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.

Bring the Draft Back?

BRING THE DRAFT BACK?

I am a card carrying member of the ACLU and Green Peace, a Quaker, a Vietnam era veteran, and opposed to the war in Iraq, all of that aside: Is is it time to bring the draft back without exemptions? The rich, poor, cross dressers, college students, sons and daughters of politicians, and all those who had been exempt in the past would be up to serve. Liberals whine about how the burden of war falls unfairly on the poor and underclass, but don’t volunteer for the army or national guard. Republicans (especially the chicken hawks—those gun-ho armchair warriors who ducked the last draft) think that the Iraq war is a great idea and, while we’re there we should nuke Iran, but they’re too busy making money off the war to actually fight. War, ideally, is an equal opportunity employer and everyone should have the opportunity to put their ideals on the line. In short, it’s time to bring back the draft. Not a tiny little sniveling asthmatic draft, but a big cyclonic wind of a draft that brings all US Americans into the rank and file.
Though the Vietnam draft did NOT help the outcome of the war, it did level the playing field a little. For example, GW our gun ho president who made a brief appearance in the Texas Air National Guard declined a tour of Vietnam: Would a tour of duty in ‘Nam as a combat soldier wading through the muck of the Mekong delta carrying seventy pounds of gear have opened his eyes to the reality of war? The burden and consequence of war usually falls on the poor and disenfranchised, those with little education or ability to navigate in the new economy. It’s time to bring back the draft without deferment or waivers, fit, disabled, pacifists or not, rich or poor, everyone gets a chance. War, in the best of all possible worlds, is an equal opportunity employer.
I would prefer that those who want the war the most-- Halliburton, the Military Industrial contractors, the generals and their tribe at the Pentagon should fight, but they don’t; they hide behind computer screens and algorithms of combat. The next best thing, in a world filled with bad choices is the draft. Instead of everyone moaning what a terrible deal the National Guard is getting with their four plus rotations to Afghanistan and Iraq, we spread the pain among the children of the upper middle class and wealthy. If the draft was an equal opportunity experience, we might get GW Bush’s daughters in the Army or Dick Cheney’s kids on the front lines. Do you think there would be any change in attitude on the part of the administration or congress if their kids were stuck in the middle of a civil war being shot at by both sides? Would the health care improve at the VA hospitals if their kids came back as shell shocked quadriplegics?
The draft, though an imperfect tool in an imperfect world, would be an ideal way to draw children from all levels of society into the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. When the body bags and troop ships with the crippled soldiers come home to Scarsdale, Georgetown, or Grosse Point, there may be a pause, and parents may consider that the sacrifice of their children is not really such a smart way to resolve conflicts.
The burden and consequence of war needs to falls equally on all members of society, rich and powerful, poor and disenfranchised, and one way to ensure that is a draft. Perhaps, to seriously consider the even more absurd notion that war is not a viable way for nations to resolve conflicts and ideological differences, and that diplomacy and negotiation may be a more viable way to resolve disputes

Li Pon Noisy Monk Turning Left

Li Pon Noisy Monk Again

“When you write, you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

Li Pon leaped on my bed

made himself quite comfortable,

and played a pan pipe.

“Foolish poet!

Solstice day, time to play!”

I was in a surly mood and

wanted to spend the day writing.

“Get away from me monk! I’m

writing – I can’t be bothered

by your foolish chatter.”

“Indeed! You’re writing, careful

what’s on the left!” he laughed

so hard he fell off the bed.

“I have something far better

than your silly scribbling.”

“Leave me alone monk! No one trifles

with a poet in the midst

of making love with a muse! Not even Li Pon.”

I slammed the door behind him.

“Damn noisy monk!”

I heard more silly giggling

in the background.

Now back to the story I was writing:

I followed the journey which began

with a dream, I was in Marrakech

in Djemaa Al Fna and

knew this by the astringent smell

of leather dyes, cumin, coriander, spices

from the markets mixed with donkey shit…

I took the hidden entrance that faces south to the mosque, there are no names to the streets, they’re referred to as the House of Saiid Al Hadid or some other person who lived there in centuries past or even now – if you wanted to find someone’s house—Mohammed the baker whose brother is the tinsmith—otherwise you had no business going down that street. Not a street for tourists, they were consumed by the yawning mouth of the souvenir, carpet and tchchka shops. Flutes and the oued rose upwards from the inner sanctum of the Medina and I followed the thread of the music, the winding coil that lead to the center of a chambered nautilus. Down an alley so tiny, a man could easily touch each house and a fully loaded donkey could scratch the walls with its load. Centuries peeled back. I followed the music like a snake enchanted by a flute playing faquir. A woman in a face veil from Essouria appeared with a child in tow, a soccer ball rolled down the street and I kicked it back, smells of fresh cumin, coriander and fried onions filled my senses, and I came to a small square that opened to the ruddy snow covered Atlas mountains. I was lost. To the right was a café and a noisy crowd, and one loud squeaky voice singing a Mandarin Chinese love song in reggae rap, approximately translated as: “Me love ya/ Me Love ya/ because your/ backside so wide/ me love/ me love/ po po love/ po po love.”

There could be only one source of such absurdity.

In the middle of the tavern, a bubbling fountain of giggles surrounded by a Moroccan ska band, as Li Pon looked up at me and winked.

“Did I imagine you again?” he said to me. “When you write you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

CARE WELL

CARE WELL

Blue Heron Pond –

sacred body of water

which has taught me more

of reverence than any church,

wiser in its quiet wisdom,

than any holy book or tome.

Care well.

It seems to say.

Care well.

Swimming in the freezing

waters, ice cold springs

surprise and awaken me!

Finches, darts of yellow,

race across the fields.

Blue jay’s screech warns!

Care well!

He seems to say.

Care well!

Frogs’ night chorus more

joyous and godly than any

Bach chorale. Tulips divine

the intersect of mystery,

revelation from the earth

and desire for the sun.

Blue Heron, sage of

this pond who nests high

in the hemlocks,

is patiently biding her time.

Care well!

She seems to say.

Care well!

In time we will all leave

this mortal sacred space,

but I will not grieve this end.

I will grieve if we have

not loved this earth with

sublime tenderness,

reverenced the waters as

dearly as our gods, cherished

the wisdom of a flower,

and held the divinity of

each living creature as a

mirror of god’s love.

As god spun the planet

earth on her course and

brought it to life,

she set it free with this

single blessing:

Care well.

namaya 2007