staying the course

i)  Tired Monk's View

path is iced over
steadfast boots
slide deep
fill with snow
             somedays
even monks slip

ii)  Temple Dog's View

temple dog is on a scent
something hot
tinged with human

big deep snuffling, snorting,
ah    just spilled coffee

always the cold

temple is frost heaved n'shifted
little cracks
welcome the cold
       creeping low
across the floor

the tired monk fights back
with hot hearth logs
and doubled wool socks

stars n'guitars

i)

starlight glimpses
quick n'sly through
low hanging campfire smoke

ii)

that guitar a yers
it looks like yah
walked out in to tha deep woods
hewed that guitar outta
some storm blown
lightening burnt tree

yep -
that is how I get them gnarly old sounds



I'm trying to capture the real Lanark County/Ottawa Valley Accent.

Imogen's Poem

tucked up neat n'deep

in monk robes
soft baby murmurs mix
with soft strummed chords


Brother Ollie

flurry of winter poems

i)

snow blower starts on the first pull
growls to life
tired monk sets the choke
smiles

ii)

touque slips to a jaunty angle
almost slides off
the hot tonsured head

iii)

temple dog does a quick check
smells the rabbit tracks
looks out into the white forest
runs back inside
the open temple door

iv)

tired monk ponders
thinks to his Belgian Brewing Brothers
and the winter air
slipping in under the garage door
cold enough to keep a chill in the beer

Movember Monks

monks tuck
razors away..more or less
just a quick flash
across the face
to create
a most unmonkish moustache




Us monks have changed our shaving rituals, for this month of Movember only, to love, and support our brothers, fathers, friends and sons.

The abbess's father, a most jolly Benedictine monk, is fighting prostrate cancer.

Also a brother monk begins his battle with testicular cancer this week.

Please support us:  HTTP://MOTEAM.CO/HILLCREST-MO-HAWKS

Join our team.  Pray for the health of our brother monks.

Lost Saints or a Monk's Lament

so many old saints
  scattered
far afield
or dusty faded
from my life

gone to
those lost
lingering links
saint's prayers
just a click away


time to gather all the saints

Brother Gary

Gary is a guide
he took me up mountains
echoed poems
off Desolation Peak

brewed campfire tea
focused my eyes
on the beauty
of nuts n'grime
hard work sweat

pointed his walking
stick up through
pine tree tops
and the blue night stars



Mine is about my favourite poet Gary Snyder; another good friend of Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac.   You may know him by his Kerouacian pseudonym: Japhy Ryder.  I've hidden the name of my very favourite poem somewhere in here...do you see it?

night prayer

rattled awake
by a lost n'lingering thought
a late night nagging
an image of your face
I pray
blessings to you




Lately, I've awakened at night with a vivid image of someone to pray for, so I do.

ha - maybe this is why I'm the Tired Monk

a good misty morning

flame darts out
sparks
the first
early dawn smoke

slow coffee sip
bitter
black
cheap

settle down into
sagging porch chair
inhale

ponder
morning valley fog

through the mist
burst of warm colour
monk on a mountain bike
waving g'day

cigarette dangles
falls

grumpy monk

robe snags
stumbles
headlong
from the path

sandaled toes
explode
into gnarly oak roots
temple dog flees

monk grumbles
ramping up to a
staff swinging rant

abbess waits
brews tea
kisses tonsured head

rough poem

cool
just shy of a killing frost
enough to shrug
the old lumberman coat
up over summer
robbed shoulders
awkward
       warm

a Monk in August

the day heat
sits deep inside
temple rooms

the tired monk goes
dutifully
window to window

lets in the cool
August night air

a monk swim

floating
eyes down
below the surface

legs beating
slow
just enough
to keep these old monk bones
from sinking

novice voices n'laughs
sound clear over the bay

steady elementary backstroke
back to the beach
and into monk robes

falling photo

the photo falls
slips out
from between
the pages

the last one
from the role
an over exposed edge
dipped in yellow light

the other side
a bit blurry
my wife
and my lost brothers

night walks

i)

heat breaks
late
little breeze
rustles in

glistening skin
finally dries

the tired monk
walks the forest
bathes in the new cooler
cold front air


ii)

hemlocks and pines ally
to block the star light
and banish moon beams

still the monk walks
back to the temple
guided by firefly light

silent poem

a poem
a small poem
etched out of the silence
just a few pen scratches

last note
of a fading song


Brother Ollie

miracles

he speaks of miracles
wants to see one
a big one

fingers lost in the lathe
woven back on

partially paraplegic grandfather
tossing his walker away

dialogue slips to a rant

cancer screenings coming back clean

barren moms birthing babies

all the lost ones
loved

the tired monk finally slips in one word

pray

pray?!


yes

praying is a miracle

new strings

new strings
each notes rings
a little truer today

new strings
a little bright
that'll fade to
resonant warmth

storm shaken

dawn storm
       interrupts
ritual morning walk

temple dog hears
the thunder rumbles first
looks to the sky
bolts

back to the safety
of home

a stuck poem

the poem
     small as it is
bounced and skittered
off the b-string
plink

now it rattles
like a lost pick
sound hole deep

sand

he said to bury my toes
wiggle 'em in the sun warmed sand
feel the tide reach in slow

I buried my toes in the wet damp earth
just some mouldering leaves...

no sand here



somedays the universe humbles you - and maybe that is a blessing - Peace to all you poets - 

Brother Ollie

scales

pentatonic scales
sliding around
reaching, searching,
finding the key
bending low gauge strings
looking for hidden half notes
hammering on
hammering off


deep in tired monk method

80% of the notes ring true
100% played passionately

hearts

a sad cycle repeated
a generational blood washed theme
from babies
to lingering grandfathers

more scalpels, tubes, purple scars
oh these sputtering hearts.

monk's tools

chip off the lingering rust
grind it
down
to a sharp sheen

refit the new sanded handle
in good n'tight

can't fix anything
with broken tools

tonsured poems

the last remnant hair falls

shaken loose from robed shoulders

a little more grey this time

little baby monk hands rub

laughing at the stubble feel

then a kiss 

on this funny monk head

heaven

far off
just at the limit
of tired temple dog legs
a clearing

sun beams
cut the very sky
cloud splitting heaven
chords spill


it ends
a blink of an eye moment
less than a scientific second
a few tears roll

the monk
gathers the remnant notes
a small gleaning of glory

late spring haiku

white pine wandering
quick steps n'hops
over slushy rivulets

5:57

head foggy thick
early morning
deep dream muddled

shake those lingering dreams
out and away
with a strong french roast

Anvil Poem

sledge hammer swings
big thunder cracks
metal heats good n'hot

sweat beads flow
soaking hem deep
hammer raised high

weight crashes down
dust cloud flies - swirls
hammer head splits

  broken

a reminisce poem

once
long hair
 viking blonde
swept and fell
over these frets


today
 as razored head bows
loose monk robes
flow over
ringing strings

dawn fox

turkey feathers blow loose
twirl in the wind
just off the trail

old fox slinks home
low in the first dawn shadows
sated, but cold

Abbess at Dawn

no dawn daylight
no bird songs sounding
yet the Abbess awakes
to her day of duty

the tired monk rises
flicks on some low lights
brews her favourite tea
prepares a path
for his most loved one

Coffee Ceremony

good old well water
from the deep and cold
right mix of beans
a few lighter browns
many more darks

ground up precise
bang the grinder
shake loose the
last few remnants
of this perfect blend

now the brewer
today...Bodum

boil, pour, soak, wait
a few grinds bubble
float up...wait
a solid patient pause

ready - press slow n'steady
this most sacred brew
for the tired monk

the last winter poem

late night
low snow plough rumbles
back-up beeping
blue lights flashing
metal blade scraping - shooting sparks

the tired monk
now awake
picks up his shovel
joins in

night in the snow temple

i)

snow is laying in thick
trees bend
branches snap
temple beams creak

power flickers twice
     dies

tired monk keeps on
reading
by candle light

ii)

even the candles
     die
red wax on the temple floor

tired monk strums
a few lost n'lonely chords
this old guitar has new strings
resonates deep
into the dark

poem duty

snow whips in sideways
pelted face stings

notebook pages twist, rip
frostbit hand settles them

pen darts in quick strokes
finishes poem's last line



even in the midst of the apocalypse
the world needs poems  
                              - the tired monk

on snow and coffee

snow swirls
into the black
of my coffee
even here
deep under
hemlock boughs

incense

first predawn temple bell sounds
tired monk shakes his head
to stir the first prayer

select beans are ground up right
water to coffee ratios seem sound
soon...french roast incense

song fragment

you are the chords
i hear before they're strummed
you are the chords
i play with my eyes closed
you are the chords
the ones that resonate

you are the notes
you are a love note

cold front

temple windows rattle

icy branches snap

layered robes fly up

hearty tired monk laugh

impractical dress

in these cold front winds

Tumbled Robes

last duty done
temple lights dimmed

dark

robes tumble off
tired monk slides into bed
slow and silent
as the abbess sleeps


post dreams
pre dawn
pre light
the tired monk wakes

reaches blindly
for those tumbled robes
tosses them over
his cold bald head

starts the kitchen fires

gather the monks

gather the monks
tune the guitars
strum it out loud

find the key
work the fret
join in
pick out the notes
big
full
resonate
bend every note
in pentatonic perfection

head shaken

morning bell sounds
tired monk rises
flicks routine switches

pauses

shakes his foggy head
clearing it out
gathering for the day

a temple dog night

one last rattling door check
lights off  - candles out
tired monk duties done
good night

the temple dog rises, stretches
dashes from her dog bed
to the warmth of the couch
good night

post Christmas lights

Christmas lights dangle
shaken storm loose
cast waving colours
over the new snow

monk soup

still a little shaky
fevers fading
chills beat
by monk brewed
soup and tea

Sick Monk

shaking chills

even deep down

in monk robes

buried in blankets

bathed in fireplace heat

a most fitful sleep

finally woken

by poems boiling

in fevered dreams