The glistening
where light hides
after rain.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
I hear it
in the darkness,
the monk says;
I hear it
at the edge of light
and in full sun,
everywhere,
the voice that bears
repeating.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 7:58 AM
What would be
sorrow hawk
does not know.
She knows
only hunger.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Monk forgets
he is monk.
He wonders
when will the
lovely young
things love me?
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:50 AM
The dry grasses
stand winter-
proud against
spring rain.
Somewhere lurks
the dream within.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The old monk's plan
is to make no plan.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 7:42 AM
Not the
begin-
ning, not
the end --
this one
moment,
glowing.
Always.
The stars
know it.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Where the rock
has broken,
the old monk says,
eternity turns.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:44 AM
Metaphor as
message
for what the
poem does.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The old monk
doesn't want
directions when
he's getting lost.
If I can't find
the way, he says,
the way finds me.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:27 AM
I am one
cell in the
greater beast.
You are too.
When we are
gone, it still
goes on.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Raven
wears winter
like a coat,
something
the old monk
understands.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 11:15 AM
Mr. Death
said, Come
with me.
No, I said,
not yet.
Said he:
we'll see.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Mountain. Rock
the color of
blood. In this
wind he would
test the wings
of angels.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:27 AM
This moment
knows it is
this moment.
It waits for
me to say
it: This, now.
Now this one.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The monk's
refreshment --
cold water
from the rock,
a mountain stone
for a pillow,
the singing wind,
and soon the stars.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 10:04 AM
Send my ashes
to some rocky
sharpness on Mars.
I haven't done
enough for this
earth to want me.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Distance is time
times his desire.
In the darkness
the old monk wears
stars in his hair.
All he wants is
a little something
in his cup and
never having
to explain.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 10:14 AM
Where the wear
marks mark
the earth. If
you can't see
them, I will
show you.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
I would
invite you to
walk with me,
the monk says,
if you can
tell me where
we're going.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:45 AM
To whom
does the poem
speak
that they
do not answer,
that they
cannot?
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The uncertainty,
another day,
another dawning.
The old monk has
nothing. Where does
he go from here?
# posted by Tom Montag @ 10:18 AM
Resurrection:
we are
the stuff of
dead stars.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The monk
travels,
wishing
for less
of every-
thing. With
his sack
full of
empti-
ness, he
gets what
he wants.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:28 AM
Death is
a patient
merchant:
knows
we are all
buyers;
knows
no one else
is selling.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Off
the
edge
of
edge,
loss.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 10:42 AM
A weed is
the flower
you don't want;
the desert
an emptiness
like your heart.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Do not fear
the pain you know.
It already wears you
like an old coat.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Love's frenzy
and its sweet
meat. How we
held off the
tasting. How we
teasted ourselves
until the silver
moment of this
moment.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:14 AM
Our twin
is the
dying
we go
into.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The red-wing
blackbird
sings the ice
out again
this spring.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:42 AM
So much
nothing, a
concentrated
wish of
silence, an
experienced
emptiness, a
door closed
and secured.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Sometimes
only
one word,
this one:
evening.
Sometimes
that one
in the
morning.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:59 AM
Cannot believe
all this universe
is only here
just for us.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Chew this, crow says,
offering me
my own tongue.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 7:42 AM
The light
goes
into the
darkness,
which goes
on and on.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Wind and long
light laying
the tall grass.
This is how
evening comes.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:52 AM
Wind in
South Woods.
The trees
speak for
themselves
and
sometimes
the cranes.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Long light
caressing
the hawk.
Red-tail
dreaming
evening.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:06 AM
All the
sudden
birds know
which way
to go.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The fade
of sky
as the
wind dies
and trees
begin
to speak
with stars.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:45 AM
Wind
from the west.
Finally
the world
makes sense.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
The day
lets loose
towards
evening;
the wind
falls down.
What you
hope for,
though, is
seldom
what you
get.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:10 AM
Perhaps
it is
the light
I write of
perhaps
the darkness
I fear.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Where the sun
becomes a tree.
Where the tree
becomes a hawk.
The color of
this light.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:23 AM
Every-
thing shines
in crow's
dark eye.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Ring around
the poetry pole.
No one knows
what no one knows.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:06 AM
Not the poet's
knowing
the poet's
knowing
he doesn't
know.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Water and sky.
From here the distance.
Beyond it, more.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 7:22 AM
Blue, as
a color,
the absence
of knowing,
lost like
what you might
have said.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Coyote offers
promises.
Raven will get
what is left.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:51 AM
All things
at evening
call to us.
We come
running for
darkness.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
Distance
times time
plus wisdom
divided
by hope
gives you
the way
back home.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:37 AM
If what is lost
returns as sorrow,
be strong and hold
the emptiness
as if a friend
embracing you.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
A loose
grey sky,
yet nothing
stays hidden.
Hawk's eye.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 9:14 AM
Shine
of a jet
plane or
an evening
star. Salmon
sky as
day fades.
Loneliness
sets its
own tableau.
All we know
is nothing.
On the wind
some snow.
Bring what
night brings,
Lord. And
forgive me
the darkness
which bleeds
the light.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
In this wind
the darkness.
Nothing lifts
like crow.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 8:36 AM
We are not
what we think
we are
until we
dream: then
we are
what we are,
everywhere
at once.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 6:00 PM
If not an
actual hawk,
the idea
of hawk
tearing the
mouse apart.
# posted by Tom Montag @ 7:52 AM
