After Every Sip And Drink

[easyeverett]

Please come with me and we shall see
This world in all complexity,
Above gray fog that gropes at walks
Beyond the nattering fast talks;
Just you and I below vast sky
Where cubed Picasso clouds comply
With thin diluted hues bled through
This flimsy mist of rainbow dew.

While women read young Chekhov plays
Before the Bolshevik parades.

Scent upon the air entices
Passions to a frantic crisis
Right before the footman laughs
At strange encumbered striped Giraffes
Whose heavy heads hang low all day
Behind iron bars now painted gray;
Would it be such an imposition
To discuss the inquisition?

While women read young Chekhov plays
Before the Bolshevik parades.

It's after every sip and drink
We take to make us feel and think
Of politic philosophies
And other grandiosities,
We then pretend meticulous,
At times, almost, ridiculous -
In fact we act like tainted tools
For twisted sycophants and fools.

While women read young Chekhov plays
Before the Bolshevik parades.

Now we grow old and far less bold
Yet still our lives are bought and sold
To brokered bourgeois we embrace
Eternally in proud disgrace;
Too weak our voices long have been
Within our own immortal sin,
As we smoked dreams of Siren seas
Awaiting our eternities.

And women still read Chekhov plays
Long after Bolshevik parades.


Multi-Colored Radiance

I have searched with passionate
intent for beauty wrapped in truth.
Have heard the words of many gods
around the world. Have read dogmatic
texts by acolytes and scribes who write
prodigious passions almost palpable
to those who read then contemplate.
I live to visit these unique recitals where
transcendent inspiration fills up full my grand
anticipation. A transformation often made
that elevates to states of giddiness and joy.

I love to smell the well read
page. Books filled with thick
translucent thin, onion-skins,
that crackle crisp with age
each turn to find another sage.

Some leather bound and limp
with crimped gold-leaf as edging
and inscribed with ornate
lithographic print. They serve as
iconology to stimulate intensity
in search for truth eternal.

Today I take my treasures
with me to the garden where
a world of speculation is
adjoined with life's perpetual
and timeless taste for grandeur
found where footfalls echo
nature's way. I'll read
the ancient words of erudite
old prophets where the roses
pose as if they know to stand
up straight and gaze - like
sightless flowers do -
when they are gazed upon.

Ahead there is a solitary
stone-gray marble bench
enwrapped in china-berry
vines. I sit upon it to
remove my leather shoes,
then pull off both my argyle
socks and stuff them back
inside and slide them
underneath the bench.
I stand to then continue
my perusal of prophetic
words in tandem with my
garden stroll. My bare feet
breathe with ease while stepping
gently on dead leaves and tiny
twigs, all twirled and gnarled,
scattered 'cross the crooked walk.

I read aloud; my voice
begins to echo through
perfumed, sweet-scented
garden air. Soon echoed
multitudes are answering
these spoken songs of prophecy.

First a robin singing to her baby
chicks while filling eager beaks
with succulence of hairy-worm
and long fat dragon mantis. She then
meets and greets my words with hers.

Or hearty bluejays singing plaintiff
calls of loneliness and rage.

Inside a very thick and well-groomed
hedge a starling chorus shatters what
remains of quietude my recitation voice
has caused to flee.

Now distracted for a bit from
reading holy writ--life comes
alive in song and scent and sound.
A multicolor radiance stretched
light years far beyond the esoteric
inquiries that find and fill my mind
with weak prophetic fantasy believed
and written down in zealotry
by ancient literary scribes.

No truth prophetic found! No scribes can say:
"Our light sublime will shine forever bright."
But nature's garden way of righteous sight
shines bright with light of truth sublime each day.