Holy Shores

Ocean waves

crack

thunderously holy

on the breakers

revelation from

Saint Ignatius

patron saint of bruises

and fine wine.

Port Said on the Red Sea

where the 4 prophets waded

ashore.

Jesus ascribed as Inka

Mohammed, in drag as the

anti-Christ looking raggedy

wild-eyed as Charlie Manson

said, “Dinka!” Rolled

a joint and passed it on.

“Allah Akhbar indeed.” said

the J man while blowing smoke

rings through a cliché.

Lord Krishna claimed Dinka

cavorted lustily with his

maidens in the 998 1/2 positions of

the Kama Sutra. The ½ pike

for the one legged boy, fish piked and

polled, Plato swam with the

naked boys and proclaimed Agape

above Logos.

Soap on a rope invented by Athenians.

Buddha worked as a short order

chef in a Reno brothel

was only to glad to accommodate

transcendence,

“One with everything?”

(Please, please, this is a serious tale

and no time for your verbal buggery.)

“Stand tall!” called the captain, “Seal the

bung holes! All these assholes will

be tight as a frog’s bung – water tight.”

Have you ever seen a water logged frog

floating inconsequently away,

leaf like swaying down stream?

“Row! Row! To the farther shore.”

said the Israelite Jacob. “Inconsequentially sailing to

redemption as the sea of reeds parts—Her legs spread wide

in the August sun!” said Ishmael to Isaac. Each sailor bent down to the shrine and kissed

the delta Venus as tenderly as they would the Madonna’s cheek.

What say the thunder to revelation?

“Higgly higgly higgly pog.” said the Po ‘bo to the ho. “Weed the garden!”

“Hoe to the ‘hoe. Land ho! Called the lst Mate. While the boatswain’s

mate swung high in his love nest by the moon, passionately engaged with

the cabin boy, rocking joyfully. ”

Voluptuous moon ripe as a virgin’s clitoris,

shadows cavort on the forecastle, while they sailed down from Aqaba to Hodeidah. Moon light’s dance on the phosphorescent waters burst diamond thrilling effervescent across the water, we made love in the languid tide, mercury silver alluring with each parting of the wave.

Captain jealous, impotent as spilled gin, could only hold the boy in his

imagination

“Ibbidy bibbidy bop.” said the prophet Fred

“Fiddly, fiddly fidly pop.” said the

poo bear to the pope.

Walking backwards, looking for the thread of the argument,

the integument that binds the story, weaves shadows and light,

a butterfly turns in the widening gyre, a pearl spun from the gossamer

threads of simple desire.

Seagulls

shriek, a feast

for the sightless. Alms given at St Paul’s and the orphan

pigeons from Trafalgar Square perch like vultures on Black Friar bridge waiting for

the next victim of scandal. What bonny blue eyes shall be tasted?

Desires are the room for the holiest of desires.

Inka

Dinka

Dinka

Do.

Farewell

Spring roars to life

in a bounding leap

to summer play.

Moonlight skinny

dipping in June as

stars anoint our loving.

August languid heat

and pools of sweat

dissolve in our cold pond.

When green seems to

hold permanent sway,

one fire red leaf appears.

Geese circle the pond,

blue jays disappear, and

Blue Heron debuts again.

Leaves in their dried

rustling bones reverie

whisper farewell.

All too soon, our

dreams to cherish.

Namaya 07

Having a cold beer with John Lennon at 67

Having a cold beer with John Lennon at 67

He was born in Liverpool on October 9, 1940 as the Nazi bombs were raining down on England. It was a year of enormous fear and uncertainty, no one knew if Britain was going to fall, and there to a poor working family John Lennon was born. Nothing auspicious in the birth, just another mouth to feed; nevertheless, the arc of his life, a brief forty years touched so many millions of lives. What was that kismet, the alignment of the starts that blessed this child with wealth and fame?

The other day I was having dinner in a restaurant and there was a picture of Lennon with the Beatles from l969-- John, Paul, George and Ringo in their mid to late twenties with their long hair and sweet beautiful faces of youth. It was almost painful to see that photo of Lennon with his long brown hair, gold rimmed glasses, pale complexion, looking not so much like a prophet, but a bit lost and dazed. This was the height of his fame with the Beatles and when he was still a heroin addict; fortunately, he kicked the habit and spent the last years of his life clean. The eleven years he had left in his life were spent with his wife Yoko Ono, lovers and friends, making music, compelling people to Imagine, traveling, raising a child, evolving into a peace activist, and by the end he seemed to have found some personal peace. His last album was a lovely farewell and my favorite song was Beautiful Boy to his son Sean and perhaps to Lennon’s un-fathered self.


I would like to visit with him now, alive at sixty seven, sitting on a beach drinking a cold beer with him and asking, “So, John. How are things going for you these days?”

I raise a glass of Guinness Stout to you John Lennon on your sixty-seventh birthday, “Here’s one for you, mate!”

Postcards from Iraq and Burma: Li Pon

Postcard from Burma:

Li Pon in Burma – “Monks standing up to soldiers with their tanks, bullets, and fear. Monks, real monks, are fearless, because we embrace fear. Fear is seeing the bones of your own mortality. Fear is seeing the full insignificance of who and what you are: The dust of your bones swirling with the dust of the streets. Bullets will kill the flesh, but not the spirit. When you look into the eyes of the soldier who is going to kill you, fold your hands in prayer, bow to the Buddha that lives within him, and as he squeezes the trigger --breathe fully in knowing this is your last breath –in that moment – you’re free and fearless in blessing the soldier.”

Namaya in Vermont - “I could only imagine living my life with such spiritual integrity. I build too many of my domains on fear.”

Li Pon in Burma - “Fearless!”

Li Pon in Iraq- “Now, this is fear! The Buddha, ever present, seems like he’s taken a holiday. In every face there is fear, in the face of a child there is fear, in the American soldier there is terror and loneliness, in the Jihadist there is nihilism that is devoid of spirit, and this is a perfect place for me to sit and pray. I will sit by a bridge leading to Baghdad with three prayer flags: Love. Forgiveness. Redemption.”

Namaya in Vermont -“Autumn leaves are blowing in the new October wind: One of scarlet maple fire; a cluster of deep green leaves tinged with orange; and the last is a scrap of an old poem I burned on the fire that escaped incineration and is flying in the wind: Love. Forgiveness. Redemption.