Square

Of course, he wanted a boy with good hands.

They were all die-hard Gators fans.

All day he'd pound nails in the Florida Sun,

Countersinking each one in rum from the night before,

And teaching the kid the craft in the waning afternoons.

They'd build a sunroom "For them 'Joneses' - across town".

Make a perfect picture window for a neighbor down the block.

Or not.

"I wouldn't let my dog work for that cock."

And sometimes restless, far and late

The boy would hold the light,

As the man would toil, curse and fight…

Blooding knuckles, smearing nose and tools.

And they'd (two workin' men) drive home again,

Without an honest word.

Next day they'd hammer, cut and screw

And then collect "a fee that's fair".

Smiling. Leaving. Everything

Plumb and square.

And the boy would seethe in his seat,

Silent under his cap, as Hank Williams

Sang out from the dash

To the time of the old man's tap.

~John Patrick Starling

A Dialogue

This is the place you let yourself hear

The sound of your own small voice,

The trees leaning over the little creek

Bending your ear as they speak

In whispers, telling you...

You're home.

The only man made sound is your own.

Off a narrow path where you found the stream,

Maybe a mile or so from the farm, or longer

Where you finally took time to stop your wheels, and

Ignored the appeals of everything pulling at your sleeve

And spoke to yourself in your own way...

Listening closely for what you might say.

~John Patrick Starling

Ten thousand years

Below the bough I sit and meditate

On what will come from pruning life with life.

No answers.

Zen is as Zen does.

Age is an abstraction, and

I could not contain you if I tried.

___________________________________________

I could not contain you if I tried.

Age is an abstraction, and

Zen is as Zen does.

No answers

On what will come from pruning life with life.

Below the bough I sit and meditate.

~John Patrick Starling