February 21, 2013 § Leave a comment
You twist your fist at Future ‘cause it’s sketch
and cringe because the Present makes you wretch
nostalgic Past still somehow brings a smile
whose ends are anchored down with somber moods.
A little time, just need a little while –
still picking at insipid, vapid foods
piled high upon an ornate plate of Fate
and wondering how you’ve gotten to this state
“Remember, Life is something you must face
each day, without exception,” I’ve been told.
“Reality will put you in your place,
before you know it, you’ll have become old,
your youth reduced to ashes, son, I say.
You haven’t Time to mess around and play.”
Yet if Reality is nothing but
a fox so gallant from afar that struts
Though when it near approaches you descry
its rotting, oozing, cataracted eye
its macerated thigh and limping knee
Its bearing, which appeared so fast and free
reveals itself as merely cowardly
as protean, venal, changeable and dumb
and to your plaintive pleas completely numb.
You shoo at it; it makes as if to flee
but grunts with haughtiness before it go
and pauses, paws and claws, for all to know
You’re left now to the Powers that be (so pray!) –
But powers within or without.. who can say?
The fox being thus dispensed with, you foray
on further down the path, jaws clenched, brow tight
to meet th’illustrious fellow of whom I write:
Free Will, some call him, others Liberté
Still others know him by the name Ziyou
(All that’s beside the point: names count for naught –
What really matters is Love’s ebb and flow)
When you approach his shabby house you’ve sought
for hours, thinking it’d be large and grand
You find that you’d mistaken him immensely
and yearn to speak a word with him intensely
To ask about the meaning of the sand
that bolts, that jolts, that slips out of your hands,
and start to stop all human hist’ry spans
Today Free Will’s not interested in talking
He’d rather spend his time at the sky gawking
And every now and then pointing his finger
At eagles, hawks and falcons as they linger
Upon the firmament, arms all aspread
They glide and slide way up above our head
“Reality check, O monsieur Liberté!
I can’t just wait around here all the day.
I’ve got some pressing matters to tend to
and I can see you’ll do just as you please.”
So, seeing him thus resolved, he promptly leaves,
and off he goes to trample more fescue.
Yet as he walks away he notes a cry:
“You can do as you like, the same as I!”
When pondering those last words of Mr. Free
An interloper lopes in suddenly
Not tipping hat, not saying grace – in short,
devoid of all the manners we hold dear –
In spite of that, you notice something queer:
You’re not put off by sa négligence forte
but rather pleased by frankness, un coeur frais
par l’esprit vif et par ses mots si vrais
You eat, and he forgets to bare his head
Not out of disrespect or malice either.
“Your dear old grandma, what would she have said?”
“Why, nothing! Granny ne’er doffed her cap neither.”
He left and never stopped to say his name
but you knew it was Truthful all the same.
It’s time to go back home, though home’s no more
the refuge it once was way back before
you’d taken that strange journey circular
the episodes of which are now a blur
The hours or the months that you had spent
have now become an enigmatic fable
whose truths you’ll put to use if you are able
and veer away Ambition’s leery glint
For even writing poems that no one reads
has its own merit, satisfies some needs
So falter not when Life beseems fierce vandals
who’ll cast you down then run off with your money
Do like apostles: take off your worn sandals
Dust off your feet and laugh, ‘cause Life is funny.