On the way back home
in the taxi
we bickered and bickered
the cabby kept his counsel.
It was over something petty.
Halfway home I stopped
because someone had to.
We have to let go, I said, remembering Buddha’s words
about attachment.
At the traffic stop, windows down
we could hear the birds flustering in the big tree
near the church
settling in for the night.
The yellow moon shone down.
We grew quiet as a Xmas tree
when the lights are all
turned off.
Frothing.
Don’t go frothing at the mouth.
It is not a good look.
Don’t go wacko.
Your last post was a disaster.
Thankfully few saw it.
Retain some semblance of control.
Do something peaceful.
Eat a fig.
Blessed.
So here am I
out on the sun deck
my sunnies and I
eating toasted garlic bread
looking out over the blue waters
of the lake
and feeling blessed;
you don’t have to be dashing around Corfu
or going wild at a rock festival
to be having a good time;
just sitting out here is enough
at peace with myself and the world,
knowing I have done good.
Jacket.
Someone once asked me to write a poem
about a jacket.
I didn’t know what to write except how it waits
quietly in the closet
like the car in the driveway
the strawberries in their punnets,
the placid souls at Centrelink in their
green plastic chairs,
the patience of the poem upon the page.
No tapping of fingers.
Gruff looks.
Drawing attention to oneself.
Most humans are not like that.
We’re tricky,
Unreliable.
We can go off anytime.
Which is why I turn to things
for solace and assurance.
Things don’t break your heart.
Jetties.
Jetties are long and sturdy.
You can stand
upon jetties and think
you are at sea , look safely
into the black
throbbing heart of a storm ,
watch the waves roll in
like liquid
mountains . People lean
from jetties , dream from jetties
fishing for
tranquility .They are
walkways into and out of
the mind . Umbilical
chords attaching us to the sea .
The white magnolia sits
placidly on its stem
pays no heed to the whining
of the wind
the comings and goings of Davis Court
its passions and whims
the white magnolia sits placidly
on its stem
Get your head
out of yr ass,
said my mentor;
all things must pass;
look around;
be here, now;
look at the cows
in the field,
how placid they are
learn what I cannot teach;
imbue the wisdom
of the naked beach
I like that my head is empty
in the morning,
an airy spacious room,
a palace of equanimity,
not filled with the barnstorming
clatter of morning TV
Three nights of frazzled sleep
crammed into four hours on the couch
mellowed by malbec, merlot, mataro
an afternoon of tasting platters & wine samplings
at Penny’s Hill where black-faced sheep slumbered
under the oak; now you slumber so gently:
sweet Lethe has taken your troubles over the border;
you will awaken and forget
Somewhere
Somewhere remote
somewhere bespoke
for those
who practice civility
a castle you can row out to
a stronghold
of equanimity
no messy emotions
no urge to outdo
a castle with a billy goat
nestled in a sea
of robin egg blue.
pic courtesy of Pinterest
John Malone 
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