Walmart Samadhi
by Steve Quirt

I saw my aunts and uncles at Walmart, and cousins too,
       all dressed-up in their town clothes and out shopping.

The uncles were big men, honest for the most part, and loyal to the family.
They wore plaid, and sometimes wide suspenders and some tattoos.

They liked tools and fishing and automobiles - especially trucks.
They have jobs at
       the farm supply store
            and the auto parts store.

My aunts and cousins were buying new school clothes.
The aunts were big, and their big purses jingled with love as they pushed their carts,
       flowered dresses flowing.
             Mostly they laughed and gossiped.

The cousins were everywhere,
       boys and girls
              and teenagers with cool hair cuts.
They clustered around the candy machine
        at the McDonald's stand.

The uncles ordered black coffee,
       and warm chocolate chip cookies for the cousins.
The Aunts ordered black tea with cream and sugar.
               Everybody was taking a break!

I saw my great Uncle Phil over near the fishing gear,
        just south of the Vision Center.
He was looking at fish hooks, and was in no hurry.
               His big hands went slowly over the fishing poles.

My cousin Ken and cousin Danny
          were looking along the Auto Parts aisles for little hula dolls
                  that would dance gently on the dash boards
                         of their Chevys and Fords,
to remind them of their girlfriends after they went off to war.

They wore white tee-shirts and indigo Levies
            and smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Relatives began showing up from all over the earth,
           but nobody noticed since every body was having such a good time.
                         It got really crowded.
                         I really liked the tattoos.

Pretty soon there were so many relatives around that I lost track,
                       and just blended in.

DREAM-CATCHER
By Lorenzo Lago

you keep a ‘Dream-Catcher’ in your window
I gaze at the colorful yarn of its geometric shape
     centuries of dreams
you said it works
     you dreamed me

once, your dreams were full of gallant men and sinful women
     many nights you were caressed and loved by them all
seductive twilight of the growing moon, I came to you in a deep dream
     I was a king dressed in velvet
          you were an empress in silk
               we danced in the clouds
then we were naked
     and I carried you to your bed

an early morning sun warms your bedroom
     subtle colors spread against the walls
a slight breeze blows through an open window
the ‘Dream-Catcher’ slowly twists in the wind
     I can see both sides of the dream

our love is like a dream
we time travel through it
     not quite awake
          catching a goodnights sleep in between dreams
                                                                                                                   

Journey and Romance On The High Seas by Lorenzo Lago available at www.lorenzolago.com & Amazon.com.

William Arthur

 by Steve Quirt

William Arthur rose early in the Montana morning
        It was dark, and had a Northern feel about it
        Only a couple of truckers were awake
        Pushing their sixteen wheelers along Route Six.
        Big, beautiful behemoths
                    With Golden Eyes with and Yellow Halos.

He made dark, black coffee from a Green MJB can.

The light switched from Northern to First Light
The Big Sky began to open.

He packed his Jeep with magic and fishing poles
     Tobacco and beer
     He was a smoker and a seer.
     He paid his Union Dues
              Socialist through and through.

He set out for Bitteroot Creek
        Still the place I seek.
Still my inner peak.
             Winding out and down the valley
             Hereford cattle hold the road up
             Forest Ravens point the way –

    Dark and Black they are
           Gliding on the forest air
                 Pointing,
                      pointing
                           ever there.

The creek below runs pure and slow
   Mountain spring and summer rain 
      Winding in and out of this world's illusion
                 A clear and magnificent confusion.

Miss Dorothy Wagner owns the land
        Her father left her with the ranch
               A solo spinster's homespun dance

    She runs her Hereford heifers down below
          Lets them graze the in the old meadow
               Drinking from the secret stream.

Bitteroot Creek wanders through her mountain valley
           Brooke Trout swarm the deep pool holes
                 Boiling up from just below
                        to escape into the morning air.

    They school up and swarm like red wing blackbirds
           Creating great silver colors in the sky.
                 That swim along the jet streams
                    of Heaven;
                         letting the Sun shine through
        While the blue jays call and red cows low.

William Arthur keeps his head down, and lights a Lucky Strike.
      He checks his ancient creel
             For extra flies and holes
    He wears a funky hat from old Ontario

        He pulls on invisible waders.

The path to the creek is paved with blue butterflies
And childhood dreams

                 With deep soft meadows
                             Gold sun beams
                                      With hidden bends and un-ridden trails
With fishing holes that feed the soul.

The Bitteroot is always changing
           William Arthur knows, but he keeps his eye on the fishing

           He has a Secret –

           Secret Fishing Hole

                      A Holy Spot

He always limits-out–
           No Brookie shorter than 12 inches

Mayflies make it easy
       They dance on the water and feed the school
             William Arthur casts out his line
             And watches it dance across the bending pool
             Raising up the big ones from their hole
             To feed the power of his soul
                              To help him walk among the pines.

It doesn't matter at all
How much you think you know
The place is hard to get to
And it's hard to find the road
You have to get up early

To find the fishing hole.

JUNGLE BUS

by Lorenzo Lago


as we wind down through the deep mountains
toward the sea
I fill with youthful anticipation
I am returning to a warm tropical coast after time away

we twist and turn
circling our way through every shade of green imaginable
I notice the palm trees, insects, lizards, and bamboo
are all different shades of this forever green

the birds of stark reds, yellows and blues
all light areas of the jungle
like the bright stars that light a nighttime sky

ever so often
I get a short glimpse of the ocean as we round a corner
the startling sapphire blue 
the white whites, opal mystic
explode in contrast
to the rich hue of this jungle jade

I am the one American on this open-air bus
I am surrounded by women and their children
they are on their way to the marketplace
there, the women will sell their fruits and veggies
seeds, flowers, bulbs, shellfish and chickens

you name it, it’s here
and many of these exotic foods I can’t name
I ask a woman
what is this called
I repeat what she says
but her ancient native tongue is to hard too understand
I smile, she smiles, her kids smile

the men aboard the bus are going to work
  in some quiet, lonely spot in the jungle
they carry their machetes
a bit of lunch
they never seem to be without their hats firmly in place



I have my straw hat on
my light pants
thin shirt
I have to look the part and be presentable
no surf trunks here
one needs proper attire for this social encounter

my surfboard is in the back corner of the bus
my small backpack is at my side
those onboard
  know I come for the waves that pound this section of coast
but they are not sure why I come so far

I do not need to explain why
I sit calmly and secure
and I don’t feel like a tourist

how do you tell these friendly people that this is my religion
this is what I do in my life
no need for prose
or philosophical banter
no quotes from the great writers
no words of wisdom from early surf pioneers

I come to fill my need
my habit
my dance that only I dance

out on the ocean
I share the dance floor with others of our tribe
we are all getting what we’ve come for
and it’s good
better then we imagined
it is like being so very hungry
looking for a simple meal
but devouring a large feast
prepared by a goddess

Like Zorba, I dance till I drop
exhausted, my heart beats wildly
I lie in the sand
eyes staring out to sea
out
toward the rolling, gracious
ocean of my life

Soldiers without Swords

by Steve Quirt for Bob, Greg and Dougie


Warriors are pathways of redemption
    fallen and risen
        we’ll be released from this prison
            forgetting in the cloud of unknowing
                in Worship Together Forever–

Rivers of words never go away, you can't even see them
like make believe empty space filling empty space
     with
     soundless noise
     producing nothing.

and everybody is listening!

not to the fallen hero but to

e m p t y  s p a c e s

behind the sky–

             we walk together
                crossing over heaven's gate
            to where the Master keeps the water flowing
               All we do is pace the wait.

The Hero is born – the fallen and slain are His soldiers…

He is Hidden

His Music has no score, has no key or tone
It is unwritten–but He plays it all alone.

     someday we will hear the song
              the wounded and slain will sing along
    Resting on the sea of broken arrows
                 Resting on the sea of sorrows.

For Lorenzo by Steve Quirt

I sat next to the window, looking out at the parking lot. The barrista brought me my Cafe Americano and left with the outgoing tide of early morning caffienites. The stool was comfortable enough, and gave me a kind of perch, a few inches above the coffee house crowd, made up mostly of digital-age hipsters, flagrant wanna-be artists, and a few vanishing legends. Legends, like myself.
          Still early enough in the day to be cool, both inside and outside, no rush to rule or relate, no time left for dwindling night. She came in, enveloped in a kind of hurry, long green dress flowing, dreads glowing, a travel pack of life dragging behind her–she had a kind of tweaked air about her, hiding the heart. She presented her laptop to the buffed wooden community table, and paused. She was decorated with turquoise and gold, future and sorrow, with hope and lost longing. She continued to fuss and looked over at me–I was silhouetted against the morning sun flowing in from the plate glass that had just been meticulously polished. I looked out that window at a glassy looking BMW, all perfect in the morning sun, waiting to drive off to glory, and I thought about the green dress goddess for a second or two.
       Very young and very old, she was silently brimming with hope or hopelessness–I couldn't tell. Her impatient brown eyes followed my silhouette, drenching me with an aching radiation of hope and desire, fueled by a world out of control, a kind of miraculous merry-go-round of love and rain, pleasure and pain, loss and gain... I could feel her soul freezing to mine. We communed silently for a few seconds in the subtle, unconscious talk of souls that goes on without words, without persons. Without distraction.  

“Where am I going? Where is there to go? Did you go this way? Do you really know the way? Hold me for a while, so I know you are real....” I pulled my Cafe Americano a little closer and stirred in some sugar, “Young Goddess, how far you have to travel... I love you and want to hold you, but that is for some young warrior. I hold you in my heart, always. My answers are no longer your answers, my open road is finished, your time is upon us. I can only give you what I have been given, and it is all for you, Darling. I feel your arms and smell your breath. Your soul is pure and vulnerable, you travel on familiar paths that I have not tread. You are held in God’s own hands, and His protection is all about you, if you please.”

          I looked over at her, catching her gaze, and for a second, we were one person. Then the world rolled in, the interrupting cascade of confusion that it always is, and the sounds of the room rustled in like the last expiring swish of a wave that has traveled thousands of miles, just to dissolve on the Pacific shoreline.

  •

 The seabirds called out. The surf was good with glassy waves peeling perfect, big oceanic sea turtles spotted the line up, and her and I were the only one’s out. A groomed South Swell Set pulsed in, and we started paddling. I was on the inside, the feathering bowl just behind me. A one paddle instant and the sliding drop filled with air that would set me up for barrel time. I could smell the coconut oil in her hair, her brown, perfect body, painted with bikini glowed as she pushed into the wave next to me. I pulled back, the spray shower pelted my eyes, crystals of purity caressed my face, and slid down the back of the wave. The radiant blur of the Old Sea Turtle next to me vanished, and I watched the long right-hander peel from behind, knowing she was in there, somewhere. The jungle line of green, then the golden sand, the pure white foam melting into deep Pacific blue, framed her as she pulled out and coasted onto the shoulder. Her hands went up and I saluted her from the point. Our arms held high together, palms up... palms up... palms up.