The Boatman Has Grown Thin


The Boatman
has grown thin
He has shaved his head and beard,
limbs are very slight.
And he is wearing rolled up pants
a kin to Gandhi.
He plays his ancient
Oar and mandolin
With an even greater passion
Seen only
In his eyes and
Quickly nimble fingers.
As he plays an eastern tune
by a placid river shore.
The journeys seem
Fewer now.
He doesn’t sing,
Yet his gentle smile is there.
He stops to rest,
puts his strumming hand on heart,
Thankful for another
on one side of the river;
A benign lump
in his throat.

A Gilded Summer Meditation in 3 Parts

So many summers

A rejuvenating
Laying of a gentle
Touch and waste
To skin.

Summer days,
When the heat
And the light
rise white
on city pavement,
And persistent
the mind,
Without the
luxury of repetition;
Simply a lingering taste of
The summer wonder
Of green childhood.

The poplars wave
And clap
A flickering Gold and green
A rustling sound
In balm of sunlit wind.
The grasses
Bowing tasseled
To ground,
And high up
green and
Sky bound,
Boughs sway
In overarching
The boundless brilliant sun.


Call it a a “translation” or reinterpretation of an ancient poet and one of his works:

Your love leads me
along the treed and verdant paths
Along the babbling brooks that speak of vast and endless silence.
I often walk with eyes closed
My blind steps treading
on right roads,
hearing only your music and your name to guide me,
to the sacred destinations of the heart;
And even though at times
I walk encompassed by the depths of darkness,
The darkest forces
Of the night
my faith
your example guide me
To leave me no fear.
And so the bountiful tables
Are often spread out before me
In the midst of all the many that would harbour me ill will;
That would see me harmed and lowly
to placate troubled souls.
Your gifts are many,
rich,and blessings;
a finger dipped in oil,
an abundance
Of the flowing fruit of vine;
Your well springs of
Water, life, and wine
revive me
I seek, I walk,
Sure footed and
In your paths of goodness
and compassion,
To arrive,
And rest finally
in the unending
mansion habitations
of your love.

The Boatman Disappointed

The boatman

Has grown a long
grey beard,
Like a holy man, a monk
With a tall hat,
And a strumming
Ancient oar.
He waits today
and the fates
there are no takers,
For the journey anywhere,
And just before I’m ready
To pay his fare and more, to distant shore
He overturns his boat
On sandy shore,
and disappears.
Somehow, sometimes,
we all retire and disappear

instead of waiting,
To succeed,
Just before the next new
Is about to pay;
But tomorrow;
Tomorrow is yet
another day.

The Land

The land was distant

and unknown.

Fathers had spoken of it often,

but back then we simply

couldnt have known


there was no becoming then.

We were not ripe,

We we were not grown.

Years past

we laboured

and it remained

a sepia coloured

picture slightly stained.

A place far away

and vast;

A place away,

A place unknown,

A place of peace,

And just a dream,

a single digit out of grasp.

A place trees,

of dancing leaves,

of stone,

of flowing streams;

A place of sunlight

set in midday dreams,

that quiet white blankets

covered on distant winter eves.

As generations grew

to men and women,

as did the strifes and labours too,

with loss and fear,

And costly prices paid

the children died,

the children grew.

Yet with many long and distant


coursing back and forth,

sometimes with the many,

sometimes one alone,

The father’s dream in time


the children’s

father’s home.