Lonely Song Publishing - Writings

II.

In the high-arched entry of the guarded house

Stand fruits of thought, of history

The magic smell of faded mystery

enchants the pure clean figures all in rows:

Artifacts of kings and sages

Ideas of the ages,

Borne on the leaves

Of countless books

And ghostly shades

Of a thousand faces –

But what a curious condition:

Some faces bright, the remnant hidden

For light streams from the inner halls!

The lens of Then and Now Especially

Bends the light in beams directly

On a few of these wise faces

And peeking from the shadowed places

The rest all stifle scornful smiles

Your eyes adjust – you now beguiled

Feeling like a foster child

Scorned by hidden ancestry

Is this meant to be?

“Too vaguely formed this question!”; thus

Your smiling guide replies:

“Oh surely you could not expect

A room awash in untrained light!

Those who strive to see it straight

The residents who bear the weight

They work so hard to aim this light

Time is short it must aim right

And choice is forced you see.

“But do not fear

All are hear!

Some are just…not so near

Some are just…not so right

Some to us are now a blight

You of course may meet them all

But only in our measured light!

“And…well-” (he reads from a glossy tract)

“Well it may be to meet the darkened faces

Out somewhere in the wild open places

Where ruby burns the dawn and black the night

And sirens of the hollow grasping wood

Call to you…

-We would not go so wrong with you

Casting spells upon you

We would not send you out from pasture

Lacking compass, map, or measure

“…Come now, forget this room

It is but show, and you find gloom!”

Ten thousand books

A thousand faces

laugh at one – not you, the other

You wonder that he is not bothered

Perhaps he cannot see

Perhaps he chooses not to see

Part 3