NOT MY CIRCUS, NOT MY MONKEYS: first five poems.

1

WHAT THE HELL IS

GOING ON OUT THERE?

Hierophants of the world,

what the hell is going on out there?

Your antennae are out of whack,

and all you report is madness,

madness, and more madness, or

am I too blind to see?

Hierophants of the world,

tell me the truth, has the world

gone mad or is this some new sanity

beyond my ability to process

and understand?

Hierophants of the world,

I’ve lost all faith in religion, science,

and politics, but not in the better nature

of my fellow man, so please tell me:

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OUT THERE?

2

Interview with a Shaman

“Only ignorance                                            

denies these things,”

said the shaman to the head                                           

on the pole;

“I don’t need to believe,

I know.”

The path was difficult,

far away and deep, and

his guide a winged fantasy;

but archival wisdom and

serendipity saved the day,

and sanity prevailed.

“But surely, death is an end?”

the head on the pole refrained;

but with a twinkle in his eye,

the shaman replied: “Yes,

it is an end. “And there we

are not quite certain.”

And so it went…

3

Life

I

The pressure is off,

the path is no more;

the dandelion and the rose

breathe the same air, and

the path begins anew.

II

Ten thousand acorns

fell from the oak,

five took root

and one became

a tree.

4

Mary, Mary, Mary

There’s a line you cannot cross,

not for want of crossing it,

you dare not! — and the sacred mystery

remains sacred, all the food you crave

to feed your famished soul.

They flock to you like errant flies,

in the misery of their broken lives,

comforted by your sapient words because

they have no words of their own.

“I don’t know what a soul is, or even if

we have one.” — So profound, so profound!

And the merry-go-round goes round

and round the sacred mystery

of your famished soul.

                                

5

Birth of a Mystic

She did not want to,

she had to! —

the way was too steep

for the great unwashed,

and her daemon

pleaded, —

“Tease them, tease them!”

But the more she teased

them, the more they needed

what she could not give

them, —

Sorely, she dropped hints

and clues aplenty, but still

the world puzzled; —

And when she died,

oh so weary, oh so weary,

leaving a trail like Ariadne,

the world conceded

and the lady was reborn

a mystic.