late year early mornings

been out
double robed against the cold
coffee is good and hot

temple dog runs inside
settles in by the stove

quiet

just a few blanket rumbles
in the halls above

Tired Monk Saints

oh these rugged saints...

the Irish one - a pugilistic pastor
somehow tough and tender   

the dread locked demon wrestler
guitar wielding evoker of tears

the beautiful one
who calls prayer "fun"

the multitude
of IAWAH angels

all of them from paramedics to x-ray techs
even the revolutionaries

God Bless 'em all.

the office

tonsured head bows...

to oft neglected
this office of prayer

a monk's duty awaits
a focus on the creator
in this time of veneration
to the created

Tired Monk - one More Game

down deep
and dusty

jumbled hockey gear piles

the tired monk
sorts
repairs and pairs socks, pads, gloves

one more game



Context:

Sorry for sounding so weary; I'm actually excited...cautiously so...to hit the ice after a two year retirement.  One more game versus my 10 year old son.  Parents vs Kids. 

the Tired Monk's City - Night

i)

black city snow flies
settles in
cold
cast in blue lights

ii)

the Tired Monk
slips through drifts
walking stick steadies
a clearing...
stars and distant city lights

the Tired Monk's City

light fades
day in the city ends
the tired monk locks
the broken glass monastery
slow traffic trek home
back to the temple


Another Blog on "the City" - No Small Town Bring Down

a little more snow



slow winter morning coffee walk
a bit of bliss really
new snow clings to old spider webs
the temple dog shivers...shakes
inside Johnny Cash sings of Christmas

a Tired Monk Discourse: Soul Whispers

some talk of love
the old tired monk
talks of letting and listening

novices gather:

listen...

let each

soul whisper

be heard

conceit

tired monks
real novices

lovers blood mixed
inside a flea

thugs thumpers...
real pain
from being stretched
by empty masked wrestlers

reality shall come to pass
but, remember
even the most conceited conceits
will accept a Christmas card


d'verse...check it out



Afterword:

I first learned about the concept of conceit while studying John Donne The Flea ...allusion.  It is by far my most commonly used device...wink.

gratitude

steady walk to work
sacred headphone moment
of rock rap redemption
each bass pulsing step
a study of gratitude



thanks to the Human Paradox

first snow

i)

first glimpse of first snow
lightens the pre-dawn
glowing Christmas light blue

ii)

low rumbling snow truck bangs
spark throwing scraping
steady back up beeping
turnaround tires spinning
enough to wake the tiredest monk

the Tired Monk: the Early Shift

those old night shift times fade
of the nocturnal tired monk
going home on empty streets

these days it is the early shift
dazed coffee brewing
forest walks under navy blue skies

slow kitchen rumbles
grateful for growing stovetop warmth
upstairs the brothers wake

the Tired Monk

knotted wrestler muscles
role under robes
ready to shoot
or knuckle punch

calloused fingers tap keys
squared off n'hard
from steel strings

tonsured head bows
cold and tight
in November's winds

ii)

there are skates to tie
Glenlivet to sip
dogs to walk
novices to teach
poems to write
songs to sing

all the blessed duties of the Tired Monk

the Tired Monk on Winter

the cold is coming
trees are bare black
the last leaves fly
soon snow will rip
under the temple door

dark days and dark moods...

or

the Tired Monk
joins the novices
with his freshly taped stick
robes, toque, old CCM gloves
set for a pond hockey night

small town science

i)

science simmers
reflected glow
     red chemistry
     on the cheeks
of campfire girls and boys

ii)

gunshot physics
slick sure shot
    call it dead-eye - dead-aim

translates to

grilling bacon
partridge breasts


iii)

some days science is legend
that old Cooper hockey bag
clinking with 24 Blue
lowered into the deep river cold
later raised beside bonfire heat




Thanks to the Human Paradox for "the legend".

the Tired Monk and the Leaves

leaves left piled
edges frozen
blow
  scatter

the tired monk pulls
his ancient zen rake
 - from those old lost days

sweeps pulls and barrows
stack after stack
down the deep trail

waiting it out

waiting it out ain't easy
heavy days scratched
cell block deep
rolled shoulders hunkered
in chainmail robes




the Tired Monk

I think I need an attitude adjustment.

All Saints Day

remember all the saints today
bless 'em all
those scattered souls

November Maxims from the Tired Monk

November 1.0 - Like the truckers say: scan don't stare.

November 1.1 - While commuting play great music and envision the music video as you drive.

Modern Discman Tanka

the old discman churns
little mechanical whirls
mix tight with Neil's
battered pick-ups -
crunchy power chords

On Lunch and Basho's Bowl

lunch is left
down long paths
back in the distant dojo
today the tired monk
is the hungry monk

where is Basho's bowl?
    or a matted beard
filled with locust wings
sticky honey twigs

oh to be a Saint
ascetic beat and blessed

the black

the black: Some deep coffee black early morning tired monk haikuish poems.

up snap and out in the black
rolling garbage cans
rain soaked blowing lids

robes soaked heavy wet
darkest country night
temple dog huddles

wet leaves cling
deep robe red
fall to temple floor

Abbess always wants to know.
Is it cold? For now...
winter robes wait

the ten dollar wrestler

10 dollar wrestler
low on the card
blood lank hair
blackened eye

payday reluctantly pulled
from deep in the till
two crumpled fives

swollen fist shoved

soft left nostril dabs
slow the red trickle
hurting...beat...hoping
to be booked next week

another Tired Monk morning

still head shaking early
laundry hums  - whirs
and clicks of tumblin' robes
first sips of pre-dawn coffee
slow foggy pondering
triggered by baby novice murmurs
one last "hot-up"...or two
before slow temple dog walk

haunted hall

little ghost
I see you
you old hall ducker
you old door banger

you see me
I see your fear

little ghost flees
through double doors
glides down the breeze-way
to hide and haunt
deeper halls



The Tired Monk

A little ghost afraid of a tired monk? Must be the billowing robes.

Red Robes - Red Stratocaster

monastery empty...
quiet, a long hall silence

low amp hum, click of guitar cable plug
e minor waves of rolling thunder
g c d  - power chords

red robes whirl
red strat cranked louder

rock n'roll meditation
a power hymn of sweat

the Tired Monk's mantra:
Keep on Rockin' in the Free World



the Tired Monk

... for Chris Pare

nailing it down

good days of monk full halls
coffee brewing steady hot
friday "solving problem" lunches
just nailing it down
with a mighty poem hammer



the Tired Monk
#follow

why no poems

why no poems

just been forgetting to see them

i guess




the Tired Monk

lonely hall duty

lonely hall duty
of empty steps
lights hum above

dark

she asks...is it dark?

mist hangs thick
in sodden hemlock boughs
flickering porch light
can't reach the forest
in this overcast
post-rain bleak



the Tired Monk

winter's glass house

 

frost slips in first
next month...snow
old pond koi know
this is the time
of winter's glass house

From Bon Jovi to Bon Iver

Bon Jovi hair metal nights
cigarette blue air, whiskey mist
big blurry crowd blasting heat
slow beer buzz...fading

Bon Iver silent fireplace light
ice clinking single malt sips
cat deep in guitar case sleep
silence, then the tea kettle sings


the Tired Monk

a school window daydream

windows bathed
in post rain sun
lessons lost
in deep daydreams...

     a quick jump
     a breezeway run
     fireman pole slide
     bike unlocked
     over the hills
     home

morning head haiku

night poems fade
misty metaphors
fade into coffee steam


the Tired Monk

an old war

door slams twice
     frame     pops    sags

brother monks
partake in sibling war

Volunteers

sunflower volunteers
bend twist towards the sun
rising up over the feeder
from where they fell

Modern Kinhin

adjust headphones and oil-gas mix
bass notes over motor rumble
weeds n'ditch grass laid low
fumes, mown lawn, tonsured head sweat
ragged glory of every step



the Tired Monk

Midnight Kinhin - a Response

in every Kinhin step

stumble roots trip

these sandalled feet

blackberry canes
tear these red robes
this is the work:
this task

the last path twists
past the toppled
chapel benches
into the forest
so dark by lost lake


Midnight Kinhin - Original Poem

the monk's ol'gear

hockey bag
still open
from the last pillage:
shin pads, helmet screws,
worn holey Habs socks

smell of ol'gear
and glory
fill the basement

the monk long retired
from the sport
considers a comeback

first step:
sunlight and August breeze





There were actually three bags open...September hockey looms; and stinks.

Tired Monk: Dawn

abbess up
those early hour
still dark duties
beckon

tired monk
rolls robe deep
dreams trickle back:
skateboarding...surfing...

temple dogs
storm the bed
abbess looks in ...laughs

Fran's Smile

one car -  one street town
Jack gives up
his shotgun rights
slips in the backseat
beckoned by Fran's smile

the tired monk's match

late summer wrestling
full of  those
old small town
Jameson dropkicks

this robe cincher
this loin girder
this sleeve roller
coming outta
the corner...crazed

throwing looping fists
clenching headlocks
at this metaphor
this universe
this one story

he knows the outcome
of this match
this eternal match
was booked long ago

L

just an old L
no fancy 50
more like
an empty box of beer
tucked n'hidden
under basement stairs

in your city

i'm in your city
but we don't meet

behind that desk or
on Conners Hill

crowd of thousands
dreadlock thick

across the street
guitar strapped back

passing unknown
like any tired monk

summer debris

summer debris

not all beach balls, tents,

fishing poles

paint flecked robes n'rollers

worn remnants

tucked behind the shed

monk's market

early morning, market opens
old tired monk
wanders stall to stall
basket brims:
peppers, carrots, ginger...
one last stop
fish
to fill this one bowl

The Tired Monk...on Mowing

some days it is sandals
deep in ornamental grass
others days it is steel toe grit
sweat grinding, steep ditch sides
to forest edge

novices wait...soccer ball in hand



An Olsonomics Link Concerning More Mowing: http://olsonomics.blogspot.com/2011/07/iawah.html

slow storm fear

novice all huddled up
thick in quick
curtain peeks
and blankets pulled
high over heads

afraid?

you've never been afraid of storms before...

yes, but this one moved up slow

a tired monk morning

been down to the forest
pre-dawn deep in shadows
a place of slow coffee sips

inside

little rustles...creaks
novices awake

the lost and lonely

little lost
little lonely

sitting
thinking out back
butts all stacked and stubbed
thumbing through John

tired as any monk
of loss and loneliness

the tired monk's books

books stacked
high and teetering
a mess of knowledge

Temple Steps

one day
one step
   closer

this final
mounting
  of these
  temple steps

I am a father

in this myth
I am a father
  and eternal old man

new one
first one
carried
by your mother

helpless I stand by

imperfect

limited in the wisdom
of this human condition

I look into your room
                    and wait.




Written on June 18th 1999
He turns 12 tomorrow.

the tired monk: on poems

i)

sinking into June poems
hunkered deep
in old tired robes

ii)

the hall lights dimmed
illusion of cool
a place of poems

iii)

hood up  - head down
ancient notebook
filling with young poems

iv)

a robed sanctuary
a shield of poems
sword of wood and lead

prayer bead

loose shell
deep in robe pocket
long cleaned of salt...sand
worn smooth daily
this single prayer bead

temple frog

old frog sinks...waits
deep low and still
as temple dog passes



This is Napoleon the ancient Leopard Frog...he's no sucker!

refuge

most doors
                    locked

the tired monk
rattles keys
finds the one

lets the lost n'lonely

in

refuge

sweeping

cold front
sinking in fast
down the valley
pushing out the heat

wind picks up
leaves scatter
tired monk sweeps
still warm
in his summer robes

bell hill bench

a few scattered campers
climb
out of misty lake shores

towel bundled
sandy feet
quick wave

up past the
old cabins
full of slow sounds
as the others wake

one more hill
to that memorial bench
beside the oft rung bell

on that bench
a small plaque
with the fading name
of the previous tired monk

those squared corners

the corners are full
combatants surge
a flow of fists
and wicked words

the tired monk waits
let them lace gloves, lock up
or keep 'em in their corners?

the tired monk's pond

i)

fish freed from
glassy winter home
feasting full
on mosquito larvae

thank-you

ii)

sitting too long by the pond
cold coffee remnants thrown
temple dogs have a taste

ringside or the tired monk: from parts unknown

novices up close
leaning, reaching
slapping babyface backs

crowd heaves, jumps cheers
then sinks deep
in beer can jeers

quick rib poke: "what's a monk doing here?"
"whatcha bringing kids here for?"

whisky bottle clings
down the dirty seat rows

the tired monk
shrugs off his robes
slides through the ropes
to his corner

book stack bliss

desk sitting
deep down inside
weighty walls
slow steady
dark cloud days


walk in dusty
tome aisles
wait out the rain
lost in book stack bliss












Posted to: Magpie Tales

tired monk on wrestling

novices rolling
circles of grassy clinches
twisting in tightening holds

robes sweat soaked torn

neighbour: in brow knit anger...
you let them wrestle?

tired monk laughs...

what are we?

what are we not?
we are fighters
body vs soul




thanks to Erin and the Dox

a gathering of broken saints

Francis and his creatures

dishonoured Christopher

blessed Patrick

the tired Monk

and crazy St. Jack

sit, chat, laugh

as little Teresa's flowers

fall

http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

tired monk chains

i)

entropy chains swing

ice metal cold

under grey skies

ii)

metal on metal
a steady clink
no clear cling
of temple bells

iii)

paths, gates, trees all locked
chained ghost tight
novices climb
tear robes
flee

iv)

novices caught
prying locks
the tired monk joins
rending links

some locks must be broken

fifty years

i)

faux art deco blue bricks


pushing asphalt down
fifty years of heavy cracking

ii)

up front  - prim grass trimmed
halls fresh in hospital white
out back  - rusty cages, burning pages



...happy big 5-0 HHS

work door

this work door
this daily portal
think paint, rusty, splattered,

heavy
as any temple door

forest dragon

young monks tackle
little ghosts

but

run to the master
on forest dragon nights







...find the forest dragon...

on the pitch

on the pitch
novices smash
muscle and blood
in the steady rain

jerseys tear
throaty yells echo

sweat and rattled teeth

a try

on robes

somedays
monk robes sink
slide from slumped shoulders

a monk's first kiss

up the hill
past the bell
hands brush
by the long grass
deep sleeves tussle

triggers

a long sought kiss




To the future Abbess; that ensnarer of men.

heavy koan

some don't pray
because of faith

...so she said

these words settle in
rest like a heavy koan

a kitchen meditation

guests gone
dishes piled
the tired monk toils
robes elbow deep
in greasy suds


duty done

linger
for sink side
brandy break



Magpie Tales

the venn zen maxim

deep reverie
slow pipe pulls
smoke thoughts
in bare branches:

more venn
than zen

always

this life

these rusty rhythms

fill your steel toes:
boot circle breaker


the tired monk

Tired Monk Coffee Master

the old grinder
perfect pot brewer
busy in holy task
demand surges
for these well honed skills





Based on this tragic news headline: Tim Hortons Increase Canary in a Coal Mine When it Comes to Costlier Fast Food


 - From Yahoo.ca

Early Spring Walk

umbrella pops
big gust implosion
robes thrash about

vision blurred
in cold rain mist
glass splatters





the tired monk



Link to: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2011/04/mag-60.html

temple kitchen

few last dishes soak
the abbess enters
reminds the tired monk

of love

in a quiet kitchen
slow dance

the tired monk's uniform

i)

"that a dress?"


take a lotta heat
so beat in these robes

ii)

each sweat bead stings
these salty sweat wasps
over this tonsured head

iii)

thinning wool winter socks
tucked poem deep
into birkenstock feet

religion/rebellion

dawn bursting blue
in sunshine glints
ice crackles

trudging slow
walking stick swings
flicking forward

each slipping step
cutting a thin path
through religion and rebellion

the tired monk's swords

novices gather...stare

at the mounted swords

fighting the urge to fight

all swinging blades and rage

tired monk...master

can we give 'em a go?...can we?

no young ones no

we practice pen kung fu



http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2011/03/mag-58.html

a tired monk vigil

climb the temple tower
a high window vigil

observe

like an ol'fire watcher
on desolation peak

observe

long lonely hours
looking for hope

tired monk kung fu

novices training:
old county kung fu

tired monk girds his robe
punches flick: rabbit, hook, n'haymakers

tired monk heads back in
time for tea and an ice pack

The Tired Monk's Early Spring

curtains flung wide
doors swung open
fresh spring air flows

winter's dust swept
out onto cobble walks
wet with shrinking snow

the abbess smiles
brings out her flowers
loved in sun beam light

robe shoulders

these old robes

heavy

shoulders weighted
in old bitter chips

cleaned this morning
by the milky mouth
of the baby monk

the tired monk thinks of spring

tea cools
too quick

temple dog
lifts her paw

winter robes
getting thin

beer burst
frothy puddle

still...the sun lights this early morning forest

a tired monk walk

"I'm pissed off"
"they stopped checking"
"blew that lead in twenty minutes"
"losers - buncha losers"

more:


smash-whacking snow
off his car
ice kicking
f-bomb flurries
disdain and spitting anger


not me

          content

                      walk the dog on by


(Collected these quotations from my neighbours...thanks neighbours.)

a divergent tired monk poem

i)

i ain't joining
that is how we say it up here
that's right:
i ain't joining
that is how we do it up here

ii)

our robes
wrapped against the world

iii)

shovels snow
pens poems

touching archetypes...
...that is how we do it up here

post game

grit fire
hard on the puck
short tough shifts

a win

post game:

helmet unsnapped
layers of sweat
bloody nose snot

you okay?

...yeah...I'm good...great game...

poem fuel

back cracking
pain etching

same old shattered glass,
grass, undumped trash,
sticky food fight floors
dirty word graffiti doors

hovering pink slips
red tape mess,
work, headache stress

ain't you mad?
ain't you angry?

no man

this all just fuel
for tired monk poems

David

such a great dream
now stuck
in this day lit reverie
lingering blessing
from the night

my brother
      bigger now
sweet quiet companion
our feet just
skimming early sun beams
from the lake

our double gaze
swinging out
over misty lake silence

Extra Duties for the Tired Monk

dishes dirty stacked
pots soaking
broom leaning - dust swirling

the tired monk
sets out
seeks these novices -
these neglectors of duty




first novice
laying down the final
bass line
headphones humming deep
bassy notes

second novice
carving big ice poems
skates and spraying snow
as the light fades
over the pond

third novice
dreaming early
and sleep sighing

the tired monk
work roles his sleeves
a night of humming and sweeping

work boot poets

some tasks
are all hammers n'nails
some tasks
are all pens n'flowing ink

    maybe we are all
    working on a building

us work boot poets

a tired monk tea house storm

summer storm has left

tea house roof sags

garden sand rains

shadow robes

long lingering
night watch duty
outside
the temple gates



little glow
out by the forest

novices  - muffle their coughs

a few hot puffs
from the master's pipe

the tired monk waits


smiles

lost deep
in shadow robes

empty temple

early morning silence
a few clicks n'cracks
expansive pops
in the slow sun glow

coffee perks

one temple dog sleeps
too old to roam
the back forest

she looks up
at the tired monk
closes her eyes
returns to her
slumber task

a fine pair
for this
empty temple

your place

your place:

scary movies
first couch kiss

school skipping
out front step sitting
holding hands
listening





walk by
cross street
looking left

still your place,
but you're not there



http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

tired monk walks

walking stick
leaning on Hemlock tree
ready always ready
for forest walks
quick stream vaults
this old steady
gait keeper

Basho's Will

to the next tired monk
i leave
everything i own:

    one robe
    one bowl

tired monk: winter katana

snow falls, piles,

drifts dune deep

cars buried

wheels spin

sink deep

over the white banks
big monkish snow yeti




robes flap
leggings tight wrapped
to his back
a shovel strapped

his winter katana

digs and digs down
tires grip road
red shovel waves
in rearview mirror

off message

i.

temple halls, rooms
all drafty chilled
snow rips
fast under door cracks

lil'novice monks gather
hot tea
kitchen fire light tales

ii.

tales of the tired monk's
fighting days
all back lots, taverns
field party fists
beer bottle bashing
novices lean forward
lost in gritty details

iii.

the abbess looks in
steaming disapproval
...off message?

iv.

the tired monk
finishes the tale
"young ones:
move from punches to poems"

step

step into - onto
rugged beauty

perfect pattern of wear

rough handed
craftsman task

a remnant in this
asphalt world

On Discourse

two young monks
       novices
stand - split lip
throbbing hand

tired monk waits
the silence beckons
for answers

"we did nothing"

nose blood runs
free  - curls - flows  - over lips

knuckles swell

more silence

"we were having a discourse

with our fists"

the tired monk swings his axe

wood truck dumped

tumble tossed over

by the garage

cinch robes - roll sleeves

axe swings

            crack

sings out by the living forest

frozen splinters fly

dog sleeps nearby

gloves harden

full frozen of axe handle sweat

young monk appears

a gift

tea

the Sacred Headphones

for this one...

gotta be Mcluhan
gotta be DJ AM
gotta be Bose
gotta be Dre

these are sacred sounds
balance
fades
strings
rilling rims
hammers, pulls
sonic
feedback thrums
bass lines
crackling
pick-ups
humbucker resonance
these are sacred sounds