Spinning on a dime, friends, our tiny-toothed edges
augmenting our rotation with wobbles. Love used to be a function of chemistry,
a mingling of elementary romance; now it’s interdisciplinary, a little messy
geometry mixed with theatre. Oh, such a masquerade, with such interesting
shapes, distinctions made on circles and squares. Sit back, mon ami, soon drama
and entertainment will ensue, and an interlude before the comic end, or tragic,
depending on your view.
Today, I went on a long walk. The sun was out and the
weather sat perfectly at eighty. Is it sad that only as I went outside I
put shorts on? I’m always cold: how is that? The orchards smelled of newness
and spring, and I walked past roses, hydrangeas, poppies, daisies, geraniums,
nasturtiums, and dozens of flowers whose names I don’t know. Will someone tell
me the names of flowers, please? I want to know the names of all of the
flowers, and their stories, but I have no one to tell me.
I wrote this as a bit of silly poetry, and though it’s a tad
lousy, it was fun. Someday, I’ll even edit things like this and they won’t be
so completely ugly. I actually cringed a bit re-reading it, but figured any
changes I made tonight would only be undone tomorrow if I look at it again. For
now, here it is: Tea Time.
The Mad Hatter another tea party holds:
Psyche arrives in formal attire,
Bacchus, bearing a barrel of beer,
Pan appears in
a flourish, theatrical,
piping a tune;
a boy shuffles in tow.
Ah, tea time,
as always, the Hatter sighs,
but Bacchus
pays no mind, and starts
on wine, while
Pan guffaws.
Psyche’s eyes
are lost with love,
beautiful, sad, and demure.
The boy,
however, with thoughtful eyes
asks what is the
matter with tea time?
Nothing’s wrong,
but it is ever the matter,
the Mad Hatter brusquely
replies,
and never time
for love or wine -
Bacchus,
though, begged to differ.
What, my boy,
begins the Hatter,
have a faun, a
madman, a god,
woman and boy
in common?
Drunkenness, remarks
Bacchus.
Why yes, mused
the faun, it is
what a tea
party is for.
Love, mumbles
Psyche.
Everything else,
as this god, is a boor.
Bacchus,
asinine, paid her no mind.
Only he is
here, the rest are who
here is for,
said the faun.
Ah, things have come to a tee,
The Hatter clapped with glee.
What may we do you for?
I don’t know, what do you mean?
Asks the boy, sipping his tea.
Mean? Mad, perhaps, not mean.
Mean? Mad, perhaps, not mean.
Psyche answered: a gift each
will bring, to guide you
to wherever it is you dream.
Bacchus began with a blessing:
be not an ass, revel and sing,
who knows what tomorrow may bring?
Psyche gave the boy a golden apple.
Choose what your heart desires
and pay dearly the cost for love.
Pan piped a ditty and passed over
a song and flower; remember
my boy, the earth and the water,
and the path the moon takes over sea.
The Mad Hatter, last, asked:
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
The boy, for this, had no answer.
And so it is with love, boy,
The impossible is possible if
You believe impossible things.
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