a (passing) glance at the river

What was lost steals away

into a legacy of shadows

--here’s one ‘above’… here’s one ‘below’--

moment to moment an open gate

for a return of the river,

from here and there small

gestures still moving on,

still there, beginning again

this time learning human

in the drift of things, in the

language of yes following

the rules of paradise (and attendant

ghosts) too bright to see, but

coming down, many circles later,

to: ‘love one another,’ past

the history of the invitation,

the history of snakes,

coming back to the body, to

the star in your forehead,

as time’s fool… the triumph 

of love like a word in

your ear.

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

a mamaist I-sight

Star vehicle keeps rolling on, enjoying new

Freedoms with double vision opening up the past 

And seeing violence through the eyes of a child, how 

It takes the world by storm, irreversibly, like a sky 

Falling, shaking--deeply and thoroughly—the pillars 

Of one’s future all the way down to the ground. 

Can the pieces be put back together again? Is the fallout 

Like a looming catastrophe that you feel from head to toe, 

Which you can’t come out from under, like a shadow, unless 

Paradox’s vital presence (or is it wishful thinking?) 

Has its part to play, until when feeling freer to speak 

(As well as to act) the words needed to be said get your 

Wheels turning, and with the familiar now new, you 

See beyond the horrors to where cash is flowing on 

Unlimited credit, to where the bottom line’s ultimate 

Way of doing business (hyping this shaky terrain?) 

Is the story of your life without you, the toll paid 

For the troubled waters the road of excess has led you through, 

Though with room--like a loop--to move back 

(And on) as you roll upward into the eye of the storm.

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

a mamaist abyss revisited

The spooky art at heaven’s edge,

Diving deeper into shadow without moving a step,

The mind set free into the familiar

All over and over again, newly swung

Into action, for a truth once uncovered

Never stops being true, running on

Its own steam. But now catching wind

As a feeling, you go deeper, eavesdropping

On yourself, and the mind you hear you would

Compare to others, to otherness, resonating

In the fathomless depths where you hear

A voice calmly saying, I link, therefore I am

Dancing on the edge, on the edge between.

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

night

Lucky for us a snake lived under that house,

The house where lightning struck.

Years went by, snow fell occasionally.

The snake one night came in as we slept.

A whole lifetime dreamt away in that night.

Snowmen made, angels in the snow frozen

Momentarily in time, the neighbor’s bird

Escaping one day, out among the palm trees

And vanishing into its name, its cry

On the treetops that nobody heard.

The hills protected us when the sky

Broken open fell hard through its opening

And the impact threw us back on our knees.

But mostly the summer monsoons kept

Their promise even when we didn’t pray,

Even as we made of our solitudes day

After day a secret invisible play

That we freely partook of, until we slept

To the sound of cicadas humming, whirring

That August night when the snake came visiting

And I, blurry-eyed, fumbling the next morning

Down the dark stairwell, half-awake, feeling

The sudden weight of our rice finch’s cage

Pulling me down until I looked. When I saw

The coiled guest inside I didn’t know what I saw,

But the terror seizing my throat proclaimed what

It knew and we, my wife and son and I, raced

Together down those stairs where we thought

Up quick solutions to the presence of what we faced

There, poised and unconcerned, waiting for its

Destiny and ours to be played out. “Kill it! Kill it!”

Was one avenue to be taken; a knife was called for

But a camera appeared handy to counter disbelief

As we shot picture after picture but not before

Considering our pet rice finch ‘Lucky’s’ fate,

By then a lumpy outline bulging from one coil

Showing what our guest ate

During the night, a meal for the special

Occasion that we knew, later, it was.

We left the cage door open and watched him

Slither away through the grass softly, imperious as

The darkness he had stolen inside our house under,

And as he took his leave we, silent and grim,

Stood in the doorway watching, heartbeats

Crashing through our thoughts as the scene repeats

Itself amid the clamorous, sacred, random thunder

Of remembrance where, in a new house now, 

In a new life, I see, yes, how 

We all become what we are meant to be,

We are all incredibly, miraculously,

Luminously lucky. 

Botsford, Alan. A Book of Shadows. Katydid Books, 2003.

this

I don't want to make a big thing out of this.
There's more to life than this, I know.
But I will say this—
this, in a sense, is the stuff from which everything else is made;
everything--including this, that and the other--comes from this.
Though I can’t understand this with my mind,
I mean this,
I'm not just saying this.
Of course, I realize not everyone wants to hear this,
not everyone likes the sound of this.
Dreams, after all, are made of this;
this has driven some people mad.
Some, not knowing what to make of this,
may not want to get into this right now.
Others, finding this hard to believe,
may not be ready for this.
Still others, afraid of what this might mean,
would prefer this to not happen at all.
But listen carefully to this.
This is happening every single moment of our lives,
only once we lose sight of this 
we’re left trying to live to see this, to remember this 
and this above all. 
Does this sound familiar to you?
If you think this is something,
wait 'till you see what comes after this--
there's more to this than meets the eye.
Yes, there's a word for this.
I know of no other way of saying this.
But let's not be civilized about this.
Go ahead--take this 
and eat this.
Take this 
and drink this.
 Let this grow inside yourself.
This is the point of this, isn't it?
(Otherwise, nothing can really come of this.)
Now don't take your eyes off this.
Keep looking steadily at this
and nothing but this.
Are you ready for this?
This
--watch this carefully--
is this.
And yet... and yet...
--how can I put this?-- 
this 
is not this 
--no--
not this.
Isn't this something!
Imagine this!
See what a difference this makes? 
…Yes, this is that.




Botsford, Alan. mamaist: learning a new language. Kamakura, Japan, Minato No Hito, 2002.

           

a mamaist environment

God bless the woods I won’t seek a way out of

God bless the snake I want to let live in the grass

God bless the ground that has kept slipping out
            from under me

God bless the hell and high water I have come through
            (and these waters, for running so deep)

God bless the stone walls I have run into
            (trying to arrive at where one never stops arriving)

God bless the wrong trees I have barked up

God bless the crow I have had to eat
            (the taste of which is unmistakable)

God bless the rain I at times haven’t known enough to come
            out of

God bless the wind to which I have thrown some,  
            but not all, caution

God bless the mountains that have been moved by my 
            faith (even without my knowing it)

God bless the clouds my head has been in

God bless the bird in the air I have felt as free as

God bless the earth I always come back down to

God bless the sky for not being the limit

God bless the stars that have been in my eyes
            (by which all that I love brightly shines)

God bless the moon that lives in the man

God bless the sun whose light, in dawning, I am 
            just now beginning to see

Botsford, Alan. mamaist: learning a new language. Kamakura, Japan, Minato No Hito, 2002.

a mamaist purchase

                 



You pay up front. 
You pay on the spot. 
You pay on demand.
You pay that which is yours
and yours alone to give,
paying as you go.
Sometimes there is all hell to pay,
so you pay close attention,
keeping your eyes open, 
listening with both ears.
You loosen the purse strings,
you open the purse,
and you shell out --
a pound of flesh here, 
a pound of flesh there;
now an arm and a leg, 
now through the nose--
paying whatever the asking price.
If the fiddler asks, 
you pay the fiddler;
if the piper asks,
you pay the piper.
You pay each and every debt
presented to you for payment.
You pay up, you pay in, 
you pay out, you pay over,
you lay your money down.
You pay and you pay.
You pay until you’re among
the forgotten at the bottom,
until you’re among
the wretched of the earth,
until property-less,
homeless,
and penniless,
having come through,
    having come across,
having lost everything there is to lose,
at last 
what you see
is what you get.
Then, and only then,
do you have what you've paid for.
And it's priceless.




Botsford, Alan. mamaist: learning a new language. Kamakura, Japan, Minato No Hito, 2002.

here

                                     

You are here. 
Do you know where you are? 
Why ask, Where does one go from here? 
Why try to get somewhere, or be elsewhere?
Whatever it is you're looking for, it's here. 
Here's where the real action is:
here water is wine, night is day, past is present, above is below;
anything can happen here.
As for who's the boss around here,
don't expect to find You-Know-Who here
there's no one here by that name.
Here everybody's the star of the show--
the gang's all here:
here are the living, here are the dying, 
here are the dead, here are the born again--
there's room here for everybody.
The way things are around here, however,
you may sometimes feel up to here with here;
you may sometimes want just to leave your 'Kilroy was here'
and then get the hell out of here.
But remember--what you feel here 
is what you feel there.
The hereafter isn't somewhere else,
the hereafter is right here-- 
here is where the birds sing, here is where the sky is blue;
you needn't look any further than here.
Here, there, everywhere--it's all here;
all that you've ever dreamed of is right here.
If you have something to do, do it here.
If you have something to say, say it here--
that's what we're here for.
For here is the true Kingdom.
We're all here for the same reason:
to realize here what we have in us.
Here, right here where you are.







Botsford, Alan. mamaist: learning a new language. Kamakura, Japan, Minato No Hito, 2002.

nothing

I have nothing to say for myself.

I believe in nothing.

That's why I always have nothing on my mind.

I just remembered something, however,

and if I may, here's something to show for it,

a little something from nothing.

Mind you, it's nothing to write home about.

And it's nothing to speak of, either.

It's really about nothing in particular.

For once you try everything from A to Z,

you find that nothing really works,

and that with nothing up your sleeve,

nothing is what it seems--

it leaves everything to your imagination

and nothing to be desired.

Now, if you think this has nothing to do with you,

or is much ado about nothing,

well, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

As any good-for-nothing can tell you,

I'd like nothing better than to offer you nothing.

But timing is everything.

Before you get all worked up over nothing,

you should know something first:

I used to have nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to fear.

I mean, I used to think I was really something,

that I had everything going for me,

that anything was possible.

I used to believe that if one couldn't have everything,

at least something was better than nothing,

and that as long as there was something for everyone,

who could ask for anything more?

One day, however, I began hearing sweet nothings

whispering in my ear, to the tune of

"All or nothing? All or nothing? All or nothing?"

At first something in me said, "Oh, it's nothing,"

and I tried to act as if nothing had happened.

But day and night I kept hearing the sweet nothings

in my ear until I knew I had something to worry about,

since nothing was standing in my way

and I was already next-to-nothing.

Finally I decided it was all for nothing anyway,

that there was nothing left for me to do

except to take nothing personally.

So I slipped into something a bit more comfortable

and, after thinking of everything, 

I said to myself, "Here goes nothing..."

And suddenly, in a blinding flash, nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing!

And everything--in a word--changed!

I had nothing more to lose,

nothing more to hide--

for nothing was new under the sun,

 nothing more and nothing less.

And all I could say was, "Thanks. Thanks for nothing."

That's why, now, I can believe everything I hear,

for everything reminds me of something else.

And that's why I can take nothing for granted,

for I know that nothing really matters,

that nothing's perfect,

that nothing lasts forever.

After all, nothing is sacred.

Botsford, Alan. mamaist: learning a new language. Kamakura, Japan, Minato No Hito, 2002.