~~~~~ It is time to put people over politics, country over capitulation and world over wealth.
All the things I might have done, or seen, or known.
all the beings I might have been, become,
while strolling along a quiet esplanade.
The mottled green sea sparkles blue, white.
A painter hoping to capture this moment,
holds tightly against a suddenly boisterous wind.
Checking the time on an antique pocket watch,
his great grandfather’s according to family legend,
he adds quick strokes to capture
this golden afternoon as it runs before the storm.
Mayhap, he is, I am the storm from which it runs.
Dark clouds glower upon the horizon,
a brooding monarch’s tempestuous visage.
As the intemperate wind gusts, dance,
to cry warning, coax a sunny royal smile.
We are not amused, methinks, despite capering hijinks.
Hopefully then, I am deemed amusing,
playing the part, this time, of the frolicsome court jester,
though I realize I may only be the fool.
Excited, I hurriedly scamper to seek shelter,
a playful, unkempt shaggy dog,
rapidly rotating tip to tail to shed unfallen rain.
From moisture-pregnant clouds,
before their water breaks, cascades
across the ground of earth, engendering life,
bright green shoots, the fecund, messy growth of Spring.
Could I have been this rain, these shoots,
in some unremembered past or future?
Radiant sun, bringer of life, possibility,
reflected from wave tips, reflecting eternity.
Am I of the men who march stately, in ordered rows?
Uniformed and uniform, die-stamped in their legions.
The numbered columns on the financier’s ledger,
whether soldier’s kit or crisply-pressed business suit,
coveralled laborer or defeated sales professional.
Traveling wearily across this wide, weary world,
along its crumbling highways, uncharted byways,
forgotten, but in no way unknown.
Harboring hidden hamlets, hopes and dreams,
where truth be not only found but also known
over a morning breakfast’s toast and omelet.
Will I last beyond the space of time,
continuing in unending continuum,
first hint of perfume in a newly bloomed rose,
tottering steps or mewling cry of the newly born?
Am I a mother’s pride, a father’s love, successful and content?
Or do I lie broken, sprawling headlong in a filthy gutter,
reeking, confused and staggering, cynical with hope.
A long forgotten teacher who enriched our days,
neglected and calumnied, foolish to believe.
The pulpit pounder or compassionate shepherd,
bigot, blasphemer, brawler, backstabber, bastard,
weak folk who have never offered any help or harm,
yet could not escape retribution.
Though the meek may one day inherit the Earth,
the Earth may not survive to inherit them.
Peace is Purpose, Nonviolence is Strength, Diversity is Unity, Empathy is Empowerment
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