With orange robe, choose a path,
A journal done day by day,
No need for any emotional wrath,
Let my view be somewhat fey.
Unworldly by choice, an orientation,
Found sporadically around the world,
Centered of soul: a proper station,
Ready, relaxed—with sounds unheard.
No rush to find tranquility,
In this world, or in ascension,
But receptive for humility,
In this or another far dimension.
Not much rhymes with “orange” word,
So, too, the dis-junction of this monk,
A metaphysical harmony is not heard,
Nor is there escaping a funk.
Skip calling the monk existential,
He has his robe as a credential.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.