The Buddha Out West

85.
Few among men are they who cross to the further shore. The others merely run up and down the bank on this side.

94.
He whose senses are mastered like horses well under the charioteer's control, he who is purged of pride, free from passions, such a steadfast one even the gods envy.

97.
The man who is not credulous, who knows the uncreated, who has severed all ties, who has put an end to the occasion of good and evil, who has vomited all desires, verily he is supreme among men.


Wisdom from: What the Buddha Taught by Walpola Rahula: The Words of Truth, Selections from The Dhammapada. Page 128

Image #85 from The Hopper Juan
Image #94 bad ass horse

Image #97 Eanger Irving Couse, Kachina Painter, 1917

Four From Lescatre

middlin'

easy slides the trombone

with the gutteral

honesty of the throat

squeaky of tone or

gravelled

textured as sound

with truth

a point to be made

while you

tap toe

turn leaf

take hand 

type text

tiptoe like right hand runs

to memories

too magnificent

in their

rear view mirror

hum

bob and clark

mellowing but bringing

questions with easy answers

more mining of my memory

that faulty system

adjusting the hue

of phenomena so familiar

a flugelhorn and a trombone

of one family but

such distinctly

differently

dealt with

drivers

destinations

derived due to

deemed deliverance

from what, no

to what

now only

and your smile

as you bob your

head

sending blessings

to your fellow beings

true story

intent is too often 

defined after action

and that's just time

doing it's hide and seek

never being where you are

because everyone's already

there

realities abutting endlessly

and always able to fit

made to

unquestioned spatial definition

because that too is unknowable

intent is unknowable

hunted, studied, questioned, raked over coals

and even truths derived

by sheer might of evocation

seem false in quiet

thought

perfect day

she broke the news

so quietly I had to

ask her to repeat it

and then I didn't

want to believe it

the memories

attatched to his

work and play

flooded me

but the acceptance

followed swiftly

like the next

line of a song

gratitude to a universe

capable of housing

such a soulful son

so sharing of his

scope and sense

she and I spent

the earlist morning

sining and saying

smiling

she'd be sweet jane

sweet nicky

cassandra

give it a name

sweet lou

Poems: Rob Lescatre

Painting: "View of Ute Mountain from McElmo Canyon in the Winter" By Derek Alvarez

Those Hills

Fiddle call while the summer sun sets
and those barking, fox like hounds
beating the morning birds alarm call.
The days like too much fun and freedom
pass fast like the whiskey flame eating
through dry rot.
And I'll sand that wood to bring out the beauty
she is, or could be, saw dust, and lacquer
shines like a dollar taxed till it coughs.
Black powder and venison on our plate,
fiddle call the hounds back to evening moon,
where at least they'll listen and earn their stay.
Trout over campfire flame, once on my fly
tied with pheasant feather and peacock.
small tippet, dry hackle, that damn fiddle
playing out like line drag,
in with careful pulls into my grandfathers wooden net.
All up high where the spruce tip
beer ferments and the people are poor
enough to build a truck up right and
not pay for firewood and play that fiddle call
way into a work night and appreciate a rain
enough to see those Birdsfeet flowers growin
over the Aspen tree roots.


Photo: Ponderosa pine tree pollen in a puddle of rain water by James Gagnon
Poem: "Those Hills" by James Gagnon

The Appalachian Book of the Dead

From Rain on the Cumberlands

Rain in the beechwood trees. Rain upon the wanderer

Whose breath lies cold upon the mountainside,

Caught up with broken horns within the nettled grass,

With hooves relinquished on the breathing stones

Eaten with rain-strokes.

From Hounds on the Mountain

Hounds on the mountain ....

Grey and swift spinning the quarry shall turn

At the cove’s ending, at the slow day’s breaking,

And lave the violent shadows with her blood.

From Graveyard

There is no town so quiet on any earth,

Nor any house so dark upon the mind.

Only the night is here, and the dead

Under the hard blind eyes of hill and tree.

Here lives sleep. Here the dead are free.

From Horseback in the Rain

To the stone, to the mud

With hoofs busy clattering

In a fog-wrinkled spreading

Of waters? Halt not. Stay not.

Ride the storm with no ending

On a road unarriving.

From Spring on Troublesome Creek

Not all of us were warm, not all of us.

We are winter-lean, our faces are sharp with cold

And there is the smell of wood smoke in our clothes;

Not all of us were warm, though we have hugged the fire

Through the long chilled nights.

From Mountain Dulcimer

The dulcimer sings from fretted throat

Of the doe’s swift poise, the fox’s fleeting step

And the music of hounds upon the outward slope

Stirring the night, drumming the ridge-strewn way.

From Child in the Hills

Where on these hills are tracks a small foot made,

Where rests the echo of his voice calling to the crows

In sprouting corn? Here are tall trees his eyes

Have measured to their tops, here lies fallow earth

Unfurrowed by terracing plows these sleeping years.

Poem: Stanza's from James Stills, "From the Mountains, from the Valley" 

Scrimshaw: Pending...

natural mystic

natural mystic

through the redwoods

my first time

she's showing-off her

grandest creations of growth

we drive through one

and dip and swerve

as the sunlight flickers

through the canopy like

celluloid in the booth

off the screen and

through my southern searching

down clear to the Sur

where men made mindful

of years which echo

heard symphonies and surf songs in so many pools

sunny days and the end

of anticipation

Poem: "natural mystic" by Rob Lescatre

Photo: Pittsburgh Plymouths cap 1957: Jack Kerouac’s typed, handwritten and illustrated fantasy baseball league was extravagantly detailed in old-fashioned composition notebooks. His players have distinct histories and personalities. Cities lost and regained teams; rosters and batting orders changed. A single season lasted 40 or 50 games, with an All-Star game and a World Series. His teams, mostly named for automobiles, included the Chicago Chryslers, Boston Fords, and Chicago Nashes. When Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in 1947, Kerouac added a black Cuban shortstop to the Philadelphia Pontiacs. Navy Pinstripe Round Crown, Embroidery on Navy Felt Logo.

A Few By Po

A Mountain Revelry 

To wash and rinse our souls of their age-old sorrows,
We drained a hundred jugs of wine.
A splendid night it was . . . .
In the clear moonlight we were loath to go to bed,
But at last drunkenness overtook us;
And we laid ourselves down on the empty mountain,
The earth for pillow, and the great heaven for coverlet

Lu Mountain, Kiangsi

I climbed west on Incense Cloud Peak.
South I saw the spray-filled falls
Dropping for ten thousand feet
Sounding in a hundred gorges,
Suddenly as if lightning shone,
Strange as if light-wet rainbows lifted.
I thought the Milky Way had shattered,
Scattering stars through the clouds, downwards.

Looking up an even greater force.
Nature’s powers are so intense.
The Cosmic Wind blows there without stop.
The river’s moon echoes back the light
Into vortices where waters rush.
On both sides the clear walls were washed,
By streams of pearl broken into mist,
By clouds of foam whitening over rock.

Let me reach those Sublime Hills
Where peace comes to the quiet heart.
No more need to find the magic cup.
I’ll wash the dust, there, from my face,
And live in those regions that I love,
Separated from the Human World. 


Hard is the Journey 

Gold vessels of fine wines,
thousands a gallon,
Jade dishes of rare meats,
costing more thousands,

I lay my chopsticks down,
no more can banquet,
I draw my sword and stare
wildly about me:

Ice bars my way to cross
the Yellow River,
Snows from dark skies to climb
the T'ai-hang mountains!

At peace I drop a hook
into a brooklet,
At once I'm in a boat
but sailing sunward...

(Hard is the journey,
Hard is the journey,
So many turnings,
And now where am I?)

So when a breeze breaks waves,
bringing fair weather,
I set a cloud for sails,
cross the blue oceans! 

Happy May Day!

I've lived here a long time. How many autumns? Singing silly songs, with absolutely not one care! Chewing a nice medicinal poem when I get hungry...Mind grinding the rhymes and meter smooth as I lean against a stone.

Poem: "LXII" by Han Shan
Print: "continuum" by Dan McCarthy

Sitting Under Bridges

I've decided that I rather enjoy
Sitting under bridges...
To feel the afternoon rush of cars
And trucks pound the pavement overhead

(I can feel them, hear them, invisibly there)

I like the implicit removal
In the act of sitting under bridges...

I sit by the dock watching the men
Load the boat and the birds
On the tide, both floating
Towards home, all done fishing for the day...


Poem: "Sitting under Bridges" by Patrick Lynch 
Photo: "Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone" by Thomas Moran 

Grandpa's Workshop or Time Travel, Carrots

suddenly,
it is no longer six-fifteen in the morning,

and i am no longer watching the peels curl

down the length of the carrot before flipping

to the floor

i have been transported back to

nineteen eighty seven, or thereabouts,

and the peels of the present settle 

upon the piles of sawdust that cover

the floor of grandpas workshop.

my hands are no longer my hands,

the peeler is no longer peeling carrots.

my hands have become grandpa's

and the peeler a plane, my hands

are smoothly peeling the surface

of some walnut or cherry,

the small curls flipping down 

to the floor

i watch our hands, marveling

at how the strokes reveal the marbled

beauty of the grain lying below the surface,

and my tears missing grandpa mingle 

with the onions, and suddenly

it is six-twenty-five in the morning

Poem: "Grandpa's Workshop or Time Travel, Carrots" Patrick Lynch 

Photo: Unknown

That's Where

Zen up and over, zen around, zen traversing deer trails through forgotten forests. Deluge at hand but it worries me not. Circumnavigating large bodies of water that spread out like tail feathers. Lightning flashing and thunder clapping. Wild dog in his element. Rain coat and sandals, a middle way 'cause the heavy drops encourage your feet to keep on going to that's where. Sky above the storm too bright, too intense for these eyes. Deliberate ignorance to such heavens is best for the hiker who wants nothing more. Motives nil, keep the mind focused on the next step to that's where. Pebbles between feet and soul tell me I'm on the right path, following on the heels of forever, but only feeling the dirt and the water and the electrically charged air.

Poem: James Gagnon
Painting: "Plastic Beach Nudes 14," by Vangobot

God has cared for these trees, saved them from drought, disease, avalanches, and a thousand tempests and floods. But he cannot save them from fools. 

Quote: John Muir

"I am, as I am; whether hideous, or handsome, depends upon who is made judge."


-Herman Melville

of a wave

without thought

the meanings slide into

deeper understandings

words thought become heard

laughter in the wake of

simultaneous combustion

eyes up, face front

guard down, acceptant

willfully unarmed

knowing that intention and

realization are planetary

constantly in rotation

about whatever looks

like a sun

something to dance with

an opposite that breeds

itself through exposure

teachings untethered tide

XLVII

I was born just thirty years ago, 

but I've wandered a million miles already. 

Along the River through the green grass on the 

     banks, 

out to the borderlands, where the red dust roils. 

Chewed herbs, cooked up alchemical elixirs, 

trying to become an Immortal. 

Read all the Writings, chanted the Histories 

     aloud, 

trying to learn them all by heart...

Today I'm on my way 

home to Cold Mountain. 

There, I'll bed down in the creek, just to wash out

     my ears 

LIV

Sun's yang light failing, down the Western Peak;

the grasses caught the light, and flowered with it. 

And again, the dark came on, moon waiting like a 

     hidden dragon, 

among the intertwining branches of vine-covered 

     pines. 

Here, just here, a tiger waited, 

bristling, hackles up, to meet me. 

Not a pen knife in my hand, 

I tried, I tried to know no fear, 

but my heart was all ears, all ears. 

Poems: "of a wave," by Robert Lescatre; "XLVII" and "LIV" by Hanshan from his collection "Cold Mountain Poems." 

Photo: Rawlings "Ozzie Smith Gamer" currently valued at $12,500.

Two from Jack

Hymn

And when you showed me Brooklyn Bridge
  in the morning,
      Ah God,

And the people slipping on ice in the street,
twice,
         twice,
                  two different people
                  came over, goin to work,
                  so earnest and tryful,
                  clutching their pitiful
                  morning Daily News
                  slip on the ice & fall
                  both inside 5 minutes
                  and I cried I cried

That's when you taught me tears, Ah 

  God in the morning, 

       Ah Thee

And me leaning on the lamppost wiping 

eyes, 

       eyes, 

               nobody's know I'd cried

               or woulda cared anyway

               but O I saw my father

               and my grandfather's mother

               and the long lines of chairs 

               and tear-sitters and dead, 

               Ah me, I knew God You

               had better plans than that

So whatever plan you have for me

Splitter of majesty 

Make it short 

    brief

Make it snappy

    bring me home to the Eternal Mother 

     today 

At your service anyway, 

     (and until)

29

The Tathagata doesnt exist

in honor of which I will go 

and climb mountains 

Poems: "Hymn" and "29" by Jack Kerouac, from his collection "Poems All Sizes: 1954-1965"

Photo: "Nellie Dreaming-Lyons,CO-1999" by Robert Benjamin  and Rocher peint à Rivière du Loup, Quebec. 

dowson shadow

a flash of teeth

across the street

and up your alley

how far to be determined

though control is unobtainable

at least not sought

to seek one goal

many worthy instances go gone

like the wind in decadent days

roses not smelled nor wine

what is not sniffable

visible, derisable

the unheard orchestra

waves internally crashing

reverberations veering

and careening to be poetic

it is

what it is to

dip your hip to the swaying

of the ship that

surely goes only your way

when sunday sundries

and so-called political parity

part red-faced in pro-people pose

peering unending into eyes

less than an inch deep

thoughts whose reach exceeds

inevitabilities of existence

or inches toward them achingly

seems if your radar

picks up anything which makes

movement for it's sake

decide then

what it is too

Poems: "dowson shadow" and "it is" by Robert Lescatre 

Painting #1: Sam Flores 

Painting #2 Sarah Jackson