Look, look,
how I nourish this
phoenix mind of mine:
swallows, sparrows, pigeons,
crows, all birds are welcome here.
Rinzai planted pine, Ikkyü cultivates
bamboo — later generations will
praise us for really doing
something.
enlightenment is a bitch
At first
it isn’t so bad —
a taste of ecstasy, the world
covered in honey. Even snails scrawl
the names of buddhas with
their silvery
trails.
But then,
too much. Pears become
unbearable, wet white flesh so tender
one could perish contemplating
the first taste.
Meditation
becomes oddly redundant,
attention now like water, absorbed in tree root,
plumbing; even fire hydrants with their red
stubby arms become mandalas, and,
worse, the police siren revving its
wail behind my slow-moving
car sounds like a
mantra.
Even my
wife’s complaints about me
finally sound true. I just bow.
Kiss her slender hands.
Carry the garbage
outside, but,
damn! The
moon!
qalandar
Bud Walker, 17 April 1925 ~ 27 January 2017
L.B. “Bud” Walker died peacefully at home on Friday evening, January 27, 2017.
He was born in Kalamazoo, Michigan on April 17, 1925. From the age of 12 he was drawn to airplanes and his wish to learn how to fly led him to a life in the air.
Over his career he earned licenses to operate (both VFR and IFR) single-engine and multi engine airplanes, seaplanes, and helicopters, and from there to acquire licenses to teach others to fly them, up to and including an airline transport pilot’s rating. Among his military and civilian honors was the Orville and Wilbur Wright Award, given to him by the FAA in 2010.
Bud Walker flew thousands of hours in peacetime and also in combat during the Korean War.
A special joy at age 65 was his purchase of an aerobatic airplane, a Pitts Special, in which he entertained himself and those on the ground with his poetic and precise aerobatic maneuvers. He maintained the airplane largely himself and with close friends for twenty years.
In 1952 Bud married Joan Radcliffe Walker. The romance began in Greece and lasted for 65 years.
Their children, Laurie Lysle Walker, Brian Browne Walker, and Julie Sands Donaldson, survive him. David Radcliffe Walker, their first son, died shortly after birth in 1955.
After his wife and family, the Grumman F8F-2 Bearcat, and his Pitts Special, Bud liked fast automobiles, swimming in cold water, and jazz music. He was an elegant drummer until very near the end of his life. He had good friends, told good stories, supported the needy, and remained the beautiful person he was throughout and until the end of a long illness.
His kind and generous spirit and faith in God lives on in his deeds and in the memories of those who knew and loved him.
A memorial service will be held at the Holloway Funeral Home in Oldsmar. Donations in lieu of flowers can be made to the Florida Sheriffs Youth Ranch in Safety Harbor.
It is
a signal honor when
the best man one has ever known,
the best friend one has ever had, and
one’s own father are one and the
same man. I love you,
Papa, always and
forever.
the idea of balance is to be found in herons and loons
I heard a loon call on a TV ad and my body gave itself a quite voluntary shudder. As in the night in East Africa I heard the immense barking cough of a lion, so foreign and indifferent.
But the lion drifts away and the loon stays close, calling as she did in my childhood, in the cold rain a song that tells the world of men to keep its distance.
It isn’t the signal of another life for the reminder of anything except her call call: still, at this quiet point past midnight the rain is the same rain that fell so long ago and the moon says I’m seven years old again.
At the far ends of the lake where no one lives or visits — there are no roads to get there; you take the watercourse way, the quiet drip and drizzle of oars slight squeak oarlock, the bare feet can feel the cold water moves beneath the old wood boat.
At one end the lordly, great blue heron’s nest at the top of the white pine; at the other end the loons, just after daylight in a cream-colored mist, drifting with wails that begin as querulous, rising then into the spheres in volume, with lost or doomed angels imprisoned within their breasts.