snow

snow is layered in thick
muffling the sound
of my Epiphone thunder

Dark Days / Winter's Duties

robes are layered

double thick

warding off 

the north wind 

once more

up the snow dusted ladder

one last untangled strand

wound through 

apple tree branches

a little more light

on this darkest day

of a dark year


the tired monk

winter wood

axe held high
let it fall
 hard
splitting winter wood
 stack it in tight
 to the temple door
 ready for the waiting cold

aged temple dog

i)

aged temple dog
wakes slow
stretches out
old bent legs

heads out
on her
under table rounds

ii)

eyes are going
just a few dim shadows
flicker in the light

ears are pretty much gone
sounds are fading
dancing out just past perception

nose is rock solid good
reliable and true
one final sure and steady sense

a lament

the forest is coming down
the tired monk hears
 the trees fall
cut, split, corded
carted off
chainsaws steaming
in the cold front air

a monk's duty

the tired monk
turns off the news
takes up his rake
gathers wet leaves
ponders and prays
for the world

the tired monk prays for you

no monastery bell rings
calling for this prayer
just a prompting
 pulling
this oh so tired monk
from sleep
to thoughts and words
of blessing for you


the tired monk

home

cabin shed shack cottage camp...?

a hermitage
tucked down deep
in the woods

penguin classics
scattered
from a milk crate fall

Benedictine almost empty
but capped tight tonight

temple dog is bored
 sick of poems
  a little hungry

she looks to the door
 ready to go
up the root gnarled path
to temple hearth warmth
 home


the tired monk

hermitage poems

dry leaves swirl
 whipping in tight circles
blowing in cold front winds


just one more poem
 a quick one
 captured
from a fading dawn dream


temple dog stirs
looks towards the full moonlight
settles back into bed

the tired monk

half and half

brew coffee
and poems

quick

while dreams
still swirl

early fall poem

dawn cracking
gunshots rip
through the silence
shred willow boughs

another burst
 the old hound
 jumps up
 charges down
 to the water

a duck falls
from the morning sky

the demon returns

the demon crept back
sneaking up
past the crossroads

not sneaky enough
to fool
this tired monk

warnings swirl
sulfur laden lies
dark rumours
of his approach

I tuck
a bit deeper
pulled my hood down
slip by quick
shutter the temple doors

Redemption 7 - a tired monk poem

a tired monk

 one of the last

sweeping out

empty cells

spinning dust

soft songs

hummed 

in lonesome halls

Redemption 6

i)

fists are flying
darting out
over smoke puffs
and fury

gym teacher whistle
slices through the taunts

  crowd scatters

hides


ii)

alone
post fight rest
writing
bleeding hand poems

Redemption 5

fingers are stinging
just keep singing 'em out loud
boot stomping
body shaking
bric a brac knick knacks
falling from shelves
I'm a concert in this house

Redemption 4

stoke the fire
wait
for slow steady coals

old reliable
cast iron pan
ready for fresh
thick bacon strips
double smoked

home baked bread
browned hot
on round rocks
mix in
river cooled beers
a most hearty lunch


tuck the pan
back up the tree
    for next time

Redemption 3

pulsing wood stove heat
swirls around exposed rafters
door swings
quick dash for another round
of snow chilled beers

smoke and songs
flow out
high

over the neighbourhood

Redemption 2

long way from winter
but hips still hurting
 from all those long
redline strides
 and hard hockey hits

today
wrapped in hot heat
I mow the lawn
ponder...
 that four goal game
 flashing fists
 locker room beers

Redemption 1

escape
soaring up
 high over broken glass

sweet distance
from problems
and lingering pain

heat

i)

heat lightning
pulsing over the forest
merging with moonlight

ii)

sitting well back
from the fading fire
salty sweat beads
drip
rolling down
spruce guitar top

iii)

dock creaks
with each lapping wave
slip feet into the cool
lake water
        then all the way in

hat floats
down the bay

dealing with demons

the demon
rattles the gates
with impunity
throws curses
and wicked taunts

I bristle
look down
for garden rocks
to fire back
dreaming of lacing one
right off his mocking face

    pause...

my Algonquin elder friend
said: "that is an energy, a dark energy,
that you don't want to mess with."

my Muslim friends say: "ignore that jinn
don't whisper its name".

my Pastor says: "pray"

I drop rocks
pick up my rake
work back
up the path

songs

those songs
the ones that make you raise your hands
wishing you had a sunroof
  glory

those songs
that make you crank the dial
van doors bouncing
with booming bass

those songs
you play over and over again
singing, crying, loving every chord

stocking the pond

clear plastic bag
swirling full
of 41 cent fish
flow
into the garden pond

novice monks run
looking deep
for the gold glints
and silver fin flicks

the tired monk
watches the smiles

b string lament

b string is slipping
too many high end bends
and butterfly vibratos

tune it up tight
strum out those familiar chords
capo down to reach those notes

singing
but the song is empty
without you

solo kitchen party

clicking around
getting deep
into that sweet part
of youtube
tweak the speakers up

pull out my guitar
join in
hammering out
big happy chords

full voice singing
foot stomps the floor
imagining a ragged bass
or Tom's old plank

singing voice soaring out
over the dinner dishes



These are some of the key songs for reference:

https://youtu.be/b-aqQCcWEDM

https://youtu.be/u1XMhdAGDgc

https://youtu.be/GbSKyiSFfYs

I'm pretty addicted to Shovels and Rope at the moment.  

parking lot tears

parking lot tears fall
catch 'em quick
dry each one

no red eyes here
allergies
 allergies I'll say

a heading south poem

six hours straight
up in the cab
quick nap
stretched out
on the bench seat

back on the dawn road
quick waves, nods,
tip of the trucker's hat
merge right
into the first light convoy

trucker haiku

brother trucker's been rear ended
Toyota jammed up tight
rippled metal and smoke

grey

tea cup steam curls
razor's edge honed up sharp
fresh morning tonsure
hot soap drips
over remnant grey stubble

ode to a shed

slow caving
shed roof
sagging shingle tatters
one hinged door
leaning out
over milk crate pile

puddle damp floor
still pooled
in the foot stomp hole
Molson stubby bottles
line the outer rafters

stove stuffed full
broken kitchen chair legs
leaks rusty red
dry leaves spin

morning silence

in morning silence
walking forest path
stealthy slow
the few creaks
from old monk bones
muffled by robes

temple dog sits
stump still
as the ducks
fly in

the mall

last truck backs in
loading shelving
and salable fixtures

rolling out
past full back alley
  dumpsters
stuffed high
with spoiled stock

empty mall
stripped of stores

twenty bucks

worn guitar still
resonate and ringing
steady thumping bass

bar stool beer pitcher
filling slow
crumpled bills n'change
singing for tips

song titles yelled out
as the last tune ends

singer leans in close
"nothing says request
like twenty bucks"

temple dog in spring

old dog
feeling young
getting up speed
to a full run
down to the pond
checking for ducks

ode to lost poems

swirling poems
semi-formed
in my midnight mind

first bell

tired monk
ringing the first bell
as rigs roll out
on empty streets
tires bumping
over frozen leaf piles

morning moments

fire stoking
in the first sun glints
coffee perking
furnace clicking on
whoosh of warmth
rolls across the floor
temple dog scurries
for cereal scraps

tired monk
 pulls a comb
 through damp novice curls
a most beautiful gift
from the abbess

spring nights

tires crunch
breaking ice
and the 4 am silence

smoke floats
and papers fly
out the driver side window

spring hockey

the snowmobile trail sinks
settles into the fading snow
ice cracks flick
into existence
grow
groaning out
over the lake

hockey net slowly tilts
 topples
 into the bay

fever

monks head bowed deep
in sun blocking hood
doubled up
fevers and chills

burning and sweeping
lingering mind rust debris

a thirty hour famine
a forced meditation

crack one eye
look through fading pain

brew a head steadying tea
ready again
for duties and prayers

some nights I just want to listen to hockey

i)

snows melting
sagging deep down
freeing the wheels

ii)

am signal flickers
last edge of the Wings game
rev the engine
push the last miles
into the Blackhawks broadcast

skating

pull on thick wool socks
flecked with wood dust
heel kick 'em in deep
work the laces up
doubled knotted good
canal skates
cinched Gordie Howe tight

the quilt

bit of draft
  down here
low
on this hard wood floor

spread it out
 full and thick
rich in warm colours
 roll around, play
with scattered toys

a cancer blanket
 no more

the plow

snow whipped
blown up

into cold white dunes

blade sparks fly

snuffed 

in frenzied drifts 

rumble plowing

all through

the deep night

the road

measuring the miles
in music
155 songs to go
on through the night
 Johnny Cash
redeeming the road

the axe

sparks spin
honing that edge
thumb test
with one eye closed

plant feet
 wide
  steady
crash it down
splintering hard wood
 n' harsh words

the lamp

flick the lighter
sparks
 then hot steady flame

light the lamp
burn away the dust

tending

acrid smoke seeps
from below
ancient furnace heaves
in a slow, sputtering
basement death

the tired monk
makes his rounds
double covering
dreaming novices

layers the winter robes
for starlit work
 swings
  splits
   stacks
    stokes the hearth

     savors new heat

pilgrimage hill

steady uphill hike
trudge
the high snow line
clamber, climb
throw a leg
over the rock ledge
past the crackles
and dead spot hums
place earphones
tweak the dial
look down
over the valley
soaking in
the strong FM signal

toques, tonsures, and truckers hats

toque over tonsure
  too cold
  for traditional trucker hat
old monk robes falling
well below
the plaid hemmed coat

steel toes swing
down from the cab
quick running board prayer
swinging beads, Bible,
fresh cuppa joe

solid break
 usual stares
  then back on the road

trucker haikus

sweep brown slush
outta the garage
like any old temple monk

fire up the rig
tonsure covered
with thick Mack toque

engine rumbles
shakes the cab
shatters fender ice

strong

heat clicks on
rumbling basement deep
house cold creaks
coffee is extra scoop strong
seeping morning warmth

400

i)

back up from the south
back to bursting snowbanks
sliding through drifts

ii)

early start
even for a trucker
engine hums
wheels caught
in a black ice spin

calm - smile
keep it between the lines

iii)

roads empty
for a hour
or more

just that one guy
out in the dark pre-dawn cold
packing Christmas away





I made it to 400 poems. 

500...here I go...