ZEN MASTER FLY

ZEN MASTER FLY

Zen master fly, you confound me.

This morning you wake me to meditate

at 7-15 am. Landing on my nose.

I try to chase you out, but like a demon

you are not attracted to the light.

When I’m meditating, you crawl

over my folded hands, I feel your sooty

footfalls and I pour the white light

of the Buddha’s compassion upon you,

trying to do it gently. I wander around

the flat for much of the morning

with a light green plastic colander

in one hand, a sugar-coated cookie

in the other, finally I give up

and take a good long look at you –

prancing about my forearm

on your tiny eyelash feel. Skittering

over the surface as nifty as a wrestler

in roller skates – or a bruiser in a nightie.

Light as a feather – boozy, bombastic, ballerina.

I ask – What is the sound of one hand clapping?

You ponder, rubbing your legs in front.

I ask – Does the fly have Buddha nature?

You stare at me with satin bulbs,

roll out a party-pooper tongue,

give me a tiny kiss.

(c) Esmond Jones 2001

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