The Master has been amongst us for so long
that our familiarity blinds us like mice
blind a cat from all but its fixation.
Behind closed doors where none can see
a riot of fun goes on with glee
full of silent song and cart wheeling laughter.
Until a footstep is heard on the floor,
a young man comes in right after
and almost catches a chair’s carousal,
the lamp playing like a tree,
then shaking like a woman’s arousal.
The passionate dance of an ashtray,
the spin and turn of his ironing board,
a table pretending to be a stone,
his pen upon it King Arthur’s sword.
But all shifts around in an instant,
he thought he saw a flutter in the air…
but out of the corner of his eye
it was only a curl of his hair.
He sees his room, the mirror, his face,
and all is as he thinks it should be,
everything seems in its proper place —
though nothing is real but the free.
Pages: Visual Poems and Wisdom
Find Posts by Categories