To his happiness
and his silence
the mystic lore
of his own journey,
there was never an
end of study.
Both sound and elastic
were his constitution.
So keen and so cold were the
blue eyes of his master.
The deep grained
wanderings, whether over concrete
or mud
took him to the freezing spell
of dirty grass
and broken signs,
Always dearly and deeply held
were his convictions.
But he fell in love with
her potter's hands and dark eyes
He forgot about
the seaside and books,
for what is an ocean if
you cannot bring with you
your world?
Though meditation is a lukewarm hobby
he traded at it anyway
looking for the truth
like a dice player
calling out a number
his inner Buddha
yawned and said,
"most attachments are foolish,
but some are deepest wisdom"
this mind you have been training is just
a monkey, a drunken, angry,
monkey, bit by a scorpion.
Follow the woman, eat well, teach goodness, and
stop trying to BE good..
and they all lived pretty well ok
