If I’ll be here Tomorrow to answer Your life-and-death question; To give you, Among other things, The proper time Of day when everybody looks Askance at you then turns To look the other way; You can ask me whatever else Pops out of that enquiring Mind as long as you remember Not to blow it when unfinished Business calls and I’m not There to stop that pap before It ups and blows your brains away.
In this dazzling midday heat, It’s comforting to think how Contented the innocent Lambs must be, gathered With no care in the world Under the protective canopy Of the blessèd olive tree, Suckling their mothers’ teats As if their lives depended On it, and indeed how Easy it is to be sucked in By that old rustic wives’ tale— A bit harder to digest how Gamboling they are Soon to be led off By city-bred wolves In always appropriate Cutting-edge abattoir attire.
The village elders were fond Of telling us the waxing Sickle slowly lowering it- Self in the western sky Would be full before We knew it and empty Itself just as fast—
Insisted you could always tell What we were about to say By the look on our faces— How we chuckled back then But then again how Were any of us to know?
As it so happens, second- Guessing the future’s a lot Like digging your grave Specially now when Everybody round you turns out Dead right grim in the end.
Amidst the frenzied clamorous Backdrop of cicadas readying To draw the curtain and call it Still another night, the dumb Eye strains before finally Falling upon fold after fold Of newly-wrought furrows
Under the wrinkled arching Brows of row after row Of stately silent grotesques— My arrogant fellow bit players, If you please, please observe how Once more the stage is being set For yet another humbling
NON-DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of poetry; as such, it is the product of the author's
imagination, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is definitely
not coincidental in any way, shape, or form. On the contrary, it is clearly intended
to enlighten the reader as to the character of the splashy, hubris-filled blowhard
now playing hack actor playing at playing the role of the most powerful man in
the world—a part soon to be assumed and straightaway transmogrified into a bit player’s
nightmare by a most desperately driven, artful director called Nemesis.
Used to be You could tell how
Hot you were from how Much fake precipitation dripped
From your forehead As you manipulated your way
Up Broadway to no end—what A farce, my no longer cool friend!
No more easily anticipated Big splash round the bend,
"The question of the nature of navel fluff seems to concern more people than one would think at first glance.” – Dr. Georg Steinhauser, chemist
Reflecting One way or another On the idea that Idiot in its ancient Greek sense did not Mirror what it means today,
But rather someone so Caught up in his self- Importance that he is Useless to society really Makes one kind of wonder, Does it not?
Moderator’s comments: Huuk, I suppose it does but if so, shouldn’t that questioning spirit supply us with real answers rather than ending in a vapid query that does nothing but prolong the agonizing naval-gazing status quo that characterizes a great deal of contemporary poetry, yours included?
Oh yes Indeed, we aim To please the tired, The teeming destitute Derelict masses washed up Like so much flotsam On our shores, By keeping our eyes Always on target, Even if it means losing What we set out for.