Reading Sutras

Actually it was Han-Shan I was reading, same ancient Chinese Tao poet who inspired David Budbill.
So Sutras? Meh! Artistic license requires no road test.


Reading Sutras

   A paper wall divides me from my friend,
which Max the Cat, unrepentant, paws, claws down,
and walks over as the Panther through the grass

  I laugh to see him cross my lap,
strolling upon the roadmap to Heaven, without
  understanding he isn’t uninformed,
and I ask what value has my souls’ immortality,
  to push away this warmest of all friends?

 

 

Ten minutes later, writing this,

  and I hear a hum,

my cellphone? the radio? a fog horn?

  no, just snoring donut Max,

docking at the ports of slumber

Olde New England Leaves

That time of year again, the SAD kicks in. Been lazy in the writing department.
Anywho, a seasonal piece, posted in it's appropriate season for a change;


Olde New England Leaves

 Doing thirty miles-an-hour and
  diggin nice the breeze,
On an autumn Saturday,
  all the New England trees
Are God colored,
  when next I see,
What in hell is this?
  it was an rustic handwrit sign, read,
 
 ‘Olde New England Leaves!
You rake ‘em, You take ‘em,
          - and Free!
 Come on on in, puh-lease?’

Then and there that sign lit as touch paper
  the warm memories of I as a child,
Those youthful leaf raking weekends
  and then the thing that we did next!

So I turned off with a signal and a skid and I asked,
  "Ok, what is it I buy?"
The rustic Yankee Farmer just pointed to his shed, and said,
  "Son, you just give that rake a try!"
Its’ handle was worn, smooth, pure
  strong broomstick stock,
Though raking up his yard was hard work, sure,
  it rekindled youthful feelings, strong and good,
You could ask, "Ought need I a pair a gloves,
  or else I’ll get a blister?"
No thank you, Mom! Today I’m workin’, I’m a man!
   and I won’t be cryin’ like my sister! 

When time came that I’d got those leaves
  all raked up in a pile,
The Farmer handed me a big trash bag,
  but I, with my smirkiest smile, said "No!"
And with a tint of adventurous drama, asked
  "May I climb up on your roof?"
That’s when he started starin’ at me, like I was
  one profoundly ludicrous goof,
Yet then he went in the shed and brought out for me
  his clanking aluminum ladder,
That, frankly, was the answer to,
  all right now that really mattered

And there, from that high corner place, I jumped!
   out over the biggest autumn leaf pile in the world…
Extending my arms, like a swan or dove,
  I felt I flew for kind of a while,
And next when I hit that Big Leaf stack,
  it exploded!
Orange…yellow… leaves… blowing up in the air,
  all which soon down settled in a second round of autumn
Everywhere! all over again,
 
So, then I drove home,
  smugly content to be leaving those leaves
No different from how they’d been
  when first today, I’d reminisced again, on 

Damn, those Olde New England Leaves!

AutoVerks

Had an online discussion with a friend about the Luddites. Today, we face a future where, with every worker replaced by robots, all the Fruits of the Loom and all the self driving cars will be unaffordable to the unemployed, and all that cheap robot made stuff will pile up unsold, 'cause robots don't buy stuff. 


AutoVerks

My name is Yon Yonson,
I live in Wisconsin,
I verk at the AutoVerks plant


I verk 9 to 5,
Cheap wage keeps me alive,
I’m a cog in a car making giant

I valk to my verk,
Though I feel like a jerk,
I am saving to buy me a car

But wid’ kids and a wife,
And all normal life’s strife,
What I make ‘dere does not go so far

AutoVerks had an idea,
Dat dey test in the media,
To make people mistakes obsolete

Dey’ll make self driving cars,
Dat go near and go far,
And vill keep people safe on der street!

I show up to verk von day,
They give the severance pay,
And make new auto-cars by machine

They lay us off in lots
Put in Asian robots
And the plant’s running lean and sooo clean

Now I can’t buy dat car,
So I has to walk far
To see if ‘dere’s vork in ‘de town

And vid out any jobs,
Ve’re awl dirty poor slobs,
Who cannot afford AutoVerks cars!


Wid no jobs and no money,
It don’t seem all dat funny,
Dat robot cars is all going unsold!

As I valk down the street,
It’s a constant ‘beep beep,’
From ‘dese no people cars running ‘round!

And ‘dere’s so many of ‘em,
Run in packs by the dozens,
I risk life ven I valk out in street!

Pouring Tea

Several weeks ago, Christine found the obit for Vermont poet David Budbill in the Sunday Globe. It says he wrote of Vermonters, but must of what I’ve read of his reveals his love for ancient China and Taoist verse.
This is my kow-tow to Bubill.
The pun is not mine originally. It was a Broadway show.


Pouring Tea

 You have gone to market,
  there to sell your wares,
I, under blue sky sun,
  sit, while last nights snow
  drips from pine boughs, 
Pure clear droplets,
  count to ten, again

Alone, pouring yellow tea,
  I lift my pot higher over the cup,
  makes loud the dribbling sound, and
Reminds me,
  ’ur’in(e) town

Rock and the Labyrinth

Lately, once a month I've been attending a "Labyrinth," call it a sort of new age prayer service on a cloth labyrinth (much as like pictured). The friends of the church who run it, the C.O.T.W. (Christians on the Way) also look after homeless people.
You wouldn't believe it if you hadn't been there.
Need a pair of socks?


Rock and the Labyrinth

They are a homeless couple, who
  became a couple in transience,
They are rock,
  what flavors would you add?

At the maw of the muslin labyrinth I stand,
  meditation, prayer, thoughtful steps to come,
A woven basket of polished stones
  offers me it’s pick,
Each engraved with Faith, Hope, Charity,
  synonyms of our New Age in Christ, 
Each a virtue to carry to the center,
  then to leave or carry out,
Yet I search for one says "Rock!"
  for rock is rock, it needs no affectation,
Yet no rock says "Rock!"
  ‘cause, they are rocks, 

Like a zen novice I count the steps for breath,
  all two-hundred twenty to the center of the circle,
Where others rocks are left, but none say "Rock!"
  they read Blessed, Courage, Perseverance,
Maybe, could I add these to my prayers?

After the walking period the homeless man asks
   "What is a labyrinth?"
She answers "You should have walked it!"
   "I liked watching you do it,"

Hope, Charity, Transience,
  Blessed, they are rock.

Cloudy Weather

For years there's been a hawk whose territory covers our yard, most of the near neighborhood and most of Bentley college across the street. He was a ratty old bird, and I think he's still around, but he never perched on the roof next door.
This new bird, could be a fight. Wasn't today.


Cloudy Weather

There’s a new hawk in town,
  could be the reason I’ve seen no rabbits this season,
Old one used to be stripy brown in front,
  ratty ugly head to tail,
New one look like he got a butlers starch dickey on
  above a brown belt, under manor tweed wings,
He’s the country gentleman who hunts as the gillie,
  ‘n then dines formal,
     "Pass the port,"

Who’s now roost upon the neighbors roof peak, 
  where silhouette gray skies point his noble beak,
Stern clear eyes surveys his demesne,
  his next meal set to seek,
While today, cloudy weather lifts no thermals,

The ol’ bird could still be around.
Someday could be a fight,
Or 'course, can’t tell which's a girl or boy with raptors, 
   ever try to stick yer pinky up a hawks cloaca?

"Hey Hawk!," I say by way of introduction,
"There’s chipmunks in my yard a’ times,"
   and
"I kinda like ‘em, cute, but you could take one, or two,
  sometimes, alright?"
He don’t speak. ‘s –o-kay, he's a bird,
And I’ve run outta things to say,
I’m sure we’ll speak again some day

The Rental Urn

Incidentally today would be my Father's 87th B'day. In 2007, when he died, remembering how he had always wanted a sailing yacht, we got one etched on his urn. He used to make lamps out things when we were kids. Port wine bottles, copper condensation pots from a Prohibition Era still, some funereal looking gift vases.
Thank God he'd grown out of that before my Mother died in 1979.
Now forget all that, 'cause this poem is not about my Dad.


The Rental Urn

With the mortician I sat finally to make plans,
Just wanting something simple, to be loved in younger hands,

"We have this urn, top of the line, jeweled, bedazzling, makes any mantel’s center piece,"
"Seems sharp edges could hurt little hands, too high a price for such caprice,"

"There’s this one, forged in brass, plaited with gold, a pleasing gift for those in grief,"
"This urn of gold is more than I’m worth, in death I’d not want tempt the thief,"

"There is one, the rental urn, you lease it, effective when you’re dead,
Then your family simply returns it, once your ashes have been spread,"

"No, that won’t do,"
"We’re running out of options. Now, how’m I gonna get you in a your classy urn today?"

"Can you sell me loving hands,
Those who’ll hold me long in need,
Without of which, what good’s your pitch,
   For what’s an urn in deed?"

Franken Bench

This Tuesday, Oct 11th, would be my Fathers' Birthday. He'd be... well 9 years older than when he died in 2007. For those who haven't read other poems I've written of my Dad, he had the Alzheimer's in later years and was fun to spend a week with. But I was once an unintelligible kid, and he raised me, so...

Franken Bench

How should I write of my Father?
To muse on him, spend time again,
Be with he who raised me as I am,
The dear one whom, being lost, is no ghost,
   But as I recall, loved me the most


Bobbie said,
"There’s a box in the basement store room,
  Andrew put it there,
Why don’t you take your Father,
  it’s a bench for the garden,
Get your Father’s wrench set,
  and this afternoon
You can help him put it together
  and then bring it up outside,
That should take up some time
  while you’re with him this afternoon"

My preference was to take him to lunch and a      movie,
But as he threatened to throw a plate at the waitress last time,
  I said, "Ok, we’ll stay here and do that"

While opening the box, its’ copper staples confused him and cut his finger,
  "Ok, Dad stand back," and I unbent the rest with pliers,
When he found the directions he seemed content,
  while I unfolded a beach chair and sat,
Listening as he read aloud the same page three times,
  with reading firmer and louder, the directions successively vexed him,
So I interceded;
  "Dad, it’s only a park bench, it’s not arguing with you,"

Then, "Please, sit, I want to show you something,"
I lined up the carriage bolts and nuts in order of their length,
"See, these long bolts, they hold two of the wood seat slats together,
And these, the middle length,
  they hold the seat wood slats to the metal frame,
And these, the shortest ones, use these to bolt the metal frame parts,
Now there are exactly enough, one for each bolt hole, You got it?"
He gave me back the chair and I sat, watching,
   as he started with the directions at part 3,
But seemed to be tightening the bolts all right with the pliers,
I didn’t ask why not use his socket wrench,
  as, I confess, I fell asleep

When I woke up, "Dad, have you finished it?" 
His voice sounded as if he had, while overcoming certain problems,
   though his actual words were rambling non-sequitors,
Then I noticed the bench was assembled, with all the bolts
  wrong everywhere!
Long ones stuck out where there should be short ones,
Short ones with nuts barely threaded in the wood,
Someplaces the bolt ends stuck out,
   and why are some left over?
Further investigation told me, as he couldn’t, he’d gotten others
  from his storage jam jars in the garage,
Ok, sure, the bench held together, a little wobble,
  but you wouldn’t want to sit in it,
‘Cause this cute dainty garden bench seemed was made
  of a hodge-podge crazy quilt of Boris Karloff necks,
I thought we could fix it, but,
  we decided it was cocktail hour and went upstairs,
  he had a red wine, me a beer, cheese & crackers

Later I told Bobbie about it and she said,
"Don’t worry, I’ll ask Andrew to fix it,"
  and I never saw that bench again