There comes those times when all one must do is to wait. To wait in Hope.
One might have said it all, done all that there is to do and where necessary and possible, found anchor and that raison d’etre in God and or other.
Ours is fast becoming a world where Hope drips with everything religion and dogma.
It is becoming unpopular, abhorred even. It is not exactly easy and wise anymore, to go bandying Hope about without sounding lazy and wishful, without being (as) judged unthinking and unintelligent.
Then there is the one of the many things that may become the consequence of Hope, after it is all said and done. Some other time, I shall show other kinds of Hope.
Today, I bring you two poems – which I think – explore Hope as Intelligent Folly or as Fear in Reverse.
The Folly of a Last Laugh
I saw the thief come by stealth
to reap the heap up the hearth,
the non-eating seeds
meant for many an unknown futures. I watched the
fool strip, rip off many dignities
of many more peoples and ages, at the
glorious gathering of mere mortals and demi-deities.
I saw, I watched, I let him, thinking
knowing, believing, that we each live
to outgrow our vices and follies in the one lifetime
which we each have- as long as we want to. So if it
becomes that I say my prayers, but find no proper
rag to show at the hour birth reaches its rapturous
count me not as nothing and
don’t deem me good-for-nothing.
Oh laugh not at me without caution.
For before my nakedness goes
rushing out into the open, raving
mad in all manner of mud, you should find
one poor patch of a rag clumsily stuck to my
…my opening. And if you still insist on continuing
your laughing feasts, then I should know
how silly I have been for having just seen
and watched and thought and known…
how you have been, and still are foolish beyond
every cure…while the nude spectacle of me
remains the rude reminder of my,
our, your faults and follies…
The Fear of the ‘Morrow
We return from our journeys
hunched, hungry, worn, wanting
with beatings from more things than just rains
from our toils flaunting our parched prides
on unbroken, stubborn foreheads
steeled against sun and dew and everything in between
We arrive waving our chapped smiles
in deep-set eyes made wise with having seen many
depths and more deaths beyond the physical
Somewhere inside those deep wise eyes
our souls leap with the last embers
of mirth which a thousand days
of hate and a thousand more years
of hell has never been able to
quench, to touch even
We tread onward to
hang hopes and wet clothes on
weak wicker fences of sweet homestead
let the inside drums beat and throb once more
Let the rains outside beat and drum some more
on both clothes and hopes
let the rains leave room on
both hopes and clothes
for the coming, new day’s dew
repair our pride
mend our smiles We rest our bones
and for sheer prank’s sake, we throw stones
at the back of faceless passing night…
The morrow will come clutching its gifts
good news, new songs. And surely, we shall
have what is ours in these presents
The morrow will come wearing that all-familiar-face
that half-shocked-grin, and it will find
that we die not