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Encounter with Roofer
When he drops his hammer for a noon sandwich
Heís like a Buddha atop a grand stuppa
As bare feet set over the eaves while he reads
Thich Nhat Hanhís Peace is Every Step.
And Thinking his earlier noise bad karma
For making my morning writing an uphill rhyme
I sherpa into the sacred space of his lunch break
And discover heís read the whole of Kornfield
And, like me, practices that walking meditation
where he imagines the soles of his feet
Massaging the vertebrae of mother earthís
tectonic plates. Now, sharing cool aid
And khoans, weíre like Tu fu and Li Po high
Atop some remote mountain peak shading
a river below eroding time and stone.
Later that afternoon, in the silence
which announces the end of his work day,
I'll climb a second time with the gift of a Hahn line
decreeing ìrainwater is the master bodhisattva.
He'll reply those who say they know, don't know;
Those who say they don't know, know.
And though we won't exchange emails
To meet for a tea ceremony
Or to play our Tibetan bowls
As I help him throw the remaining shingles
Then gladly tie down the sliding ladder,
I know the leak of a future sadness has been sealed.
Some Words on Birds and Borders
Let's praise all the worldís birds
unconcerned with shots and passports
as they cross disputed borders
then refuse to seek permission to
touch down on the river's moonlit landing strip.
And let's sing of those crazy, Canadian geese
violating North American Trade agreements
as their bellies import unknown grains
and they don't stop for the bomb
and pot sniffing dogs.
And see how a single winged being
is yet to heed a no fly zone
between this and that warring country
where one general notes
soldiers turn into amateur birders
watching over no man's land
where grouse seek spouses
Along mine-laced gravel roads
And falcons let their young fly over
the steel trees of anti-aircraft artillery.
And Imagine, now,
the seeds of peace being sown
by the peacock caught
between the troopsí cross-fire
or by the mother cardinal nesting
in a tree overlooking the killing fields;
and you--birder of words--
unsure if you can fly into
the altitudes of this altruism
where flocks of hopeful thoughts
are flushed from the single thrush
when did the b-52 of blue heron
ever fail to land, into the pond,
anything but beauty's bomb?
Dennis Camire is a bartender, part-time university adjunct, and the executive director of Maine Poetry Central
which curates the Portland Poet Laureate Program. Some of his recent poems have appeared in Poetry East Magazine and The Spoon
River Poetry Review. His most recent chapbook, Stone By Stone: Poems About the Art of Dry Stone Walling was published by Finishing Line Press in 2010.
Email: Dennis Camire
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