Tabby and the Three Travelers
by T. Cat
(c) 2007
Part 3 - Finale
In a high wind-swept vale scraped by blizzards and hail
stabbing down from the frosty inclines
of a jaggedy peak that knows only gale's shriek
lived the strangest of all strange felines.
Called "Tabby" by friend, and to "Cat" would attend,
but to most known as simply "that nut!",
The Tabby's sleek fur and melodious purr
explained and excused his proud strut.
Handsome he was, and not only because
of long whiskers and sexy elf ears,
His stripes were aligned as though well-designed
by Yves Saint-Laurent (or his peers).
His castle was gray, and hardly a ray
of light beam could force its way through.
The embrace of the gloom, by sun or by moon,
was almost too much to subdue.
Though by nature a loner, the Cat was the owner
of coins piled high beyond counting.
And these he would spend, dilettante to the end,
on wine and silk clothes, ever-mounting.
But though rather a flake, Ashtanga did take
a hold on his weird feline brain,
and so break of each day, whether sunny or gray,
whether hail, or blizzard, or rain,
Saw him roll out his mat getting ready for that
tough Series to which he was slave.
The trance and the bliss, and prana's deep kiss,
that sweet buzz which all yogi's crave.
But Yama's, thought he, don't apply much to me,
so he rarely would ponder about
that one percent theory, which seemed to him dreary,
which he carelessly often would flout.
And then one Spring day, while bees buzzed in the hay
and soft breeze blew up warm from beyond,
the sweet valley's smell, tinkle of the cow's bell,
made Tabby sigh deep and gaze fond
At the ancient broad river, from his window a sliver
of silvery water algow,
which in the cliff's lee ran on to the sea,
passing farms and the town in its flow.
And seeing this view, "Something new I must do!"
with startling quickness he cried.
"I'll go into town, have some fun, drink a round!
Bring my best steed, for I'll ride!"
In this cold hall I've come to a stall,
I'm strictly confined and dumb muted,
Though yoga's so swell, I can practically smell
that down there might be something more suited?
So with ostrich plume high draping over his eye,
and leather boots up to his knees,
with sword hilt a-twinkle, in pants not a wrinkle,
the bridle he boldly did seize.
Tabby rode like an ace, clad in velvet and lace,
his stirrups of sliver clanged loud
as he galloped the road, and then boldly strode
to the marketplace, into the crowd.
In the market's brash noise, he kept his full poise,
moving smoothly amidst all the din,
For though now a domestic, the Cat once majestic
when young a brave soldier had been.
Then without warning came a great horning
of bells, trumpets, bugles, and drums,
And straight through the Square, trampling marketers there,
the coach of the King swiftly comes.
The Cat turned aside, graceful, easy, with pride,
not the least bit of haste did he show,
but as he did, another man slid
on the cobbles so slick down below.
And to stop his pratfall and great hurt to forestall,
the man blindly and wildly grabbed,
and what bad luck it was, he felt something like fuzz,
as a mantle of velvet he nabbed.
It was Tabby's red cloak, now in mud it did soak,
getting dirty and wetted quite through
And Tabby enraged, like a tiger uncaged,
turned to the man and said "You!"
"I am for you now, sir, if you're more than a cur,
you'll give me my due in the morn.
My seconds will call, to the door of your hall
- you will wish you had never been born!"
For though Tabby's not cruel, he's addicted to duel,
with sword and with gun he had flair,
and the loss of his cape made him mad like an ape,
"We duel at sunrise - Prepare!"
Glove flung in the face, Tabby started to race
on his horse, back along the dark trail,
Though he'd fought much before, as in duels of yore,
he sought to ensure he'd prevail.
And so all the long night, he sat without light
concentrating and fixing his mind
Yoga forgot, he sat on that spot
using Zen his mind-body to bind.
And at daybreak's beams, o'er soft valley streams,
brooks tinkling with music of dawn,
the reins of his prey, dueling partner that day,
his Seconds grasped tight and led on.
The field of duel gleamed fair like a jewel
in morning's first light o'er the hill
and the Seconds stood by, but the man seemed too shy
as through drugged by a potion or pill.
"What can this be? Would you cravenly flee?
Man or dog?" the Cat angrily hissed.
"Won't fight", the man said, "it's not that I dread,
But I'm a Non-Dualist".
"Non-Duelist?!" Cat cried, the shock widening his eyes,
"What kind of a man can you be?
A man of no pride? Draw now!" he cried,
and put paw to hilt dangerously.
You don't understand, said the strange-looking man,
and his eyes got a far-away look.
What you take as "e" is not that, you see,
it is "a" - just as spelled in my book.
For I am a Writer, on Neo-Advaita,
the doctrine that all that you know,
and see, think, or do, though you haven't a clue,
is really mere sham and fake show.
What you think is yourself, with your ears like an elf,
is really just air, don't you know,
and your thoughts are mere breeze and your pains are but ease
of eternally meaningless Flow
of tweaks and alarms and what you think are harms,
but which really are only a mist
of delusion and foolery and like costume jewelry
lack value and just don't exist.
Since men bring me here, I accept without fear,
I come bringing only my staff,
I come not with gun, but with doctrine of One,
here's my book, want my autograph?
If the book you will take, then let us shake,
and be friends, and then I will teach
my Satsang for free and in my company
Awakening you can soon reach.
The Cat was no fool, yet never in school,
had they taught any thing so absurd.
But though wanting to fight, these words seemed so Right,
that something within his soul stirred.
And so from that morn, Yoga mat now forlorn,
Tabby lay every morning abed,
Despite sun's cheery ray, Yoga's merely a "Way",
and all Ways lead nowhere, it's said.
And over long time, in the harsh mountain clime,
the castle walls sagged and they tumbled.
and gradually, from the moat straggling free,
moss and ivy grew wild and jumbled
They covered the manor, and down drooped his banner,
and wild grass waved in the halls,
where once Tabby boasted and snarfed what he'd roasted
and lounged amid merry catcalls.
And Tabby took to the road, without horses or load,
alone and stripped plain like that Writer,
Non-Dualist he, a free escapee,
with a mind most considerably lighter.
And to those who would greet, or wish with him to meet?
"Please from this prattle desist.
Because it is said, in the book that I read,
You and me - we don't really exist!"
And to those engrossed, by some random post
the Cat once may have happened to blog?
"Comments disallowed, I have firmly avowed
that All is as Empty as fog."
But of mid-winter's night, when moonbeams pierce bright
through ghost clouds riding on the chill air,
They say still that he, the spectral Tabby,
(in whispers still they declare)
Can sometimes be spied, with legs opened wide,
haunted eyes, doing baddha konasana
for it's just as they say - though you may go away,
your Yoga will always be with ya.
~ The End ~
