NOT MY CIRCUS, NOT MY MONKEYS; Five new poems...

16

The Bet

I made a bet on the Other Side

that I would find my way out of life

with nothing but my wit, no mentor,

guru, or philosophy to guide me

through the maze of human misery,

forging my own path through life

on the anvil of my blemished soul,

a man in every way the same as other

men but with one distinction: an

unparalleled desire to absolve myself

of my regretful life which I returned

to live over again to achieve a different

outcome, and I can’t wait to pass over

to the Other Side to claim my bet from

the soul of a man called Pythagoras,

who was once my teacher.

 17

Birds of a Feather

Every moment of every day, year after year after year

they gather from every corner of the world—large

and small, fat and thin, black and white, brown

and yellow, and every shade in-between the races,

and plan their journey to the magical kingdom

of their deepest longing.

I gathered one day, seventeen years, five months, two days,

five hours, ten minutes, and seven seconds to the moment

when I read The Razor’s Edge that called me to the gathering;

silently, pulling me through the rutted corridors of my life

despite bitter protestations, and I began my lonely journey

to the magical kingdom of my deepest longing.

All of us strangers with the same desire, we embarked upon

our separate ways, alone and frightened to the bone; and every

now and then we met along the way and compared our progress:

O, what dismay! O, what catastrophe! O, what simply joy!

And we continued with newfound wisdom, only to lose

our way again in life’s brambles; but I persisted—

And strewn along the byways of life, countless birds of a feather

torn to shreds on the razor’s edge and beaten to dejection; but

I persevered, fearing to fail as I had done the last time I gathered

in the wild frontier of the new land of the Americas— Lord

Daniel Wellington, aka trapper Dan, who drowned in vain

trying to gain the kingdom of my deepest longing.

18

The In-between Days

37 years old, much too young

to face the dreaded divide

with nothing but naked fear

and wanton desire for the time

she had left to live, with little

thought of the Other Side—

absolute nullification of her

selfhood and vague rumors

passed on from generations of

desperate hope—and like a

fierce tornado of unlived dreams

she sucked the sweet marrow

out of life to satisfy her craving

for personal meaning, keeping

a memoir for posterity of the

in-between days of her vital

treatments: 137 soul-drenched

pages of precious living.

19

The Prize

If life is a game,

then what’s the prize?

“The prize is to open your eyes,”

said my partner Penny Lynn,

playfully. “And see what?” I replied.

But that’s the mystery of the game

of life that we all get caught up in,

by whatever name we call it,

like actress/director Jodie Foster

and her new game of Money Monster;

and not until we see the hole in our

soul will our eyes be wide open.

And then we stare wide-eyed and ask

the dreaded question: “Now what?”  

And the game of life is taken to new

levels of authenticity: “Beauty is truth,

truth beauty,” and we stop playing

the game of make-believe and

start living life for real.

20

New Pastures

The valley no longer beckons,

and she ascends again sans the burden

of old thoughts. No more demands upon

 unwary souls as they graze on earthly longings;

and when the luscious grass has been eaten,

they climb to news pastures where she

will be waiting with new poems

for them to graze on.