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