a death in a zen garden

she found him next to Buddha and his two attendants
arms and legs outstretched like a beached starfish

the gravel had been freshly raked to outline his body
an unlikely death scene in a serene zen garden

some say his master had orchestrated his funeral
others that the truth was known only to the willows

but next day his body was gone and the gravel raked
in patterns resembling waves and rippling water

only the words of his poetry and songs were echoed
the meaning of it all concentrated in the ensuing silence

she that had meant everything and nothing to him
taking her own last breath and reaching for his hand

isn’t this the way death dreams our eternal slumber?
on the point of everlasting meditation, of no return?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sweet wilderness wind

let me sleep in the cleft of your old body
where the sticks and stones will bruise my bones
and the sun will find me between each shadow

it’s where I want to be
it’s the end that I wrote to my story
there where the sagebrush blooms
where the wild horses kick up the prairie dust
and where you’ll find me one day dying

oh come to me sweet wilderness wind
collect your scents and thirsty words
there is no other life for me

no more the traveller I
the poet wanderer no
I’m tired yes
I’m lost and
long grown weary of searching

I lay myself down
stretch myself out
close my tired eyes
pretend I’m comfortable
when all along comfort is no reward
for a sinner

oh come to me sweet wilderness wind
collect your scents and thirsty words
there is no other life for me

 

I was free to dream in Wyoming

I was free to dream in Wyoming
pulled in at the side of the road
considering an epiphany
not a soul in sight
wondering
if I came back here again
would the feeling be the same
the moment and the state of mind
wind dried grasses at the side of the road
silent voices and dark shadows
dizzy under the big sky
thundering of hooves
I look up
there’s no one there
my heartbeat bangs out the seconds
drowns out my whole past
on my knees at the side of the road
consumed by my insignificance
intolerably small
impossible to quantify
my own voice useless against the backdrop
washed into a river bed
herded away by cloud rustlers
I remember thinking
I want to die here
right now
here on this sacred spot
at the side of this road in Wyoming

I was free to dream in Paris

I was free to dream in Paris
when I was a young man
with my head full of ideals
I went looking for the real deal

I was roaming the boulevards
and in the caf├ęs I met poets
and there in the bars I met artists
I went searching for some answers

I was talking to the dead in cemeteries
where mausoleums crumbled
and the paper flowers faded
I went praying to my own truths

I was smoking on the balconies
drinking beer between the daylight
in a hotel down a side street
I went to find my muse under moonlight

I was walking and reading
with a book opened to my mind
lying on grass under glass skies
I went delving in my mind’s eye

I was staring down the river
at grey water slowly moving
knowing also I was passing through
I went knowing I was leaving

I was there for the first time
when I was a young man
and all the world was spinning
I went to ease all the questioning

I was free to dream in Paris
and no-one could tell me not to
not a soul could ever stop me
I went to find my lasting freedom

I was always in my own world
thinking who would come and join me
to be forever dreamers
I went looking for that lover

Yes I was free to dream in Paris
and who could take me back there
oh please take me back there
I went then but now I’m restless

duende

Lorca handed Dylan an Andalusian sunset
the sunset was in the shape of a guitar
and the guitar played gypsy ballads

Lorca handed Dylan a sheet of paper
the words he had written spoke of lovers
and the mountains on which they died

Lorca handed Dylan a host of names
a cast of characters for him to develop
and places where they would unravel

Lorca handed Dylan beauty in sadness
the smell of blood and soil and life
and the heartache between every line