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