.  Chanting ‘be thoughtful of others and try to always be kind.’  And, then I thought…just for today; I’m going back for another toke.  And, today I would be mindful of my mind.

 

Once a Deadhead…Always a Deadhead

Grateful_Dead_28197029
In the attics of my life, full of cloudy dreams unreal.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.I have spent my life seeking all that’s still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there was no strings to play, you played to me.In the book of love’s own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.
_Jerry Garcia
Deadhead: are the large group of devoted fans of the Grateful Dead. Mainly Hippies the Deadheads have created a counterculture that exists at any Grateful Dead or Dead.  Many Deadheads recreation-ally use marijuana and LSD especially during the concerts though this is not the case for all Deadheads. Many types of people are Deadheads, even some politicians such as Bill Clinton have called themselves Deadheads. Deadheads generally don tie-dyed clothes, the trade mark Birkenstock sandals, and many have dreadlocks. They are laid-back and fun-loving, as well as non-judging and accepting of all types of people.

American Beauty

Fear no messenger!

Behold the skew with a charm.

A lattice for her mystique.

Infinitely quotable…never disputable.

Only an American Beauty when holding my poor grammar in her hands.

Within seconds she can embellish my pride by provoking a grand stand.

All too often I am composed of complacency to daily duties.

Still, as mystics do, what they do!

My American Beauty can see directly through.

Ceaselessly, I am a pitiful calamity Jane misinterpreting her chores.

I am the forgotten item at a grocery store.

I am a slapstick Jester in the courtship of an American Beauty.

She is a visionary who can see right through me.

but still 4
If I had a star to give, I’d give it to you
Long as you live, would you have the time
To watch it shine, watch it shine
Or ask for the moon and heaven too? ##Jerry Garcia

Between a Poem and a Reflection

I brought my misery and discomfort down to the water.

Washing the pain.

As if it were both sane and insane.

Rolling it over.

Caressing all sides.

A loose hallucinogenic thought from my…forever tousled head.

Death, be not a, pebble or diamond…

That is mulled over in the rough.

Neither fractured.

Or, whole.

No matter, how minuscule.

Just a stone in Mother Nature’s fold.

A pyre to the edges of nowhere…

Ashes to dust.

Glacier to granite to simple coal.

Sweet and salty remembrances.

Shattered and whole.

Such meditative collections of, loss and death.

Infinitely too much for my human intake.

Thus, with precious stone, in hand.

I gave a toss to roving waters.

A physical attempt to disperse the grief.

And, with a shy landing,

ripples ensued.

Setting into motion…

Life as it collides.

With both the light and the dark, sides.

dedicated to Janice Bowley – 10/1940 – 5/2017

There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night.

Ripple/ the Grateful Dead

the Great Conceal-er, the Great Confessor

Sometimes, I ran so fast; My place in time, became lost.  Stone walls, broken ten speeds and placebo drugs.  Inhibitions that covered the truth of emotional abuse by the adoption of booze, blotter and smoke.

Though, the city-scape had always been, an abandoned countryside.  My skyscrapers, as a child, were pines, years and centuries, in the making.

To date, I can hear the footfalls, the gravel traffic jams, the sandy over washed roadways…that came raining down in sound.  Sounds of silence so loud;

Lulls from the yells became thunderous.

Music has forever been the great conceal-er of pain.  The great confessor of someone else’s crimes…Crimes of ill placed, angry, fist clenched passion.

 

‘We need music.  Not sure why!  Just as we need, ceremony.  Mirth, passion, rebirth, death…a manner in which to box the rain.’     RandomwordbyRuth

Box of Rain

Look out of any window
Any morning, any evening, any day
Maybe the sun is shining
Birds are winging or
Rain is falling from a heavy sky,
What do you want me to do,
To do for you to see you through?
For this is all a dream we dreamed
One afternoon long ago
Walk out of any doorway
Feel your way, feel your way
Like the day before
Maybe you’ll find direction
Around some corner
Where it’s been waiting to meet you,
What do you want me to do,
To watch for you while you’re sleeping?
Well please don’t be surprised
When you find me dreaming too

Look into any eyes
You find by you, you can see
Clear through to another day
Maybe been seen before
Through other eyes on other days
While going home,
What do you want me to do,
To do for you to see you through?
It’s all a dream we dreamed
One afternoon long ago

Walk into splintered sunlight
Inch your way through dead dreams
To another land
Maybe you’re tired and broken
Your tongue is twisted
With words half spoken
And thoughts unclear
What do you want me to do
To do for you to see you through
A box of rain will ease the pain
And love will see you through

Just a box of rain,
Wind and water,
Believe it if you need it,
If you don’t just pass it on
Sun and shower,
Wind and rain,
In and out the window
Like a moth before a flame

And it’s just a box of rain
I don’t know who put it there
Believe it if you need it
Or leave it if you dare
And it’s just a box of rain
Or a ribbon for your hair
Such a long long time to be gone
And a short time to be there