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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535530" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>After Folly - An Aging Poet Addresses One Who Wanders In Mountains Remote</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Now I've broken my ties with the world of red dust; <br>I spend all my time wandering and read all I want.<br>Who will lend a dipper of water<br>to save a fish in a carriage rut? ' - Han Shan, Tang Dynasty, China</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's a hairy Moses in the distance counting pocket<br>change to give to the ferrier, coins that fit the eyes.<br>I'm hanging at the back of the crowd. There's manna<br>enough for pockets. My Red Sea is long parted but old<br>Pharaoh's got a new army. Each day is a scrape in the tents.<br>Prayer and fear is sustenance dragged further out by pillars<br>of fire. A volcano rumored to be God publishes 'Mandates for <br>a New Junta', led by a well-bred stutterer (prototypical politician, <br>it seems) . In odd limbo there trail reluctant murmurers.<br> <br>That 'Golden Calf 'Incident' was a silly mistake, <br>an overreaction, but there were agreements made <br>at the outset, sealed in blood, first born sons threatened<br>or worse, guaranteed real estate for dairy farmers and <br>bee keepers, oodles of milk-and-honey futures, money <br>to be made in hopefully greener pastures. Now it can <br>be said with certainty, a 'promised land' comes with <br>big catches - I've exchanged one for another, same <br>mistake - the barbs are plenty, mostly mistaken people <br>thinner than scripture loudly staking claims to land <br>and deity in long meander.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's a luxury, sure. Some choose to wander. Some don't.<br>Water is scarce in deserts. Wheels are few but for<br>chariots of war, not many ruts though there's thirst aplenty, <br>not the bounty promised before the journey.<br> <br>A penny for a wet tongue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm of that hung up crowd forced to flee, a victim of unleavened<br>fate, or is that too Greek a notion? The question begs asking.<br>Unintended impertinence must be forgiven. That's the theme, <br>right? the long march of history, that of redemption in time though<br>each and every has an opinion. Can't be helped. Much to explain.<br>All's a seeming washed in blood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How passing strange is life in old age overwrought by <br>too much thinking. All is not yet lost but merely tossed <br>and scrambled in this ramble where etymology is everything. <br>And good boots. I'm then to poetry and books a-sundry, <br>an attempt to keep a horizon. Above it. Not under but <br>the dip is soon enough. Humor with others is still intact. <br>Alone I manage to laugh out loud.. After a life of folly so <br>much frivolity empties one out. I cry out in the night but <br>remainder to Silence.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">3</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Old friend, I've been reading zen, the 'death poems' and<br>'Sayings of the Desert Fathers, ' in many ways the same.<br>These orient. One can still lift a head up amongst the stars<br>while swatting flies, be silly, for what care stars at all<br>but for eyes, maybe they're wanting to be seen? <br>Reading remote poets and prophets purposefully hiding <br>out to 'draw nigh unto' is ironic, remove the eye of the <br>perceiving other and it will show up upon the sky, mountains, <br>all things between, universally; perhaps even TV screen static <br>between channels links here/now with beyond; easier to <br>be in subtle presences sublime than these lumps in solidity <br>which are the material, a hard father's boot-steps on the stairs<br>just out the door sends one packing, a shy Desert Father <br>beneath his bed to hide, a wilderness of sorts. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">From there I pray, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Abide with me, Father, <br>give sons a safer world, <br>bring them gently into it'. <br>Many sons are ill-prepared, <br>'not yet, not yet, ' they bray.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">4 </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm flung further into the fray though I sway up 5 flights<br>of stairs, long in exile, dizzy with the street, the human<br>beauty and brokenness there, all those flower pots in <br>windows, on stoops, the blossoming tree brightening <br>between darker bricks to truly dwell. It is for me, a shy <br>son, to see in spite of big chunks missing or torn out, <br>to remake the world as it always is for angels long to <br>be bread to dwell in our finitude. To them, then, I am<br>'the Dude', a daffodil in my lapel, gate of heaven and <br>h*ll open at the end of the block. I skip forward singing, <br>'La La La, ' poems a'pocket. If questioned at the gate <br>I'll blame you, meandering still, granting permission <br>the entrance to boldly storm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Between St. Marks and the horizon my fingers still work.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q>
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I spend all my time wandering and read all I want.
Who will lend a dipper of water
to save a fish in a carriage rut? ' - Han Shan, Tang Dynasty, China

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There's a hairy Moses in the distance ..."></div>
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