owed hours

minutes stop ticking
in hazy mid-night - early early morning
wanderings

owed hours
in this growing sleep debt

paid in full
by the baby monk
follow his lead
into glorious afternoon nap

black socks

black socks
never white

slowly, attached
buttoned up garter belt tight

quick check:
visual - symmetry is key
and knee bending comfort

next tape
on the stripes
or big game cross-over

laces snapped tight
ready to hit the ice

Monks Make It

wind cold
lake effect snow
layering in deep

the old Benedictine Monk
and the Tired Monk
sit quiet and warm
around a well
banked fire
snifters full of B&B

temple dogs slumber

some come by
see the sitting
see the drinking
raise eyebrows
shake heads in
disdain

The tired monk raises his glass
fire light through amber
winks and says:

"Monks make it."

a tired monk moment

cranky
on this cusp of Christmas
pot rattling, grinding, brewing

the tired monk
ponders a new idea
a moment amidst morning duties
a new holday:
the International Day of Sleeping In

forgive me

black eyes
swung from ragged fists
insincerity, and broken hearts
comments loosely tossed -
steeped deep in sarcasm
slow to act moments
stand by failures

forgive me

The Tired Monk - a New Maxim

good at walking
slow meditations
forest path ponderings
star watching dreams

good at jokes
by the fire songs
poems -  stories -
photos flow

good at night duties
drinks,bottles
pitch black bed tucker
and coffee brewer

adept at these tired monk tasks

a new maxim emerges - a new endeavour
- a new focus and challenge:

forgiveness

Wrestling the Tired Monk

old master
were you really a wrestler?
tell us of those days
tell us.

you novices want to hear
about locks, chains
sinew snapping submissions
ear grinds, grapples and pain

sore to the bone
holds cinched in tight
wrecked knees
and creaky old joints

old time shooting style
sweaty gym mat
bumps, fist thumps
twisted up broken dreams

blood on the floor

you don't want to hear about that

Starbucks Smell

drinking coffee
that's supposed to be good...
tired monk good
wishing it was better
tossed it out over some
fox scats
confusing nature
with Starbucks smell

Kerouac Heaven

We will call Jesus
and honour him
with heart and art
ol'Jack Kerouac
will role up his sleeves
and explain it all
to the newcomers.

threshold december

slow steady steps
on this ice skimmed road
head deeply hood tucked
against the north wind roar
cold         just cold

on this threshold december

on blessings

stop think
with each stride
of this forest meditation

see the blessings
give thanks
an attitude embraced

Tired Monk Hockey

pond waits
ready for sharp skate slices
white snow rips and flies

stick staff taped
hockey gear slipped
under flowing robes
cinched and ready
last -  mask is lowered
to look steady out
as novice pucks fly

Winter Haiku - Tanka 1.0

sleeves flap and freeze
ice forms  - rings my hood
sink deep into Sherpa robes

forest is winter dark
branches black overhead
pond hardens for skates

ice pellets rain
sharp icy stings
dog hides in robes
runs back inside
she's done her cold time

Tired 2.0

i.

tired just tired

jack kerouac tired and beat
punch-eye tired
johnny cash tired in black
joint creaking tired
hank williams tired and blue
stuck in time tired

ii.

tired just tired

meditation tired
as the sun rises
blues the black night
dog tired
walking deep
in forest paths

iii.

The tired monk is tired that is his nature.

the Tired Monk

Tired 1.0

tired
tired from wrestling
clinching, grapples, bumps,
and one thousand holds

tired
tired from night rambles
begrudging but beautiful
one thousand night duties

tired
tired from bureaucratic beat
forms, failures, funding,
one thousand students

Wing Robes

wore a set of wings
each feather a dagger
all sharp knives and blades

now I dream soar
in soft voluminous
tired monk robes

the future

the novices gather

"tired monk tell us of the future
tell us of work, moon travel, time travel
cars, energy, girls and love
tired monk tell us of the future"

answered in big silent smile

the tired monk is no false prophet

Monk Music

tired monk strums
low and lazy sad
lonesome monk blues

monk drops the D
hammerin' pulling
pounding monk rock

open chords slide
free, a little shrill
honest monk folk

old guitar busted
worn with beat glory
worn n'ready

Tired Monk Discourse

Novice: "old tired monk are you searching for poetry?"

Tired Monk "No.  I'm searching for life.  It is our duty."

A Tired Monk Maxim

On Devil Spotting:

beware the devil
selling the poison
and the cure

Family 2.0

the family sleeps
the youthful novices
ensconced in their old rooms
silent and steady

in the new room
new life
sleeps
the newest novice
he calls
I heed
we discuss - meet - eat
11:00 - 1:00 - 3:00 - 6:00

big beautiful night duties
the tired monk
the blessed monk

Family 1.0

historically broken
scattered unspoken

rebuild the bitter
to blessed

Bowed Deep

robes sandles
prayer beads shimmer, slip
through fingers
tonsured head
bowed deep
pouring over poems

suits ties leather shoes
briefcase stashed with booze
files rumple
greying head
bowed deep
searching for power chord

a Tired Monk poem

The Tired Monk and the Leaves

stacks of leaves
big immovable heaps
raked n'piled
leaves in an acre
of forest debris
days work for the novice

punishment
a lesson from the Abbot

novice and nun caught
in a quick corridor kiss

Tired Monk sees
leaf blower hums to life
blasts these troubles away

Proof of Life Robes

ice shoulder chips
drip
sink-soak through
hit the heart
a deep deep cold

been carrying 'em
for a while
just kept gettin'
bigger colder

time to banish
unburden
this bent back
with robes
of the proof of life:

love

Five Mystical Moments of the Tired Monk

i)

fists caught in swirling robes
stopper of thundering blows

ii)

blind forest walker
up and over stumps, roots and logs

iii)

slipping out unseen
from the worst scenes

iv)

riding heat lightning
over lake and field

v)

mystical brewer
of perfect coffee

Bench Seat (the Poem)

it is dream:
old truck one owner
vintage and pure
big ol' metal
and rustic grit

slip up into that bench seat
play songs
with narrative -
stories

she likes that

slides over, slow
driver side

as her song plays

Tired Monkness

he is the late night monk
deep in night knowledge:
stars swinging overhead
the stumble bum drunk
reeling in beer bottle ditches
swinging home after
bending many taps

yes the monk of dark moons
baby cries, bottle runs
"glass of water" called down halls

holder of many titles:
he's the door rattler
the noise checker
pitch black forest walker
early morning arena sitter

he is the tired monk
embracing his essence

Night Forest

fear
she's afraid
of the night forest
a place of phantom
bears and muggers
ghost wolves prowl
mind spawned terrors
each snapping twig
in the forest depths
causes a primordial
adrenaline pulse
pounds, pounding
in heart flushing
fear

rush, run
from and out
of the forest's grasp

Frost

frost treaded deep
sun slips over fields
sinking into the dark

Take Out the Adjective

a human surge
crushing down the hall
with locker smash a'bash
metal thunder

combat girls spitting fury
all big clunky swings, and screams
hay makers met with
dashing rabbit punches
on light boxer feet
flicking punches
rattle teeth, close eyes
black bruising blood
drips

mob cheers
"that was a beautiful fight"

take out the adjective

The Tired Monk's Lamp

no lit lamps
deep in the forest damp

plenty of light
moon, fireflies, raccoon eyes

Blogger Wisdom

adrenaline
drip ripping,
in roller coaster surges
but wait...
I'm desk sitting
fight or flight
over files
not fright

work: a soul kicking
adding to my shoulder chips
death decisions
as I pretend to live

borrow blogger wisdom:
be Solomon coming hard
out of a Square Corner
reflect and let go
pour this adrenal rage
into a deep blog hole

Thanks to S.Q. and the Dox
for lending me the shovel.

Tired Monk Blue Star Haiku

stars blaze above
cosmic hot white
light years of colour

fall cold soaks shoulders
hands shiver on icy scope
constellations shake

sun slips over the horizon
early morning light
fade these blue stars

colour free black sky
just white stars
doubled on lake water

Haystack Deep

leaf pile raised high
haystack deep
fling the robes around
hood up
descend in, covered
escape the crisp fall wind
afternoon nap
in nature's quilt

rough shake:
abbot pokes with rake
and stern look

"I was just embracing my Tired Monkness"

The Tired Monk and the Stars 3.0

colder winds blow
quaking aspens quake
rustle and rattle of unseen leaves
whiskey breath clouds
the optics

The Tired Monk and the Stars 2.0

scope is raised
Andromeda is hurtling
towards us
a cosmic crash
with the milky way
the tired monk waits
steady
ready for this time
a bursting blast
of a trillion stars
crazy thoughts
swirling

The Tired Monk and the Stars

forest provides
a light shield
perfect
for raising his telescope
up through
light years of time

Fall 3.0

sandals sweep
through breezy leaves
of the forest floor
sun undims the world
colours creep
reveals the redness
of my robes
i sink
into the leaves
a perfect blend

Twisted Staff

I'm tired

Let's stop - rest - discuss Basho - dharma, Jesus...

We will when you untwist this staff.

Discourse with the Abbot

I'm tired

You are the tired monk.
This rake will make you
more yourself.

Work

truck sitting, parking lot blues

waiting for the courage to go in
"to work"

big sigh and begin

over shards of glass

past graffiti trash

my day of fists and fights
crowds storming forward
to see the blows reign
and the wet face of pain
trying to look tough

alarms pulled
fires lit, dumpster smolders
I stand amazed,
in this bureaucratic craze:
as the admin team steps in,
but don't step up

Kid says: "this your job?"
it is
witness close and true
then papers, forms, reports
all adjective free
files of blood, glass, and tears

Broken

pastor wrapping up

deep deep sermon

profound ending

whispered for dramatic effect

softly spoken:

"pray to be broken"

that's not a prayer i need

that's not a prayer we need

we need to be put back together
put us back together

Crimson Blur

leaves rolling red
from waving heights
red robin bursts up
through the cascade
a crimson blur

Soul Cravings

beat up and busted broke
alley sleeping, some nights
old time train jumpers
they got cravings

silk suits and sports car speeders
corner office sleeping, some nights
old time club thumpers
they got cravings

they have cravings
soul cravings
community, peace, love

this is our equality

Drop D

tune that E to a D

grab your hard pick a  .96
move into hammers and pulls

ride on steady

in big train rhythm

each fret is blast a boom

long haired sweaty rock

drips over the strings

spills down the solid spruce top

oh yes

drop D is thunder

Tired Monk - Autumn

cold tonight

early glimpse of fall

in this wind

the lake sprays ice

paddle hard home

to campfire warmth

shivering on the dock
shaking in thin robes
pull up my hood

branches rise
their burden released
one leaf remains

Forest Poems

I

night forest
a ritual in rain cloud black
no tripping
robe ripping
step over unseen logs
and snaring roots
each known
on this beat path way

II

dark trees layered in black
only birches slip into view
dog wanders deep - gone
coffee steam mingles
in morning mist
sky little brighter
a navy bruised eye black
as I step from woods

New Master

days pass outside
drizzle rolling off hood
kneeling in damp robes
no answer

rattle doors, pound
pull hard - chain snapping power
big thumping sandal kicks
shatter - splinter wood

new master opens the door
silences the noise
and angry beats
with a quick broom smash

tired monk looks up - smiles
robes soaked in humble mud

Tired Monk Haiku

wind picks up
shed door blow open
tools packed within

each door is locked
rain wets my tonsure
ring front temple bell

umbrella snags on thorns
discarded on forest floor
robes soak through

small streams appear
headlights flick off puddles
robe bellows and whips

gust of wet wind
rain spatters wood and steel
hands numb on guitar strings

Battered Flat Top

flat top
is willie nelson worn
scarred just right
battered beautiful
with cracks n'dings
bent rusty strings

Being the Abbot

evening meal is done
novices are studying

all is well, silent

the abbot wanders back
to the kitchen
sends the rest away

a meditation
over a steaming pot sink
in big rolling sleeves
perfect for drying

Morning Maxim

1. avoid worshipping and driving - keep your hands upon the wheel

2. avoid Johnny Cash just before work - those red damp eyes will give away your
broken heart

of duties and hoods

new duties tomorrow
promotion?
new keys swinging from the hip
new doors to open,
and to work behind

today the line zings
and bobbers bob
as the bass circles
it is cold,
but this robe has a hood

New Robes

slip off these old summer clothes
these lawn mowing boots
busted up, but filled with poems
yes kick-off those ditch dirt soles

banish salt stained ball caps
crusted white with heat wave sweat
robes of tattered hems
battered and colours bled

this is a time of new robes

be proper
clean neat pressed
fresh for new duties

Elbow Lake

somewhere in Elbow Lake
in the weedy depths
a fish has my lucky lure

Tired Monk Maxims: Dreams

regarding sleep:

1.

stay abed until you are aware of your dreams

2.

revel in your dreams

3.

awake and take on the poems of the day

Root n' Rocks a Meditation

swinging sledges
in strong hands
tnt stacked and blasting
no match for these old roots

A Baby Monk Song

baby monk little restless
not quite perfect
few sobs few tears
well tuck that baby up
under a guitar
play those sweet chords

Singers and Songwriters

singer/songwriters
expressive
with big fat chords
over old beat radio

capo it down
to get that bright sound
performing
with eyes-closed passion

switch the station
hard to relax
with all this
earnest singing

Beer Sleeves

song picks up
Del is singing 62 Richmond
beer glasses pound
out the beat
suds of lager and ale
spill, puddle the table
a big flowing robe
floats out
soaks it all away

Dish Sleeves

Sunday night dinner
pots
pans
spilling in swishy sinks
almost done
when the old monk robes fall
soaked in
suds and chicken grease

Garage Sitter

dirty tools
buckets of weeds
work to do
sweat on the sleeves
wander in
snap a cap off an ale
today I'm no monk
I'm a garage sitter

Monk Garden

robes flow
over dirty work boots
deep in the garden
seeking pulling the weeds
taking care
work around
the natural violets

Boot Poems

garden coming along
weeds piled
pruning under way

coffee break - sure
thermos steams
pull out the tattered moleskin
the book of work boot poems
a perfect break

Frog Meditation

rain slicks

down the leaf

nourishing

blending, silent

so aware

Dragonfly Meditation

sure they rip out

quick and true

dart to clutch their prey

then back to the flower perch

wait rest eat

ready for the next moment

a perfect meditation

for a tired monk

Tree 1.1

this young tree

twisted and soaring

hidden

high in forest cliff

a tree of summer homage

Tree 1.0

gnarled rough
and bent
a survivor
of axe n'fire
beat up...sure
but bonsai beautiful

Monk Fish

these are no tasty monk fish
no koi in my pond
these are bass

reach for a lure
a lucky one

Moon Robes

forest is lit
for this late night walk
fireflies, dim stars
bright moon
matches my robes

Tired Baby Monk

older brothers bashing,
yelling "idiot" - loud
doors slamming
swinging, banging, thudding, wrestling
more yelling
as dad joins the fray
now the dog's a barking

baby monk smiles
and roles up in his robes
sleeps

Baby Monks

pondering trees
photos
pictures on the wall
minutes gazing into the garden,
pond fish swirling
taking everything in
a whole day of - noticing

the genius of baby monks

The Monk's Guitar

the Monk pulls
out his guitar

rusty

like an ancient sword
in need of care

Young Monks

a young monk went missing
found
down by the garden
I bristled and chastised
red faced - shaking robes
tongue whip waving
why aren't you removing suckers,
weeding, picking out rocks - novice?

young monk looked up
I'm picking out the rocks from my heart.

low bow and move on, back to the temple

Fighting Monk

some of the young novices
swing fists
kick bite
sting first so as to not get stung

old robes fly to block, envelop bloody fists
the monk knows
his fists used to rise often

Burning Monk

feet burned
in a sandal pattern
robes are wet through
with sweat and lake water
tonight I'll ride the heat lightning

Canadian Monk

going down to 11
a Canadian June
only here
in these woods

throw the robes
up over the shoulder
bundled
for this late night forest walk

Flip Flopped

old boss?
no young
a youth promoted
up into the Abbott's rooms

a night he slips
into monks robes
the cloak of the novice
walks among us
his flip flops
give him away

Boss Ghost

boss slides down the path
walks the hall
haunts the office
wrapped in the old master's robes
us monks, we know

Maxim 3.0

remember and discern
the difference between
boss and master

Tonsure

tonsure stings
stinging with little rips of pain
with each drop of sweat
burning

today I'm glad
God tonsured me

5:30 in the Forest

pond fish are fed
coffee brewed
tend to the temple dogs and cats
morning duties under way

stray to the forest
watch as
raccoon, fox and coyote
return from their night duties
no rest for the trickster

Earthquake

rumble, deep and low
thunder, bombs, machines...?

the monk knows
slips off his sandals
grips the Earth

Awareness and Knowing

old koans float, fly
crash n'shatter on curbs
already filled with glass
old drunk, "bum" the call him
slumped and dizzy
deep in a rummy haze
yes wrecked, but he ponders:
awareness versus knowing

The Monk's Night

night
a time of poems
some lit and fired
by the smooth swirling sips
of Scotch

as dawn nears
coffee is the muse
all heart beat and pounding
grinding out intense
notebook gems

Tired Monk - the worker

tired monk
robes cinched tight
tool belt loaded
hammer swinging
nails exploding into wood

"ain't you tired, " says the novice

"I'm beat...I'm beat".

The Monk's Novices

the monk gathers his robes
as he gathers his students
his novices

today his theme is community

to the outsider:
bunch of guys watching the world cup

the tired monk knows better

Tired Monk Maxim 2.5 and 2.6

2.5

yes, page him - go get the monk
send a runner
the coffee will be brewed
right and true

2.6

but he still wants the office girl to help
ah - the joy of passing on wisdom
a true bell of clarity

Tired Monk Maxim 2.4

coffee empty
call the tired monk
have him paged
he makes it best

Tired Monk Maxim 2.3

be wary:

those trails of coffee cups
lead back to your desk
boss man may catch you in
a styrofoam trap

Tired Monk Maxim 2.2

when sneaking out early:

stroll through the office
- be seen upfront
as you sneak out the back

This is known as the "I just saw him effect".

Tired Monk Maxims 2.0 and 2.1

2.0

never place one's hands
within your robes
or pockets when the boss approaches

2.1

never reveal
that you embrace
eternal concept of "do nothing"

Tired Monk Maxim 1

when sleep shuffling
down the halls of work, and business
always carry papers

Awake

hazy, daisy, dreams
nodding off, or not,
in meditative slumber
coffee cups roll,
cigarette droops from my lips
robes aflame
awake

Tired Monk Summer Night

awake, awoken,
reacting, instantly "up"
fires stoked, tea on, kettle whistles
wife yells, from above:
"come to bed"

A Night Duty

teens totter
tumble into country ditches
laugh, shake and yell
violent echoes off bricks and siding
beer bottles clink and smash

quick peaks out windows
"damn teens"
cursed behind locked doors

the tired monk wanders out
sweeps up the glass
thanks the teens:
a chance to do one's duty

Tired Monk Summer 1.0

the monk moves down the halls
yellow sony walkman
secured on the hip
a yellow blossom of sound
providing tips, insights of wisdom
from guru Downie

The Tired Monk and the Red Stratocaster

plug in
boom, growl, hum
adjust the gain
tweak the treble
choose the channel
barre chords, rhythmic n'solid
old power chords
up the neck
robe swirls
in circles as the windmills spin
finger ache grows
back and arms sore
the Red Stratocaster put back
on the stand
a free hand takes the tea
from the top of the amp
unplug

The Tired Monk and the Storm

tired monk stayed up late
a vigil
thunderstorms after midnight
violent warning on the radio
he could hear the rumbles
off to the west at two
a few sips of tea
the trees sway
booms up in the ravine
porch beams creak
by three the trees splitting,
smashing
as the storm hits
the monk settles, unmoving
asleep on his rice mat

Building Heat

the heat is building
soaring up the bricks
hot wet waves
like a mid-summer Floridian noon,
here in Ottawa
27 by 8 am
the tired monk laughs
lets the breeze
flow up his robes

Morning Duties: with the Tired Monk

tonsured hair is growing in
beard sways as he takes a pull
from his Starbucks
throws his trailing robe up over
his shoulder
prayer beads slide, roll
through fingers
sandaled foot taps
Joel Plaskett sings, strums
in white headphones
photocopier hums
done
tired monk collects his papers
strolls slow and steady
to his office
shocked, surprised, questioning stares
follow him

country morning 2

outside
first smoke of the day
on the steps
boxer shorts, unzipped hoody
roam over to pet the dog
chained and wagging in his
homemade house
workboots flopping
unlaced and muddy
neighbour drifts by slow
on the county road
waves
salute back with
a cigarette hand

unseamly behaviour down
in the burbs

country morning 1

up to the store
paper n'coffee
drift on home
waving, quick "toot"
to each neighbour
they wave back
they know the car
slow country turn
left lane for a left turn
back down the laneway
too far to walk

French's Poem 1

late night and starlit cute
quick make-out, whiskey kiss
over the low 428 rumble

Tired Monk 2

coffee, so dark
ground perfection
poured, mixed
a cup nurtured
brewed slow and right

the tired monk
makes the best coffee

Tired Monk 1

the tired monk
yeah, he's tired, but he listens

met George many, many years ago
George gave wisdom
in heaps and dashes

family, aging, cooking, learning,
drinking, singing, loving and sinning

George knew some things

the tired monk listens

Old John

slowly, john has drifted
he still loves her
solid, solid love,
but he has drifted
drifted slowly out to his garage
drifted out there and built
a retreat, slow and steady
fifty years of beer fridges and tools
filled every drawer with nuts,
bolts, nails and screws
projects and motors
rebuilt and ready
a t.v. a radio
hockey night in canada
talk radio always on
he's drifted out here
a den of rust and oil
sure he's drifted
but he loves her

I Know a Guy

I know a guy who'll fix your car
find you a good deal on a guitar
I know a guy who'll knock out a wall
pick you up quick if you fall
I know a guy can't sleep at night
knock you out with his right
I know a guy who writes poetry
can hook you up for a fee
I know a guy still skateboards at 42
during the day wears dress shoes
I know a guy who likes tape hiss
he's a sure shot he'll never miss
I know a guy plays sweet drums
sits on his porch drinking rum
yeah, I know a guy.

3:47

3:47 city

late n' lonely
looking out over the highway
curves, n'cloverleafs
trucks cruise at 110
blowing through town
past the city and done


3:47 country

porch lights are off
quiet so quiet
then a rustle down in the ditch
raccoon shuffles
rooting up worms
scuffles under the shed

Country Home

up here the roads
are gravel
ditches deep

cars whip n'fishtale
around the curves
fire n'up mighty dust clouds

teenage boys
smash mailboxes
with teetering mighty swing
bat smashing

when you drive by
neighbours lift their eyes, wave
they know you
and your family secrets too

abandoned shacks
linger in the forest
great place to sneak smokes

kids ride their bikes
on ancient cow paths
with hockey card spokes

this is home

Monks, Truckers and Dealers

Gary once wrote about
zen monks and truck drivers
they are the same
up early
seize the day
on the road
sweeping brooms
as the sun rises

here the monks and truckers
could be met
by the drug dealers
they are never late
for school

Ditch Box

on a country curve
sniffed by my dog
in the ditch
snow slips down the edges
reveals
a box
stained and beaten

lid rises
sides fall apart
broken and soaked
inside...comics
wrapped tight n'taped
in plastic
safe from the damp

Spring

puck sinks slow and steady

smoothly down through the ice

in a circle of black heat

Under My Gloves

lights dim
zamboni doors shut
scoreboard reset
dressing room silence
heads bowed
salt sweat drips
stings
under my gloves

What's wrong with you?

What's wrong with you?

it is blood under the skin
dripping down
blackened marks
from straps and pads
slash to the back of the knee
knuckle thumps
sinking down under the skin

on the card

everyday
as i step through graffiti
and broken glass
i'm looking to the next fight
the next match
canvass, holds, and bumps
i gird my loins like Job
smashed hip like Jacob
limping
i'm a wrestler
behind the curtains
trying to get
on the card

Porch Dreams

Fading from the din
of city cars, truck routes
and suburban garbage can lids.
Drunken yelling from the teens
across the park…fading.

Crickets create the white noise,
joins creak of the guitar case hinges
dust free flattop glows
by the porch light.

Songs – nay - the “set list”
Thirty Years of Farming
Carmelita
Time to Get a Gun

Laughter, and cheers and more join in.
Three train songs echo over the field
across the creek, slips through the trees.
miles from the rows of porchless houses.

Close the Fucking Door

path is beaten
icy, to the shed
open the door
hit by a wave of heat
"close the fucking door"
is my greeting
guitars ring
fists bang
beat on the flat top
Pat is drumming hard
snare snapping
high hat crashes
to the floor
howl laughing
sweat flies
beers spills
smoke flows out
the cracks
heat pumps, logs
added to the stove
five voices sing
a massed chorus of
"Fifty Mission Cap"
"close the fucking door"
is yelled again
as I snag the coldest beer
on the planet
from the snow

Small Town Walk

walking
street to street
from party to party
ask around
to find the best one
"it is at Mikes"
"which Mike?"
"Tall Mike"
15 minutes, or less
with the big striding
small town walk
my campfire girl says:
"slow down
you walk too fast"

1988

us boys
walking the streets
big striding
in jeans n'plaid shirts
shot the knees out clean
with pellet guns
ragged, rock n'roll

Tragically Hip tape
humming, hissing, in the deck
"Blow at High Dough"
our anthem
got everybody singing
hollering every word
with our best Gordie voice

drive out some
dusty dark country road
to party in a field
pretty girls, faces lit
with campfire glow
sipping beers,
catching her smiles

bottles pile
fire burns low
time to go
getaway before
drunken fists swings
to ruin the perfect
smalltown night

Winter 5.0

little deeper in the woods today
out as far as the valley
deer runs across the open
jumps the fence
back into the forest

16 wild turkeys
black and huge
move along
the frozen creek

makes me think of whiskey

Winter 4.0

snow steady for four days
wind whips around the house
piling, drifting
shovel bends with the weight
back aches, sweat freezes