Go
to Next Poetic Theme - Return to Contents
Have
you not felt that life is an illusion
and
its dynamics a virtual dream?
The
violence and turbulence of life's confusion
are
images reflected of things that seem.
A
projectionist looks out at the screen
awaiting
the end of each reel.
He
controls the operation of his machine,
but
not what the film reveals.
Each
motion picture he projects
was
pulled right off the shelf.
The
occasional editing he injects
was
directed by God himself.
We
strut around and play our parts,
mere
light beams in the air,
products
of mere heavenly arts
to
amuse the angel's there.
We
talk and walk and seem to feel,
as
holograms of light.
When
truly It’s just another reel
the
projectionist is showing tonight.
Cruel
are its increments and steadfast measure,
while the pendulum, itself, swings free.
Suddenly,
it takes its pleasure,
though its hands move imperceptibly.
Minutes
seem like hours
while
suffering the passage of time.
Though
resisting its observable powers,
we
must wait for its fateful chime.
Yet
when we no longer want its speed,
a
greater dread shall arise.
The
hands of the clock are suddenly freed
as
time, the grim reaper, flies.
Reflecting
life’s saddest truth,
from
sunrise until dawn.
Slowly
does it move in youth
but
in twilight years race on.
Broken
shells, like broken dreams,
upon
a sandy beach.
Piled
away are a thousand schemes,
now
so out of reach.
Lapping
waters, pounding waves,
pushing
shells away,
remnants
of our memories saved
to
remind of a bygone day.
Cast
aground these broken pieces
will
haunt our dreams once more.
Each
recollection as the tide’s end ceases,
as
fragments upon the ashore.
In
constant tumult again it swells,
more
broken shells are worn.
Amidst
the powdered and scattered shells
memories
are reborn.
Like
the shells the sea has tossed,
churned
from the ocean’s bed,
not
all our memories are forever lost
though
the dreams, themselves, are dead.
Green
are the leaves of the Mater Tree,
freshly
grow and green one and all.
In
the shade is security,
not
quite ripe to make their fall.
So
Father Ground, who each root guides
whispers
to his lady to withdraw her protection
and
cast down each child who safely abides
on
aimless branches without direction.
Down
fall the leaves—Autumn’s gift.
The
wind through the limbs now blows.
Some
are lost or remain adrift
yet
most reach the ground below.
If
green is the shade of innocence
before
leaves are finally set free.
As
they fall, they begin changing color,
when
torn from the Mater Tree.
Too
soon may have been the gale that tossed,
with
no way to go but down.
Though
some of the leaves are forever lost,
most
turn naturally brown.
Can
you really be surprised
with
Bill Clinton’s success?
His
“good ol’ boy” disguise.
was
tailored by the best.
With
such lowered expectations,
how
can you complain?
You
accepted his imperfections,
so
you must accept the blame.
You
shrugged your shoulders, held your noses.
When
the Clinton scandals began.
You
lie in a bed of roses
in
the shadow of that man.
From
the television stage
as
the prompter fed him lines,
he
seemed an affable sage,
but
his audience was so blind.
Deaf
were his friends
to
that double-talking face,
candy
coating his sins,
since
the economy kept its pace
Stories
of Oval Office intrigue
could
not wipe away his grin.
White
House spin doctors were in league
to
cover Clinton’s sin.
He’s
a good ol’ boy, they agreed.
just
like you and me,
a
victim of a conservative breed,
and
a right wing conspiracy.
All
Clinton’s many accusers
were
part of the Republican’s game:
a
bunch of political losers
undermining
the president’s name.
But
the president’s presentation
is
still a public joke.
No
amount of fabrication
can
conceal the rules he broke.
Nothing
will ever change
the
scandals that we saw,
when
Clintons was given free range
in
the distortion of the law.
Nothing
can wipe away for us
that
good ol’ boy disguise
and
how he betrayed the public trust
with
his legacy of lies.