Pickwell

 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