the meal…

the meal

i had thought
the table
would be round
like
the one
for knights
in camelot
but
it was oblong
and
those
at the heads
of the table
were served
first
each permitted
to fill
their plates
with
as much
as they
desired
the servants
of
the people
then
doled out
portions
to those
along
each side
of
the table
until
they reached
the mid section
of the table
where
they
just
tossed
what
remained
into the center
for
guests
to fight for
i cried out
it
is just
a meal
no need
for violence
but
a hound
from hell
laughed
and
said
this
is
life

match point…

match point

card game
amicable start
players with
equal number
of k-mart toothpicks
wine-laced laughter
as all
ante in
but
with each
lost hand
and
futile stand pat
laughter’s
transformed
now
a single-sided snicker
and
with gained
delusional wealth
protests
of unfair play
and
sleight of hand
begin
as
darkness
fills the sky
words
and
tone
begin to bruise
players
are now
life competitors
perhaps
even warriors
fighting
to the death
not
for the prize
but
to
win

guardian angel…

guardian angel

aunt bea
was sitting
on the back porch
humming an old gospel hymn
the words
as i recall
seem older
than most beliefs
an internal harmony
with the world
and
every creature
that breathes
the kind of song
that gives rise
to visions
of the true glory
and meaning
of this brief interlude
we call life
i felt the stress of the day
melt away
and
be replaced by
a sense of wealth
but
not the kind
you can spend
no
it was
the kind that gives
purpose
to just being
i hesitated
to interrupt her
but
she softly said
now
doesn’t that
feel
better

 

old papers…

scattered
here
and there
like the memories
of the year
are scraps of paper
my
recorded history
stored
for no good reason
in boxes
and drawers
throughout the house
boxes that no one
will ever pullout
to sort or read
to be
carried in mass
to the dump
or shredded
by some distant family member
who seeks their fortune
in what is left behind
in closets
and jewelry boxes
leaving behind
the true wealth
of my life
for they
have long
forgotten
“all that glisters
is not
gold”

The popular form of the expression is a corruption of a line in William Shakespeare‘s play, The Merchant of Venice, which uses the 17th century synonym “glisters”. The line comes from the secondary plot, the puzzle of Portia‘s boxes: (Act II – Scene VII – Prince of Morocco)