Fire Boy talks to himself,

all morning, trimming wicks for lamps.

"If we could run fast enough,

we might always live in daylight

and never needs lamps.

"What a bright day that would be!"

Sounds too much like too much work —

for this ragged janitor, at least.

And if one could run that fast,

he'd better stay in one place

and learn the pace of the day.

Big Shield once told me all

may be enlightened:

serpent, stone, bell, moon, pine.

Imagine that.

Yet my question remains:

"On what great day

will fear and hope finally die?"

"Back to work,"

said Big Shield.

"Even the sun must climb Cold Peak."

Young monks gaped in awe

when the old master came to meals but never ate.

Their fear was funny.

They whispered of hungry ghosts, magic kettles,

and lost desires of the holy.

I teased them with tales of one-eyed demons rising in the dark.

One night, I caught the old master

at the trap in the drain where rice gathers

when monks wash their bowls

after the evening meal.

No more rice than would fill a hermit's thimble,

yet the old monk carried

his portion to a spot warmed by the stove

and ate his meal with simple grace.


Such is the way.

Numbskulls never tire of stuffing empty heads

with grain too good for them,

while the wise survive on scraps

left by a sullen cleaning of bowls and sticks.

One wishes

the mouths of fools might open

only to shove in rice.

With no Master,

I have none to visit

in Autumn, when wind blows

six-petaled blossoms from the West.


Under only clouds and stars,

I lie on steps before the kitchen door,

fart and scratch myself

like any Buddha.

There are many ways to the Lotus Peak,

Each finds a path to suit his steps,

and none sees others

from the way one walks.


All paths converge at the peak.

From the plains, the mountain grants

a single trail to climb,

yet the peak reveals the ways are many,

though one chooses only one.

Will good and evil deeds be weighed?

Who ponders such nonsense is lost.


Does a farmer eaten by a tiger

mourn the rice he harvested?

If the ugly, filthy feet of the Buddha

protrude from the pyre,


one may snicker softly

as flames tickle the toes


and black smoke rises

in vain to the sun.

You may order Eric Paul Shaffer's "Living at the Monastery, Working in the Kitchen" at www.leapingdogpress.com or by calling (703) 864-6148.