Scattered Wind Blown Poems

i)

evil spilling down

through a sieve of fools

splattering toxic nonsense

respond with better words, blessing, 

midnight prayers, truth steeped in love. 

ii) 

poet laureate's laurels

scattered spinning in the wind

down the alley

past the overflowing dumpster

and open kitchen doors

iii) 

not much call these days 

for a claw hammer banjo master

folk songs under fall maple trees

iv)

tobacco, or an offering tug

from a plastic whiskey bottle

a song, a poem

all medicine  

I'm a Human Being

up early

pre-dawn dog walk past the Mission

fellow pushing a cart stops me:

"I'm a human being...

and a teacher you know."

He looked up into the sky, 

then back to me.

"Got a word for you... your homework:

find joy."

I handed him some money - 

he pushed it back with both hands.

"Give that to the next saint you meet;

there's one just up the street."

He gave his cart a big inertia breaking push

turned the corner singing.

Holden

I'm with Holden

ready to head north

a solitary cabin

front door held open

by an acoustic guitar 

for a cooling lake breeze

slow beer buzz...all day

sitting on the deck

oaks and white pines above

on darker days

I think of going further

home to Ireland, maybe Scotland

out far on a point

rugged sea washed

small lonely monk island

3:5-6

 some paths are worn

 deep rutted circles

 the same ground pounded

 deep and hard sun baked

some paths are blocked

 black chainlinks barring

 forest walks, rambling dog

 wandering adventures

some paths are crooked

 all roots, stumbling rocks 

 soft sand shifting underfoot

 or swampy mires

some paths are straightened

 by prayers, acknowledgement,

 songs, meditation, kindness

 unconditional hospitality. 

 

Saint John

 John knows

about scarred up souls,

dodging demons, and lying

about being okay

he's so damn good

at sadness. 

evidence in every song,

every poem, every chord.

bless you brother monk

unusual

been a monk for just over 10 years

decade of tonsures and robes

up truck driver early

brewing tea

...and french press coarse grind coffee

sweeping, praying...yeah I'm praying right now.

working through daily duties

tending the temple

walking the dogs

playing guitar in the garden

writing/reading sacred poems

shooting hoops in the driveway

reverse layups - robes flying

ignoring the long looks 

as the neighbours drive by

unusual...indeed.

Later

turns out every prayer

is answered

yes - no - later

no quick conduit to God

even monks have to wait

lately I've rounded out

and aged into the time

of seeing old prayers answered

yeah - dusty  - almost forgotten,

but answered all the same

praying

is the miracle

a monk's list

i)

monk robes cinched up

for work

sweeping  - a typical monk duty

brewing - (more coffee than tea these days)

lessons, poems, prayers

dawn devotions done

the guitar pulled out

to play a new song.

ii) 

thick flat carpenter's pencil

stuck up under the brim

of a gifted baseball hat

marking out lines - 

crossing duties off the list

Love the Poets

sure there is always guru Gord 

then there is the younger ones...

John -  a master of sorrow

he'll break your heart sweetly

Benjamin - a young teacher from the hills:

there's nothing learned from resentment

Charlie - the man that time forgot

Colter - he's writing songs 

after a hard day ranching

keep the poems coming

all you poets

all you poets everywhere

tired monk tired

I know I should rise

(no grave can hold me down)

fight this (epithet) malaise

but this one is heavy

like wet monk's robe

soaked with lake water

too much 

fighting and fleeing 

wearing me out

past tired monk tired

ritual

brewing tea

morning coffee for the abbess

hoppy beer...in my daydreams

a pull

of whiskey, whisky, 

or Kentucky Bourbon from 1773

a last meditative puff

another pull

of a Benson and Hedges

J.E.D. March-19-1927 - January-30-2021

funny how it ends

...what's a better word for funny?

absurd (sorry for the language, 

but more like completely fucking absurd)

no soft "peaceful" slipping to the next world

or slow dimming of consciousness

more like hurtling

a head first hustle, just out, and gone

that's it

bit of blood on the floor

a grocery list

a new wheelchair

an old walker

no fine Irish wake

just a hollow Zoom funeral

anchor

my brother left

oh I remember that one

my mother left (so to speak)

at the same time

my dad?

gone to...long gone

left before I was even born, 

           and I was premature.

...so that's why 

I won't leave

I'm an oversized anchor

an immovable object - pure inertia

a monk rooted down deep 

right through the temple floor

praying for the saints

some will pray to the saints

seeking help for every lost cause 

the tired monk prays for the saints

little unbidden glimpses, prompts to pray

for struggling saints scattered over this world

Chomolungma

1. 

sitting in the waiting room

amidst scattered magazines

chairs 6 feet apart...more or less

guy over in the corner breaks the lingering awkward silence

"every one a these fucking rags is about climbing goddamn Everest"

tosses the National Geographic spinning back onto the table

the Tiredmonk just smiles...under his mask, and nods

another voice 

from behind the nurse's office glass says "Chomolungma" 

The guy in the corner looks at the Tired Monk: "You Chomolungma?"

"...nah man Everest is."

2.  

Used to go walking down to the park.  Right along the lakeshore.  On good days Tenzin would be there walking his massive mastiff. His dog was a female called Chomo; short for Chomolunga.  This is the Tibetan name for Mount Everest.  It means Goddess Mother of Mountains.  Tibetans are good at naming things.

3.  A few years ago us monks got into making our own shirts, then we started making some for our neighbours, now...in this lockdown we design digital art almost everyday.  Here is our Chomolungma design.  We made it for our buddy Tenzin; it is his favourite shirt.  Calls it his "Dog Walking Shirt" .

a trade secret

slick hot water suds

 razor honed sharp 

each stubbly bit removed

pristine monk head 

dried ready...

for a healthy application 

of Brut  - classic aftershave

AM Radio

 the train is cutting up above Superior

"we're out in the bush now...way out"

The AM radio sputters, spits static

not even a glimmer of CBC

cassette player bungeed to a hook

four D Cells located...scrounged from flashlights

the tape clicks into gear, hisses, slow

then Ernest Tubb "Drivin' Nails in My Coffin" pours out

loud n' right in the middle of the chorus:

I'm just drivin' nails in my coffin, Lord
I'm drivin' those nails over you