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