The Bally Lumpkin,
laying prostrate to the light.
Living in the Tao,
no need for wrong or right.
Yet untamed by convention,
subtle wisdoms still hold sway.
Love expressed through action,
mother’s milk, father’s play.
Rhythms of the cosmos,
from day to night to day.
This is the way of the Tao,
this is the life of the Bally Lumpkin.
He knows not the reasons,
he cares not the why,
the wind blows all the same.
Living in the moment,
not wondering when he’ll die,
nor how he’ll come to fame.
Intuition now guides his hand,
unfettered by yoke of reason.
But soon the yin gives way to yang,
a cosmic course of seasons.
The yin the yang in harmony,
one gives and takes forever.
This is the way of the Tao,
this is the life of the Bally Lumpkin.
This poem was inspired by a photo of a baby boy who was wrapped in his mother's orange, silk scarf (in the manner of the Dalai Lama, no less). The baby's pet name, "The Bally Lumpkin" was given the boy by his playful parents. Throw in some serious interest in Taoism, on my part, and you've got this poem...or at least, I did.
