Below you will find a poem that I have been writing off and on for the last eight months. I almost feel bad for telling you that, because now you will read it and say, 'Eight months for this??!?? This chumba-wumba is clearly NOT the writer he thinks he is.' Well, I am the writer I think I am... warts and all. This is a personal piece, derived from witnessing the near-total and absolute destruction of so many hopes and dreams all over this country. I am proud of what you will read below and I dedicate it to all of those who need a snorkel to move around in their home.
Best,
Ed
One in the Hand
Seated on a Bank’s back porch
In a chair ere too once mine
I spied upon a common bird
Perched on a scrawny pine
Why he chose such real estate
I cannot surely say
He likely found it suited him
Despite its perilous sway
Whether dove or crow or mocking bird
I could not then discern
For ‘twas the portent of the clouds
That beckoned my concern
It was a sight beheld before
On a day that promised sun
And I’d been proven ill-prepared
When all was said and done
My battered heart grew faint with fear
A punch-drunk’s flinch derived
From oft-dwelling on my own affair
With wind and storm and pride
A nest I’d built (or bought…who cares?)
For life and wife and years
A nest I’d filled (for naught…who knew?)
With this and that and – finally – my tears
As with a bird, the proverb goes
I’d chosen bush, not hand
And opting for the softer course
I’d bypassed rock for sand
For what is rock, my reason said,
But sand pressured and proven true
And so it went with bird and Benz
What is better than one, but two?
My ways bespoke one life
My means bespoke another
And by and buy my story went
‘Till one sank upon the other
The storm called forth, I stood to flee
I had long forgot the bird
So engrossed I was by thoughts of me
But then a song I heard
No, not song, more battle-cry
‘Twas loud and sharp and clear,
“I shall not be forced to fly,
My chosen plot is here!”
Inspired by this one vs. all
I sat back into my the chair
I would bear witness to this fight
One neither clean nor fair
Are not birds imbued with nature’s grace?
With such seeming ease they soar
And now this one would be battered by
What had buttressed it before...
…all at once
Lashing wind and pelting rain
Assailed my former porch
Seeping darkness overcame me
I sat in want of torch
Oh but to see my kindred friend
On whom my hopes were pinned
To revel in his resolute
Defiance of the wind
Stand fast my spirit-brother
Keep your regal, rigid form
Stand fast despite your footing
Stand fast despite the storm
Spears of lightning, each a vision
My feathered-friend was there(!)
Though the wind blew rain in torrents
And stripped his nest-tree bare
Soon gone were all the nettles
Soon gone were all the cones
Soon gone were all the unhatched eggs
Soon wind would pick the bones
I knew this storm would take and take
Until taking became took
I wanted hard to turn away
But God made our eyes to look
The bird gave ground, mere inches
But ground given is ground lost
No blood could sate the vampire thirst
And no fee offset the cost
Perhaps offended by so small a foe
The storm surged to full extent
The pine soon listed, fell to Earth
The victor thumped its chest and went
I ran over to the wreckage
And all through the tree I searched...
...I found my friend, my brave, brave friend
Crushed by his cherished perch
The sun returned, the coward
He had fled the coming storm
Now, as if to beg forgiveness
He sought to make my cold friend warm
Alas…
There will be no more songs, no battle-hymns
My champion, my David undermined
By rotted trunk and stunted roots
I wonder, can you a parallel derive?
I too had fought, and hard, to keep
My chosen plot and place
But I too succumbed to odds unfair
I’d lost my home…and face
I mourned him then, I mourn him now
God bless his lion heart
Surely he was doomed to fail
And deep down known it from the start
His story ends, mine lingers on
On these two legs I’ll stand
From this day forth, I’ll know ground firm
And cling well to bird in hand.
Epilogue:
The storm, it would be later said
Was worst since last it came
But words ‘worst since’ to me and you
Means worse loom still, or same
