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Grayscale
White and black:
day buried night
in birch paper.
A Zen monk.
Any hat.
Poems on the topic: monk
Poems on the topic “monk” on Poets.by.
Ranter
I rant. My mouth must have
some good Latin to flaunt,
like a monk in the palace
coming to look after his mind.
Anchorite
How at sea he is, that monk!
Join with him and dine on herring,
chant and turn out to row
in a brave cup.
* * *
Three thin monks, southbound
pass a street hawker sporting
that same shade of orange.
Old man shakes his head
but does not move over,
his thumbnails, talons.
On her knees, she sings
at the church door, 10 pm;
is He still at home?
Heat on my left foot
toes crimped against the dresser,
enough for tonight.
“Live in the moment!”
…well, except for that clogged drain
back in my shower.
The madwoman!
The Upstairs Flat
The upstairs flat has been rented by an order of
monks, who get up at 4 in the morning and chant. I'd
almost rather the crazy woman with the TV set that ate
cats was still there, but she got married and moved
to the suburbs.
The monks have purchased the great organ from the
Fox Theatre, but none of them can play it. The crazy
woman had an accordion, and of course when she fed a
cat to the TV the noise was terrific, but I'm dreading
the day they get someone into the order who can play
the organ.
The man downstairs drinks. He hasn't noticed the
monks yet, but some morning when he's coming home from
the bars he'll see the black-hooded figures filing out
of the upstairs flat on their way to St. Peter and
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