hallway lament

overheard hallway lament:
"ain't bin no fights...I wanna see a fight"

ha

they'd been in the wrong hall
missed the big lumbering guy
tossing dumb looping
shoulder smacking haymakers
little fella quick ducking
and dishing out feisty jabs

yeah

everybody is looking for fights
'til the blood is a hot stream
a steady rivulet
misting with every breath

later - they just desire
busted knuckle ice.

scattered bits n'fragments

i)

tired
deep temple dog tired
tired of wars
...words
n' wars on words

tired of fighting
pushing on the last few
fading monks
to move
just move

ii)

coffee pot
bottom burned black
       needs scrubbing
morning of wet monk
sleeves

iii)

energy drink cans
scattered up the ditches
or squashed flat
and paved over
in the pre-frost rush

iii)

this violin
is a fiddle in these hands
sawing  - mingling
with Americana chords
lifting n'healing
yer broken heart


 -  Tired Monk notebook poems

fall

autumn angled sun beams
cutting through tinted leaves
warm orange light

temple dog runs up the slough
disappears down in the ditch
slicking low in the mud
following a scent

reach down...feeling around
under the step stash
sweet bourbon
wards off the fall air

a glimpse

a light year
glimpse of Orion
tucked inside
a sweep of morning clouds
and swaying white pine boughs

street prayer fragment

these streets are full of
anti-heroes
rich only in stories

may these streets fill
with good salty saints

observations while walking the temple dog

i)

heats breaking
...soon
one more steam-room day
then a whip of cold
north airs settles in

ii)

more fireflies
than fires these nights
vacant campfire rings

iii)

dusk bat flits above
cleaning up
end of summer mosquitoes

a carpenter

old temple deck
imploding with wet rot
sledge banged down
the rest of the way

heavy gravel
stepping stone lifting

old barn boards rise again
overfilled black earth
flower beds bloom

robe cinched up
covered in sawdust motes
mouth full of galvanized steel

rough carpenter monk
building as art

yer a monk

swear angry
fuming
kick cursing

...yeah losing it

"why you mad
  yer a monk"

spinning ice cubes
around this whiskey glass
chasing a tasty IPA

"you drink?
  but yer a monk"

neglected duties
procrastinated prayers
temple dog naps

"thought you were a monk?"

yes - a tired monk

guitar case songs

those songs
battered up sheets
simple lyrics
chord progression goodness
left loose - ready
tucked under my guitar
the good ones
the bangers
strummed out big and loud

a temple dog poem

24 hour news cycling dread
spiced up hot
with twitter spitting spite

unplugged
  unfollowing
wandering forest trails
with the temple dogs
before the summer heat

Compact Discs

used to dial into talk radio
seeking voices
on this cross-country haul

now it's just hi-fidelity
sun-visor tunes
bags of beat-up
garage sale cds
ready to sing again

remnant forest poem

still a forest remnant
a deeper trail
past the newly dug swail

a few last white pines cling
hemmed in tight
by million dollar
cul de sacs dreams

I sit
let the temple dog
explore twisted old roots
and fresh rodent holes

away from top forty ear hits
24 hour news feed buzz
and wicked twitter wars
yes a forest respite still

long weekend

long weekend work
pulling out rotten deck beams
robe thick covered
in swirling sawdust motes

nail creaking crowbar sounds
pounding sledge hammer bangs
axe thunk plunging into wet rot

goldfinch sings sweet
in thick pine boughs

a ditch

a remnant - a ditch
draining an old swamp
behind new million dollar homes

night foxes wander up the sides
kids build walk the plank 2x4 bridges
couple kinds of frogs
brown toads, and maybe a salamander
tucked down in the rocks and mud

gathering

monks wander in
from varied paths
offering
brother brewed beer
fresh Soju
a guitar to pass
around crackling night fire
songs lift
push out through
the hemlock boughs

scarf

"yer a poet. you oughta wear a scarf."


nah
I oughta wear gritty knees
guitar string calloused fingertips
healing high stick scar
sweat stained ballcaps
a quick smile
and deep monk robes

modern monks

hands swishing
through rosary smart phone beads
head bowed low
moving through city crowds
eyes unseen
hidden hoodie deep

one wandering mass
of modern monks

the source

guitar raised up
nearly vertical
fingers moving
banging out big
full booming chords
dashes of  quick flurry notes

eyes closed
feet pounding
 down
on wooden board floors
singing unknown lyrics

thinking...what am I doing?
no calculated nomenclature
of this soul song

close to the source
skirting the secret:

we are not what we talk
we are what we sing.


the tired monk

loud silence

feeling it moving
swirling prophetic dreams
a spirit
a song
a chest full of loud silence
rippling electric power
whispering over my heart

strength

huge chunks of hard frozen driveway ice
heaved high up over snowy banks
sectional couches moved
for a spring clean sweep
rocks pulled up from the ground
then rolled away

the novices call it "old man strength"
funny mix of awe and mockery

monk strength my friends
monk strength

mm

picking in so tight
then back out into big
open hammering chords
sliding around
working the neck
looking for that sound
the one that pulls you in deep
eyes close - head bobs
left foot beats out the bass beats

really don't know what it is
hazy on the musical nomenclature
just know we are working in millimetres

forest death

quaking aspens fall quick
free of friction
in too quick succession
sudden sonic shaking
rattling the temple walls

white pine falls slow
endless needles grasping air
thick branches clinging
to neighbour trees
fighting this final
earthbound plummet

serve

tears come easily
in this overwhelming
world of broken brokenness

deeply tempted to role away
from the pre-dawn
dim clock-radio light
murmur of morning news
slip back into silly dreams

gird up my ragged monk robes
brew strong black coffee
double up the sugar ... a rare treat

braced ready to serve

remedy

bitter winter cough
fading
finally loosened
by Jameson drams
and sweet honey tea

tasty remedy route
back to my prayers


the tired monk

silence

the hall empties out
a final door bang
swirling papers

the tired monk sits
waits
reads a few more lines
by the dimmed night lights

closes his books
waits
dwells in the rare
deep silence

cold poem redux

harsh hammering rooftop sleat
low snow truck rumbles

the tired monk wanders
the night temple halls
tightens the windows
stokes the dying heath fire

waits it out
sipping warm sweet tea

acrued wisdom

slap sting face cold
doubled by
sweeping open space winds

a most cold cold duty
chip and dig out the path
these hardening white dunes

first...
slips in to woodstove warmed boots,
doubled layered robes and
thick Seahawks toque covering
this bald monk head

the work

beating a broken path

digging down

into solstice snow

the forest pond

flooded flat 

with well pumped water

discarded kitchen buckets

and broken boards

become the net

cold monk tends the goal

twisted stick in hand

robes whirling for a save

doing the work

Brother Ollie

the tired monk