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A Clue Found Aboard a Zen Mind


by Darryl Price



 

I do so want to bring you into the

sacred linguistically eternal

loop of all ordinary things on earth,

but it can so easily turn into

a very sudden unsparing trapdoor,

or a hissing angry knot tying up

itself into even more tricky sorts

of little knots on strings, a sticky and

coiling noose stubbornly holding onto

your loose thoughts with every spare tooth in its

 

gummy arsenal. Better to ensnare

myself than cause someone else any harm.

That's the law, but it's a hard one to quick

memorize with all your body parts still

attached. That's the lonely gist, if you can

only stand it. And mostly people just

stand around any way licking their fast

melting ice creams with absolutely no

love on their faces. That's the sad part. You

know there's more. There has to be. You can feel

 

it. And if you are any kind of real

poet you can still feel it in there, too.

It may be locked up, it may be shut down,

it may be prettily folded and tucked

neatly away like a soon forgotten

wedding dress, it may be buried and slow

rotting for all you know in some dank, dark

basement of the cooled off mindset, but the smell

is undeniable and somehow just

as sweet. I was going to say human,

 

but there are some mysteries that may, well,  

question that pale enough definition.

So I'll leave it at still alive with the

possibilities of a sunny soul

picnic to come. Once you get over this

rough part you can pretty much manage to

make it the rest of the way up the hill.

But, hey, it's exactly the way you once

imagined it. What did you expect, oh

really? You signed up for Architecture

 

and now here you are. Your building's ready

when you are. Frank Lloyd tried to at least leave

you an artistic clue, but all you want

to do is copy down all his answers.

Man, you have just got to get over this

forever cheating thing. It doesn't work.

An illusion is still an illusion.

We all ought to know. Now here is where we

part. Don't forget to ring the doorbell first.

Nice going. See you on the other side.      




Bonus poem:



Pleasures

The sun, or whatever it is,
is falling closer. I don't think
that it's going away any
time soon. But here I am a man

still seeking your face on every
leaf. Like a forest of elegant
bulbs this makes it way better;
doesn't make it blow away. I

don't believe in being forbidden
to laugh or to cry. That's my
problem. There's plenty I don't understand,
but it doesn't stop me

from feeling everything on and
on until the end. The sun, or
whatever is shining, seems to
be debating what makes a dream

and what is awakening, but
my question is for you--will you
still be love's message to us when
tomorrow is the only day

left on earth? The sunshine, or the
inevitable squinting sky,
shifts its own pleasures like a
sleeping lion sometimes, but I

and I must allow for the shadows
of our workhorse atoms to
move mountains and swing the maid back
onto her silver saddle before

listing over into another
starry despair. We've a
purpose after all in the grand
clash of the majestic kitchens.

    

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