March 2017
Lee Evans
alebap@outlook.com
alebap@outlook.com
I live with my wife in Bath, Maine and work for the local YMCA. My activities consist of such things as contemplative walking in the out-of-doors, and teaching myself, with great difficulty, the Pali language. My work has been published in "The Christendom Review", "Mused: The Bella Online Literary Review", "The Poetry Porch" and other places. I have self-published several books of poetry, which are available on Lulu.com.
Fiftieth Annual
The dainty little goat
licks my hand as I stretch into her stall
to scratch behind her elegant ears:
I, who have been her father and mother,
sister and brother, lover and friend,
through all the twists and turns of Samsara.
She stands upon her hind legs.
I draw back my arm, pleased
at such rapport with the animal world.
From the corner of my eye a poster
warns the crowd at the County Fair:
Wash your hands if you touch the livestock.
Squash Saga
The priest heard a disturbance
In the temple’s back yard,
Where the monks had planted squashes
And labored long and hard.
The gourds all screamed and argued,
Worked up to such a state
For and against the issues,
No monks could meditate.
“Hey, squashes, what’s the matter?”
The priest berated them.
“You’re not here to be fighting--
Everybody do Zazen!”
Immediately the creatures
Sat upright as in school,
And crossed their legs as bade them.
And soon their anger cooled,
While sitting just to sit
And breathing just to breathe.
“Now let’s play Simon Says,”
Spoke quietly the priest.
“Your hands on top your heads!”
The squashes followed suit,
And found a vine attached
To each from one same root.
“How strange,” they all exclaimed.
“Like cats and dogs we’ve fought,
We’ve argued and we’ve screamed,
But now we have been taught:
We’re sharing just one life.
What stupid squash are we!”
From thence the garden grew
Without ever sprouting weeds.
From a story told by Kosho Uchiyama in “Opening the Hand of Thought”
Fiftieth Annual
The dainty little goat
licks my hand as I stretch into her stall
to scratch behind her elegant ears:
I, who have been her father and mother,
sister and brother, lover and friend,
through all the twists and turns of Samsara.
She stands upon her hind legs.
I draw back my arm, pleased
at such rapport with the animal world.
From the corner of my eye a poster
warns the crowd at the County Fair:
Wash your hands if you touch the livestock.
Squash Saga
The priest heard a disturbance
In the temple’s back yard,
Where the monks had planted squashes
And labored long and hard.
The gourds all screamed and argued,
Worked up to such a state
For and against the issues,
No monks could meditate.
“Hey, squashes, what’s the matter?”
The priest berated them.
“You’re not here to be fighting--
Everybody do Zazen!”
Immediately the creatures
Sat upright as in school,
And crossed their legs as bade them.
And soon their anger cooled,
While sitting just to sit
And breathing just to breathe.
“Now let’s play Simon Says,”
Spoke quietly the priest.
“Your hands on top your heads!”
The squashes followed suit,
And found a vine attached
To each from one same root.
“How strange,” they all exclaimed.
“Like cats and dogs we’ve fought,
We’ve argued and we’ve screamed,
But now we have been taught:
We’re sharing just one life.
What stupid squash are we!”
From thence the garden grew
Without ever sprouting weeds.
From a story told by Kosho Uchiyama in “Opening the Hand of Thought”
© 2017 Lee Evans
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