Writing Life
The Buddhist monk’s feet?
Exceptionally clean
Bottoms most of all
I wanted to ask
While he drank his tea after
If he worried ever
About pedicures
Or let his feet be his feet
Even if the soles
Were rough and sooty
And the whole zendo gossiped
About where he’d walked
The rough illusion:
Crane white soles are holier
Than earth-dirty soles
The reality:
Shea butter socks overnight
No one’s the wiser.
-M. Ashley
I went to my first dharma talk today.
1.
Wet cake still crumbles
Wet crumbs are still worth eating
With the bigger spoon
2.
California cold
Forty-five and I’m freezing
Meditate in fuzzy sock
Fresh box of 12 bold
pens. If only they smelled like
brand new Crayolas.
-M. Ashley
Pronounced to rhyme with
“Base.” I’m not that fancy the
Bright flowers are fake.
-M. Ashley
Sliced Turkey Stacker
Only the whitest turkey
With Best Foods mayo.
-M. Ashley
(Real menu item. It was ten years ago, so I have no idea what restaurant it was, but you have to love it when the poetry Universe delivers like this.)
Somnambulist’s cake
White frosting delivery
System in the dark
-M.
A charming giant
Sleeps curled up beside you, snores
Murmurs poetry
-M.
Cold burns stimulate
The vibrant nerve your lover
Pressed his hot kiss to
-M.
Fresh box of 12 bold
pens. If only they smelled like
brand new Crayolas.
-M.
Upright love with young
Women only mesh sex vid-
Eo sex photos…
-M.
(from the WordPress Reader View of an entity that follows my blog)
M. N. Ashley 