THE TAWES GARDEN

  

The old pond, ah! A bullfrog somewhere croaks;

A snakelike rustle shakes the reedy grass.

Three boys about the age of Huck Finn pass

Beneath the overhanging boughs that choke

Each others’ sun and rain, and thickly cloak

My vantage point upon a hillside bench.

Unseen by them, I watch the three lads drench

Their boots and socks (up to their knees they’re soaked)

And slosh about the lily pads; no fear

Of snake or leech in the entangled roots.

I shut my book awhile as they draw near,

Not seeing me though almost at my foot.

A splash, and laughter echoes. Now the guard

Half-heartedly escorts them from the yard.

 

INSIDE OUT

  

Outside my window

rhododendrons blooming;

bees browsing busily;

unseen distant lawnmower’s music

merging with the airplane

that drowns birds’ sounds.

 

Last night outside my window

as I lay sleeping,

two trees were struck by lightning--

but my dreams were undisturbed.

 

Grass ankle deep

and covered with dew,

each drop reflecting dreams

of universes old and new.

 

 BY THE ROADSIDE

 

(after Chuang-Tsu and Bunan)

 

One evening on my way back home,

I spied a human skull

Bleached ghostly white, retaining still

Its former shape, wherein the will

To live had swelled its bones.

 

I tapped it with my walking cane,

And asked it, “Did you, Sir,

In all your greed for life, bestir

The twisting fibers of your nerves

To come to this in vain?

 

“What brought you here? A civil war,

Perhaps? or just old age--

Your grand finale on this stage

Of losing battles, where the wage

Can never compensate the scars?”

 

This said, I took it in my hands,

And underneath my head

I made a pillow for my bed

Among the weeds and trash that hid

My sleep from beast and man.

 

At midnight when the town clocks tolled,

That skull became my dream,

And whispered, “What you said to me

More like an orator beseems

Than one who sifts for gold!

 

“Your words described the way of life

Of men who drew their breaths

While in pursuit of happiness

And liberty, in spite of death

Preventing all their strife.

 

“But in the grave those baits and lures

Can never satisfy the Saints

Whose deaths take place without a taint;

Who wipe away the foolish paint

That masks a hollow core.

 

“Perhaps you’d like to hear me speak

About the end of woe.”

“Oh, tell me everything you know!”

The skull resumed, “In Death are no

Distinctions that men seek.

 

“No seasons waste each other there

With changes soon undone;

No phase of moon or fire of sun

Surpasses Wisdom’s light for ones

Who move beyond your sphere.”

 

I heard his words with skeptic doubts,

And said, “If magic arts

Could somehow cause you to depart

From your abyss, and take your part

Once more in your own house,

 

“With mother, father, wife and child,

And all your wealth and friends,

Would you refuse the chance to blend

With what you loved, to live again,

If only for a while?”

 

The skull stared fixedly at me,

And said, knitting its brows,

(This was a dream, remember now!)

“No one who casts away life’s shroud

Regains that misery.

 

“While living, be a dead man, then;

Be dead so through and through

That anything you think or do

Will be as though there were no you--

And dwell here as my friend.”

 

BE CAREFUL HOW YOU READ ME

  

When I was a teenage werewolf,

I was too weak

to have meant what I said.

I was too young, to wet

behind my pointy little ears

to have enough experience to know

the phases of the moon.

 

But now I am mature—

a full-fledged werewolf—

and have learned to heed

those signs from Heaven,

O ye hypocrites!

 

Beware of me,

as I prowl among your pipe dreams,

and bear this in mind:

You may be high was a kite

from drinking original Coca-Cola,

but I can still bite you

and leave you howling

at the Man in the Moon!

 

      MOTHER’S DAY

  

Old age has come upon him. There he leans

Against the rail that separates with Death

The meek who mourn from those who mourn no more.

A bright bouquet of flowers in his hands

Seems to await the moment when the tide

Is once more at the rising, where her fall

And his bereavement unclasp hands and part,

Immersed in darkness deep within the world

That circles round him like some bird of prey--

As we who came but for the pounding surf

And rolling thunder of this gaping hole

Steal glances at the sorrow on his face,

And turn our eyes away, far out to sea,

Where Life and Death are merged, like ebb and flow.