A Picture of Henry David Thoreau
Sitting under the glare of Hunter S Thompson –
at the concreate table outside of the coffee house
my Mother loved, next to the bookstore she
used to drag us kids into years ago –
the carpenter bees visit the passion flowers as
I fall into a well of thought.
Just one opening of the door, and an image –
a book stares at me, and the bearded David
is sitting on the display table – and over
on a different shelf almost all of Wendell
Berry’s works are hand signed – no mark up
applied to the printed price – a massive cloud
just above, orange hue silver linings – my friends
the mockingbirds are singing – little chirping birds –
talking, talking, talking – but those bees! They root
through over grown vines to find a spectacle of a flower.
I miss my friend John Hagan – we used to sit at
this table – minds wandering, words flowing
alive with conversation – I feel him now. I
can still see him walking down the street –
his glide, hop of innocent happiness,
his loving smile greeting on arrival.
The smell of food, spices and flowers fill the
light breeze as my gaze goes looking up
to that cloud – I think funny honest thoughts.
What if Thoreau was married?
That story he wrote would have been quite different!
What if the Dali Llama had a teenager, rebelling just to rebel?
What were those conversations
we used to have here all about?
I, like Rumi long for my friend!
It is easy to write poetry if your intended audience is God!
These words may or may not matter!
That cloud is gone just like the memory of
many nights, walking these streets, on this road –
years ago –
ecstatically manic and following the thoughts
and words of Bawa, my Sufi teacher! It is easy to
write if your mentor gives you a job, and then
the next thing you know you have half the
shelf dedicated to bringing to life the words of a whirling
dervish. As the sun sets on Hunter, his memory
as large as a building – this paper is coming to an
end – My honesty takes over and my pen could say what is
really on my mind!
But the the feller at the bookstore just walked
by carrying garbage to the dumpster – so I won’t get mad and
let this pen write that I don’t know why I think I should keep going.
Maybe, I should keep my inspiration quiet?
Keep it to myself.
I am waiting for a sign- but all I seem to get is another sun set.
Another cup of coffee – another worried mind,
another mindful thought before I go –
this paper is almost gone!
I was asked by a mad farmer why I decided to write poetry …
My answer was:
“I don’t know.”
I told Wendell Berry once that I had not read all his works.
“You don’t have to!”