Easter Sunday

shuffling through
morning prayers
coffee brewing
temple dog walks

down the street
 distant in the dark
  a lady
rolling down
into then out
of our deep ditches

tossing Busch, and Bud cans
into her cart
singing softly
 hallelujah
   hallelujah
    hallelujah

guitar face

Whatcha playing?
What's that song?

i don't know
it's the one...
that makes me beat
out the time
banging it out
all along the floor boards
scaring the temple dogs

i don't know
it's the one...
with hammers, n'pulls
big e-string rumbles
the one i get lost in

you know
the one that brings
on the guitar face

type

i)

whatcha got there?

this here is
   a semi-automatic typewriter

yah need a license fer that?

   not yet


ii)

a old remnant pulled outta
deep basement corner
a bit dusty
but surges to life
ready for words


the tired monk

salt

monk robes hang
below shrugged on parka
tattered hem soaked heavy
in clinging ice

bare monk feet
wellington warm
ploughing through crusted snow
temple dog runs back up the trail
at the next gusty cold wind blast

---

mitts on vents
sweaters over chairs
robe dries slowly by the kitchen fire
remnant snow boot puddles disappear
leaving only a few salt rings

a question

you really the tired monk?

yeah
bone weary tired
beat burdened
but still ready
to serve

propped up
by temple dog walks
a few warm holy songs
maybe a slug of highland healing
bit of Drambuie warding
off this winter cough

yep
held up by these monk robes

...just

hallway lament

overheard hallway lament:
"ain't bin no fights...I wanna see a fight"

ha

they'd been in the wrong hall
missed the big lumbering guy
tossing dumb looping
shoulder smacking haymakers
little fella quick ducking
and dishing out feisty jabs

yeah

everybody is looking for fights
'til the blood is a hot stream
a steady rivulet
misting with every breath

later - they just desire
busted knuckle ice.

scattered bits n'fragments

i)

tired
deep temple dog tired
tired of wars
...words
n' wars on words

tired of fighting
pushing on the last few
fading monks
to move
just move

ii)

coffee pot
bottom burned black
       needs scrubbing
morning of wet monk
sleeves

iii)

energy drink cans
scattered up the ditches
or squashed flat
and paved over
in the pre-frost rush

iii)

this violin
is a fiddle in these hands
sawing  - mingling
with Americana chords
lifting n'healing
yer broken heart


 -  Tired Monk notebook poems