SELECTED POETRY

by
Wayne Mason

STRETCH YAWN SCRATCH

Dazed and silent
still in yesterdays clothes
under the snowy dawn
of a new day outside my window
stretch yawn scratch I shudder
and throw on a pot of coffee
and a winter coat
to stumble out onto my front porch
to investigate the surrounds
of a new day
I slowly set my weary bones
down upon the cold concrete
of the cold front porch
settling into lotus position
to meditate like Kannon
intently and patiently
on every sound of the world
I close my eyes and breathe deep
The sound of my breathing
and pittering of my heart are immense
followed by the sound
of occasional birds chirping
across the pink horizon
somewhere in the distance
a big rig shifts gears
pulling its rig up
the hilly rural back roads
going to who knows where
maybe north to Cleveland
east to D.C.
or west all the way to California
through sedate middle America
cutting a swarth through
the massive landscape of the Rockies
With the downtrodden aging rebel
much like my own father
behind the wheel
I hear that sound of silence again
which again is anything but silence
but rather the presence of all sounds
A dog barking in the distance
the sound of dainty twigs
snapping under the weight of snow flakes
the sound of my coffeepot
gurgling and coughing

© Wayne Mason

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HILLTOP

Downtrodden beggar
alienated with a
calloused hand placed
on a dirty window
stomach grumbling
tickled by
smell of curry
and the smoke
of nag champa curling
and dissipating
into tiny universes
while Ganesha
and nameless ma·ha·ri·shi
cast whimsical stares
Behind aged counters
brown skinned woman
bathes her children
in dingy sinks
while Yogi
hair slicked back
Western style
watches American news
I stand there
enveloped in
personal ecstasies
waiting to buy
six pack and lotto
The closest I’ll come
probably
to religious experience
in suburban America
2005

© Wayne Mason

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DOWNTOWN DOWNHEARTED

Hustling down
crazy neon streets
and bustling
crowded sidewalks
all these people
too busy to cast
a half hearted smile
too self important
to be kind

All these people
meandering through
this urban madhouse
creating enough frenetic
pulsating energy
to power this
entire city
but not enough
compassion
to illuminate
one single
heart

© Wayne Mason

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WHAT A DIFFERENCE TEN YEARS MAKES

At twenty-one
stumbling drunk
down Main Street
past slick chicks
in knee high boots
with upturned noses
seeing the dharma
in empty beer bottles
and poems scrawled
on cocktail napkins
or meditating on motion
out of greyhound windows
like you could live
forever and ever
Waxing poetic
in coffee houses at midnight
like you could change
the world

At thirty-one
driving home
down factory alley
past smoke stacks
and gray clouds
scratching your beard
spying beggars
on dirty street corners
through bloodshot eyes
in beer bottles
nothing but void
desiring to change
nothing but your clothes
figuring out the hardest
part of growing old
isn’t finding out
who you are
but finding out
what you aren’t

© Wayne Mason

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