You may have heard tales of Pu-Tai the Laughing Buddha, or
seen him, with his prayer beads in his hand or hung 'round his neck and his potbelly begging to be rubbed, in Asian restaurant
windows or display cases in curio shops. But hidden – until now – has been a whole array of
Buddhas, each similarly named with an appropriate gerund after his characteristic attribute or eccentricity. The following lines of verse present a whole alphabet’s worth of these fellows, portrayed for you to complete, to
color and to contemplate.
An alphabet
of Buddhas, set
in systematic chain,
will errors quell.
(‘Twill dare, as well,
through Zen, to entertain.)
Ersatz it’s not.
Connect each dot!
What dharma you’ll obtain!
Ax,
the Asking Buddha,
proposes queries three:
(1) “How d’ya do?”
(2) “Cool. An’ you?”
(3) “What in hell’s a ‘Sri’?”
(Non
sequiturs,
these, it occurs.
Feel free to:
[ ] diss
[ ] agree.
Belsch,
the Burping Buddha,
eructs “As Time Goes By”
accompanied
on treble reed
by me. Do not ask why.
(Paired, formerly,
with Kenny G,
whose honking’s less than fly.)
Catsch,
the Coughing Buddha,
whose throat conceals a frog,
sounds so-o-o-o like Satch.
But here’s a catch:
he’s billed “The Velvet Smog.”
Still, “West End Blues”
he’ll not refuse
to scat as monologue.*
* Pace Louis Armstrong
and Mel Torme
Duh,
the Doping Buddha,
most limners limn as lean:
a shade, a ghost –
one overdosed
on metamphetimine.
Esch,
the Etching Buddha,
who’s tan's a Van Dyke Brown,
declares, “My dear,
please wait right here:
I’ll bring the etchings down."
* Pace James Thurber.
Flayl,
the Frailing Buddha,
picks six-string licks galore.
Like mentor Seeger,
Flayl’s “de reeger”*
railing ‘gainst the war.
(Flayl’s new octet’s
The Buddhaettes.
None like ‘em heretofore.)
* Flayl’s pronunciation
of ‘de rigueur’
Grimz,
the Grinning Buddha,
apes Carroll’s Cheshire Cat.*
His jaw’s in view
‘cuz (sad but true)
his face won’t fade: ‘stoo fat!
* Pace Charles Dodgson.
Humph,
the Huffing Buddha,
employs a gas-mask bong
to toke his Rhino.
(Like your wino,
Humph well knows it’s wrong.)
Imp,*
the Itching Buddha,
hosts fleas like Drumpf boasts dough –
though lacks withal,
the Donald’s gall
and braggadocio.
* Short for ‘Impetigo’
Joque,
the Joshing Buddha,
did stand-up in his youth;
a spell, as well,
on SNL.
(He killed at House of Ruth.)
But Hope he’s not,
though, ‘cuz he’s got
Gil Gottfried’s lack of couth.
Kvayl,
the Kvetching Buddha:
Complaints, complaints,
complaints!
But, after all,
one must recall:
bodh’sattvas make poor saints.
“No Mother T
be me,” warns he.
(No pretty pic he paints.)
Leth,
the Lolling Buddha,
looms large at Sarge’s Lounge.
Leth lacks all pep.
Well-earned's his rep
as junior "Señor Scrounge."
Mote's
the Moulting Buddha.
Skin sloughing is his thing.
Moie sheds it while
he’s bowing viol
and humming “Moultin’ Swing.”*
(In lieu of that --
as tit for tat --
Christ scats, “Ring-ding-a-ding!”)
* Pace Bennie Moten.
Numm,
the Noshing Buddha.
His mum’s a Polish Jew.
Says Matka, “Vell,
moj syn: sup well!
Nor nie neglect to chew.”
Oz?
The Oozing Buddha.
From ears, from eyes, from nose,
from butt and lips
slick syrup drips.
Quick! Fetch a pail and hose!
Parr,
the Putting Buddha,
is slow to break a sweat.
But once Parr does,
he’s sunk – because
his bogie’s worse when wet.
Quidd's
the
Quarr’ling Buddha.
Quidd's quick to pick a fight.
Quidd can’t be told.
Quidd’s uncontrolled.
(Let's face it: Quidd’s for shite!)
Runz,
the Rapping Buddha,
declaims no Saxon tongue.
(Shall geeks soon seek
to speak the Greek
from which Rap’s raps are wrung?)
Shoe,
the Sleuthing Buddha,
inveighs dans chez Suchet.
“I may, someday,
Poirot portray…
if Pinter pens the play.”
Tuck?
The Toddling Buddha.
On Tuck Chi opts to dote.
Is up Chi’s thumb?
O, yup! (In sum,
Tuck’s still – in Chi -- tres
haut.)*
* Pace Chicago.
Upp’s
the Umping Buddha.
Your state? Check, mate, his name!
How well you do
is subject to
the way Upp calls the game.
Vett,
the Voting Buddha,
vents, “Vote dem varmints out!”
It’s understood
Vett’s motive’s good.
But Vett lacks ample clout.
Warn’s
the Warring Buddha.
In genocides he’s starred.
(The view’s now voiced
that Warn be hoist
upon his own petard.)
Xin,
the Xysting Buddha,
sits ‘sconced in his arcade.
Its rostrum spins,
so, for his sins,
Xin withers in the shade.
Yoh,
the Yachting Buddha,
stands watch on Empress deck.
He sports a cap –
though, for his nap,
prefers a turtleneck.
Zone
the Zzzzzzing Buddha’s
"gear fab" at grabbing Zs.
Those shades of his
permit this wiz
to “rest his eyes.” (Oh, ple-e-e-e-eze!)
So ends, good friends, this menu,
exhausting six and twenty --
each standard letter –
plus (what’s better)
proff’ring puns aplenty.
