I’ve spent enough time on my knees
as a monk
to see that there’s value in being
both drunk
on life as a pilgrim and life as a
a rascal.
But can I live both, to the best
that I’m able?

When I left for the cloister, to
never go back,
I took nothing with me,
just books in a sack.
Discarded my dreams and all
my deep vices.
Tore my old dark soul up in bites
and in slices,
assuming I’d never leave, return
‘to my home’.
Never to wander more.
Never to roam.

I spent many weeks and months,
working at prayer,
being a better man
than I had brought there.
I worked and I cared for the pilgrims
who came.
I learned to live and love life
without shame.
But one winter’s day the hour came
and I knew,
I wasn’t to be a monk. That
certainty grew.

I put on my sandals and,
books in a sack,
I closed my old cloister door,
haven’t looked back.

Last night I sat down with friends.
We smoked and we drank.
We told our old stories
with swagger and swank.
I told of my peace and they spoke
of their smut.
I showed them a picture of me
in my habit.

Tomorrow I’ll have roamed to church,
where my friends they won’t be.
but I’ll make that old gesture,
from down on one knee.
I’ll give there my thanks,
as best as I’m able,
for a life that is lived,
a semi-holy old rascal.

You see,

I’ve spent enough time on my knees
as a monk
to see that there’s value in being
both drunk
on life as a pilgrim and life as a
a rascal.
And I plan to live both, to the best
that I’m able.