There really is a basil
known as Holy Basil.
       (Holy Basil, Batman!)

Oh, to pinch its leaves
and breathe deep!
       (Heaven)

Poor little crippled spider
Dragging along across my desk
Painfully slow, one leg crushed.
You don't deserve this ill condition
****** down upon your tiny body.
Little spider, desperately jerking,
Fighting for life, losing the battle,
I'll tell you now, simply, I hope.
It is because of deeds like this
That man is marked for long, dark days.
For it was I who smashed you hard
And took away your chance for life.
Yes, I, ensnared in arrogance blind,
Despising your trek across my desk
And thinking only of myself,
Fearing the moment when you
Perhaps would crawl across to me.

**! You wiggle once more,
Feebly, desperately. What right
Have I, a human only, to
**** you thus? None, I say.
I have none. Oh, to turn
The tables only once and give
To you the strange and murky power
That we regard as splendid.
Yes! Give to you and your kin
The chance to wreck a vengeance proper
Upon the callous'd head of man.
We deserve it, little one,
For we are naught be far-removed
Extensions of yourself
And cannot justify such acts
Of cruel, vain, and fiendish ******.

Look! On your back you lie.
Your legs, only six or seven now,
Are curled across your belly soft.
What thoughts run through your tiny head?
Do you pray? But no, you have
No need for prayer. Never have
You left the bright and glorious
Kingdom of God. Born you were
In innocence fair, and lived
You did in that same virtue.
And now you die, and not once
Did fear of doom, darkness, and eternal
Death weigh upon your taintless life.
'Tis I who fear eternal death
For I have killed you, little spider.
Killed you out of fear and horror,
Ignorance and arrogance and black disgust.

Live on, Little Spider, and live well!
Forgive me of my ***** deed
That I might forgive myself
And treat with kindness and respect
Your tiny cousin trekking now
Across my desk in search of you.

When my warrior went to another woman,
I went through the Kleenex like mad
And became all crazy, for he
Is precious to me and never knew it
Because he didn't ask and couldn't see
And never knew what he has done to me.
Of course I stepped aside--
Being not of the groveling sort--
Because his destiny is his to determine,
Not mine. However,

I did make a vow to guard him well,
Especially after events conspired as they did
And left him battered and groundless,
Fragile and frail. I feared for my muse
As I saw him spinning away,
So I took some of his pain and made it
My own, adding it to that which I already carry,
And this is a reminder to him and to me
That I am formidable and not easily
Dissuaded from what I have chosen to do.

In museums you can see fabulous collections
of beautiful things. Plenty of paintings
and sculptures and artifacts and such.
These are placed here by public consensus,
not by the critics, because people
know what speaks to their souls.

Humans respond to beauty time and again;
it is never tiresome! And if you pay attention
to yourself, you will discover particular
pieces of art **** you in, draw you back,
until you stand before them
transfixed and marveling.

I like landscapes and portraits of people
and sculptures in marble, especially sculptures
ill-used by time, with missing limbs
and lopped-off ears. These are the ones
which retain their beauty and become something
more, precious, guarded, and loved.

These are the ones that remain in museums
to prove that beauty and perfection
are not the same thing. These are
the ones that aren't thrown away,
but are cherished and protected
because they inspire!

And sometimes some humans will be
more fortunate than most because
into their lives will step a living
work of art, flawed and beautiful
all at once, endlessly illustrating
the Grace of God, imperfectly.

Blooms like stars on clumps of mystery grass,
purple pops of violets amidst tangled clovers
and random hyacinths planted years ago—
You’re all jumbled merrily, scarily together
in my yard this April twenty fourteen.

You’re all wrong, you riotous jungle,
you unkempt chaos invading our suburbs
in tempestuous leaps.  We’ll have to
corral you, scissor and mow you
to maintain the illusion confusion’s at bay.

But just when calm comes sneaking in,
up pops a rogue thistle, a twine
of morning glory to choke the tomato
but sing all morning a pink and purple song.
Now that is some cool **** right there.

I'm just a touch nuts--but only a touch--
just enough to plan a day of play away
to build a buffer between the waste
and haste out there and the me
that is right in here.

I'm just a touch nuts--but only a touch--
just enough to know that tomorrow
I will say NO! to the world,
take some time to breathe, and melt
into the woods atop Taylor's Ridge.

I'm just a touch nuts--but only a touch--
just enough to anticipate the downward
trend of mood and energy transported
by those high thin clouds sliding
between me and the sun, darkening
the silvered trees, turning footsteps toward home.

just live without a list for once!
allow each moment to meld into the next
and whatever arises, just take it and go
wherever it leads you; you've seeds to sow,
and whatever arises, just take it and go.

There's a woman running screaming
naked through some woods.
     She is in me.

There's a man running screaming
naked through a crowd.
     He is in me, too.

She and he will collide one day,
get past this delicious falling
     toward one another.

For 20 years now, I've watched
the long, slow slant of sunlight
as it cuts low across the neighbor's roof
and slices along the flower beds.
This winter, however, the deck is new
and casts unfamiliar, rounded shadows
that will march into my next twenty years,

so that one December, or a June--
the sun will be high then,
the shadows not as long or low--
I may again, at 74,
sit here in this corner,
the rounded, marching shadows
no longer unfamiliar
and ponder 40 years
of eternal slicing shadows.

So, there's this bird that screams
beautifully--but screams nonetheless--
every spring morning 'long about 4:30,
"WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
"TIME TO GET SOME LOVIN'!"

Nine hundred and sixty two miles from home,
a monk's touch reverberated, instantly taking root
in the spirit of one alone in a sea of alien ideas.

4:30 a.m.
A gong signals it's time to rise in silence,
prepare for morning zazen with the rest of the rookies,
file into the meditation hall,
settle awkwardly onto cushions.
No words are spoken; just watch and do.
Then, suddenly, hidden behind the silence,
he reaches down, gently takes my fingers,
rearranges them just so,
teaching only through touch.
    Electrifying!

Thirteen years later, I can recall that moment
in detail--all thirty seconds of it--
when a monk's touch transferred compassion
and knowledge from him to me, a stranger,
and I was transformed somehow,
never to be exactly the same again.