Skip to main content

A Feast of Trust

We have come to the table
Of the earth, sistren and brethren
From all corners, the proletariat to the bourgeoisie,
Here - like lambent light,
Flickering for a few precious moments.
We fetch cups of the finest libation
And lolligag and entertain the hours away.

And then the Barmecidal feast comes,
Served on invisible platters, and we indulge,
Oh how we sink our teeth in with pleasure until
A few of us have meteorisms, or just laughing gas,
And we walk wanton onto the particularly wet lawn,
And flip a coin to see who might dance in the fountain of youth
And who might retire, pooped from the gaiety
Of life among strangers - who became
Less strange and more strange
As the years passed.

Then God says take my robe, grab a bath,
And join me by the hearth.

We have some rad stories to tell.

--

Mad Words List 6.26.18

Pooped (as in tired)
Fetch
Flip
Particularly
Proletariat
Bourgeoisie
Barmecidal
Sistren
Lolligag
Lambent
Meteorism
Rad
Gaily

--

This list was collected by asking the question, “What's a word you wish would come back into fashion or you wish people used more?” Sometimes words go out of style or are sorted into the trash bin of time and place and are forgotten. I would like to give them another moment in the sun, just like the peonies from last week.

When someone offers a Barmecidal feast to your word list, you see if the world is willing to play along.

This poem reminds me of something like a Greek symposium or college in America. But underlying the images is a message of how every friendship starts by trusting the other person, including the one you may or may not have with God.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bonus Poem: Look Up!

Looking down, I read the priceless pages, Someone else, sweetly, precisely, Had written their drinkable life on. And I drank in the appreciation Of her words, one sentence at a time, A good, fresh white. Sensational, the clouds were Pouring in, filling my cup,  Easing in, with a soft voice that said, "Look up!" My eyes glanced, only peeking At first, toward the sky. Those rain-bringers harnessing My irises with glee. And as if it had been there All along, the whole long while, A sparrow drifted into the Watercolor before me, soaring. It glided on the currents That were my own world, too. And we shared the view, Him up there, I, eyes lifting further now. And then the wind found itself Playing in the cottonwood's hair. And I smiled, thinking About how good it probably felt, Those wind-fingers, sifting through. 
Post a Comment
Read more

The Protagonist

She was more of an idea Than a person, yet Her arms reached through The wrinkled pages As I was planning Her defenestration. “Don't,” she said, holding My hand steady. Her typical loquaciousness Gone in a moment - being At the rim does that. Her desperate idea-fingers Grasping, trying to stop The Dusk. I brooded over her Resistance. This story Would be knee-deep In hardship, in never-before-felt Pain. How could I put her In the middle of this Vast dystopian wastebasket And hope she clamors Out? Perhaps I could give her A companion, a slobber-filled Canine or a not-so-kindred Spirit? I could fill her days With synchronicity, with a This-leads-to-that purpose, to fight through The drawl and the drudge, The beginning. In this oneiric world, More nightmarish than The last, she would find Herself at the cusp of Her Self. First demure, red lips Parting only for candy-laced words, And then later, only To respect a humble god or command Her hunger-ridden army To live. Yes, I see the smoke ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Leashed on the Edge of "I"

Do you ever wish you could view yourself As others see you? At a distance? That you might become one of the crowd Or the speck from the airplane? Or maybe you might become so close That you are nothing but locks of hair And the smell of Cabernet and black tea And a force in the night. I imagine you could even be mistaken For someone else. Could you mistake you For someone else? I think I could do it, Be you, or her, or him, or that dog over there Sniffing the fence, sorting out these Divisions. I didn't say I was I from the Beginning, but I wonder how we drag "I" Around like a stick, and chew a piece off Now and again. You were thrown the stick, And you fetched. But what if you could sniff Beyond the fence and be something more Or something less? Would you? Could we?
Post a Comment
Read more