Grandpa's Workshop or Time Travel, Carrots

suddenly,
it is no longer six-fifteen in the morning,

and i am no longer watching the peels curl

down the length of the carrot before flipping

to the floor

i have been transported back to

nineteen eighty seven, or thereabouts,

and the peels of the present settle 

upon the piles of sawdust that cover

the floor of grandpas workshop.

my hands are no longer my hands,

the peeler is no longer peeling carrots.

my hands have become grandpa's

and the peeler a plane, my hands

are smoothly peeling the surface

of some walnut or cherry,

the small curls flipping down 

to the floor

i watch our hands, marveling

at how the strokes reveal the marbled

beauty of the grain lying below the surface,

and my tears missing grandpa mingle 

with the onions, and suddenly

it is six-twenty-five in the morning

Poem: "Grandpa's Workshop or Time Travel, Carrots" Patrick Lynch 

Photo: Unknown

That's Where

Zen up and over, zen around, zen traversing deer trails through forgotten forests. Deluge at hand but it worries me not. Circumnavigating large bodies of water that spread out like tail feathers. Lightning flashing and thunder clapping. Wild dog in his element. Rain coat and sandals, a middle way 'cause the heavy drops encourage your feet to keep on going to that's where. Sky above the storm too bright, too intense for these eyes. Deliberate ignorance to such heavens is best for the hiker who wants nothing more. Motives nil, keep the mind focused on the next step to that's where. Pebbles between feet and soul tell me I'm on the right path, following on the heels of forever, but only feeling the dirt and the water and the electrically charged air.

Poem: James Gagnon
Painting: "Plastic Beach Nudes 14," by Vangobot

God has cared for these trees, saved them from drought, disease, avalanches, and a thousand tempests and floods. But he cannot save them from fools. 

Quote: John Muir

"I am, as I am; whether hideous, or handsome, depends upon who is made judge."


-Herman Melville

of a wave

without thought

the meanings slide into

deeper understandings

words thought become heard

laughter in the wake of

simultaneous combustion

eyes up, face front

guard down, acceptant

willfully unarmed

knowing that intention and

realization are planetary

constantly in rotation

about whatever looks

like a sun

something to dance with

an opposite that breeds

itself through exposure

teachings untethered tide

XLVII

I was born just thirty years ago, 

but I've wandered a million miles already. 

Along the River through the green grass on the 

     banks, 

out to the borderlands, where the red dust roils. 

Chewed herbs, cooked up alchemical elixirs, 

trying to become an Immortal. 

Read all the Writings, chanted the Histories 

     aloud, 

trying to learn them all by heart...

Today I'm on my way 

home to Cold Mountain. 

There, I'll bed down in the creek, just to wash out

     my ears 

LIV

Sun's yang light failing, down the Western Peak;

the grasses caught the light, and flowered with it. 

And again, the dark came on, moon waiting like a 

     hidden dragon, 

among the intertwining branches of vine-covered 

     pines. 

Here, just here, a tiger waited, 

bristling, hackles up, to meet me. 

Not a pen knife in my hand, 

I tried, I tried to know no fear, 

but my heart was all ears, all ears. 

Poems: "of a wave," by Robert Lescatre; "XLVII" and "LIV" by Hanshan from his collection "Cold Mountain Poems." 

Photo: Rawlings "Ozzie Smith Gamer" currently valued at $12,500.