Keukenhof

birds of bronze
on the wing
tulips hugging

blossoms rise
to meet the sun
greet the tourist

then to ground
by wilt, to make
fine soil, more tulips

What Monk Poems Are

Monk poems are contemplative in origin.  

They arise from persistent focus and 

consistent intent then issue in some 

nonresistant notice relative to 

matters of spirit correlation.

They are sutra-like in their making, at best 

rendering concise but comprehensive, 

if cryptic, sayings with content certain, 

when integrally understood by those 

concerned with spirit.

As such monk poems point to the monkhood

of us all, our best self.  The monk within us all 

is the best self of each striving to be 

free, so faithful as to be able to face all 

with clarity: compassion: charity. 

Best self is tested each day by the spur of 

every moment calling us to accept with grace 

whatever rises, no matter the turn of events.  

The best self, if not perfect, is always 

on the way to perfection.

Deep

down

the pit

the soul

abide

a light

drilling

the dark

deeper

still

Monk self accepts itself as it is, as it is not.

Scouting

As a boy, Scouting helped me 

to live in a diverse world.  

Scouting taught me to respect 

others in their difference.  

This served well the Golden Rule 

I was learning in my church:

Treat others as you want to be treated. 

Today I find the teaching

within all the religions.

’Tis a pity, their faithful

too often fail to follow.

More’s the pity, today’s Scouts 

learn the rule their leaders rout.

Value-based, they say.  If so,

I guess their values I doubt.

Boy Scouts of America

discriminates against gays

and it also practices 

faithism . . . faith-based bias.

Just like my church, United Methodist.

Is Life But a Dream?

At times life is a parade

in a tumultuous rain

that starts as a monsoon then

turns into a tsunami.

Wait, . . . no, 

that’s not life . . .

that was 

last night’s dream.

At times I confuse the two

and who can do poetry

in a confused state . . . like mine,

which is, like, Alabama.

What is, and what is not, are

so nearby, the difference 

can be difficult to tell,

like that door of Beckett’s play

“imperceptibly ajar.”

Now, dear reader, if a door

be in such state, can we say

whether it’s open or closed?

At times a mind is like that.

Room for One

Truly it is not what’s out 

there that presents my sure plight, 

keeping me from my delight.

Surely it is not some lout

next door awaiting to plot

my true and humble demise.

So it has to be the bout

convulsing here inside me

hiding from me such device

that with tick-tock precision

does the wrong I’d rather not,

shuns the right I know to do.

So be it, on the cushion

of contemplation there sits 

only me . . . myself . . . mere I.

Dust

It appears to be taking

over the house I live in.

Some of it happens to be

skin cells I daily do shed.

Otherwise it’s ev’ry place

I go, and is predicted

(by scripture) to be lying

in wait for me, and for you.

Dust to dust, ashes to ash ―  

we all know our prognosis. 

Wherever we go, there we 

must be, but rusting at bay.

And yet, when I go to make

a poem, time and place slip 

away, leaving nowhere for

me to be found, or found out.

There, in my very absence,  

poems are found, dusting things.

Words Act

 Words . . .

without them, speech would dry up.  

A mouth would do nothing but 

breathe and eat, maybe whistle.  

Take away words and all books 

would vanish into thin air—

let alone the Internet.  

All those fine Hallmark greetings  

would pass away like postcards 

from travel spots, or letters from battles.

Sermons would melt in the dust

like so much hot air, as would

all political fare, say lawmaking.

Imagine counseling or

car-selling or carousing

without words—too tongue-tying.

No song would ever be sung

and no say of how we feel, 

think, dream, mourn or imagine—

save for paintings, photographs,

dance, instrumental music:

every meaningful gesturing

act . . . 

like kissing, hugging, holding

hands, or the attentiveness 

of another’s piercing gaze.