I Find It Fitting

for my upcoming volume, Mincing Words with Whitman

I find it fitting,
Walt, that a hawk
sits sentinel above
the dust you
have become - this
dirt we all bequeath
to them above.

It screams enough
to let you know
that I have come
to sit, to loaf, to lean
into the day, the day itself.

On this spectacular
of summer days,
the granite blocks strewn
about your grave are
the only seats a man
can find to sit his soul
down to mull, and muse
and ponder the sufferings
of this life.

No church is unlocked,
nor temple is unbarred.
No amphitheater left open
save the truest Colosseum -
where everything sits out
under this marvelous sky.

How is it that we have
weedled contemplative
loafing out of our human
agenda and desire?
It is a sadder day
for sure. How have we
seen it fit to order
every moment of our days with
an endless list of tasks? It
is untamable at best.

It is grand
that we have not -
as of yet - learned
how to keep
the messy acorns from
falling. It is glorious
that the weeds have
learned to mock us
with their tenacious
gift of towardness
and lifing.

Some things will out
even if we prey
on them and seek the
desolation of their being.

But here, sitting
where no man or woman
has a vote, where no
quorum is possible at all;
here, where no take-over
or no buy-out approaches
the lips of those planted
here in this soil - them
that abide here. Here,
my hope is once again
given wing that the
madness of our human
ego will one day rest.
One day a calm
will prevail. Oh,
that men would taste
it before the ground.
Oh, that women would
touch it before
the grave.

It is here,
in this present
instant and ancient
hunger to learn
and loaf and love the
allness of all there is.

Rehearsal for Summer

The first
warm wind blows
in

across the lake,

carrying the
air of summer.

It is early still

too young a day
in Spring
to be this warm.

My skin
feels the
need to smell
the baked earth
and warming chamomile
of Summer

but it is
not there,

it is not here.

Ants are
crawling their way
out of the dirt

looking for food
that has not yet
grown.

This

will be
a rehearsal
for the days
of Summer
that are
yet to come.

we will try
again
as the days
wear on - slowly.

photo by the author

Morning Prayer

The cool stillness
of the morning abbey
soaks the prayers into
me as warmth and heat.

There is a pause, here;
there is a pause
between the words,
between the lines
of mourning;
the lines of prayer;
the lines of beseeching.

I used to think the words were the
prayer; today, and perhaps
through all time,
it is the pause.

The Trees Chant

The wind
blows steady
over the surface of
the frozen lake.

From the hills
it carries the sound
of trees chanting
the chants
of the monks
of old.

Gregorian tunes
mingle with the
rattle of leaf on
leaf.

If you hold your
heart still
in the gray morning
hours, even the
cry of the hawk
rises as a prayer

like incense
to the nose of
the ALL-WISE.

An aroma of
piety
and song of
salvation
blows in across
the stillness
of the frozen lake.

Blows in and sets
us free.