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And here I sit, under that obnoxious old shade tree,
she oak someone has christened it, well at least
and most likely, it is a she, a gender of the three
available and flaunting themselves, that I adore,
if not so fatally smitten with and just about in bondage,
that amazes me just as much as it intrigues me,
but that only in my more lucid moments, times where,
due to various and unforeseen, perhaps practical
circumstances, when the Gods have broken their
promises of not cooperating or forming alliances
with mere mortals, and have conspired with the finite,
the transitory beings, in a mammoth affront, aimed
in its painful entirety, at myself, keeper of the peace,
of happy thoughts, deeds and contented nature,
which inevitably, and very much so, has led to not one,
but several power outages involving my entire grid,
an entirely irresponsible, utterly pathetic and wildly
arbitrary expression of the Shenanigan Syndrome,
clearly, openly, loudly and regrettably having re-created
the exact scenario that Noah had warned about, had yelled,
had screamed and cried bitterly to his Master, to the son
of his Master, later, out of sheer desperation, though, to
Satan himself, none of which placed a single vulture feather
in any of his four or five caps, it was inevitable, typical,
predictable, perhaps even human in a gaseous sort of way,
but it happened. And what was I, sitting under my she-oak,
thinking about She Wolves and other monsters, from way back,
what did they expect, a miracle from a mortal. Murder is
what I have a mind of shoving down their esoteric emory throats
mayhem to follow on high heels and spikes of the My Way
philosophy like Frank used to think about. Yes, my Lord,
I can, even as a product of your imagination and laboratory
fiddling, with your figments uppermost in your mind, and
no clear roadmap to follow, since you don't do that sort of
gay planning, making things up as you travel, which, in
my honest-to-YOU opinion, is the cause of my particular,
peculiar and unfairly thrust upon me troubles, rest assured.
So, while dreaming, sober as it had been foisted upon me
in a gigantic miscarriage of not only universal justice,
but also of divine responsibility and laissez-faire, umpteen
times I have voiced my zero level objections before the clock,
that keeper of all things that may be possible, and desirable
would and could strike the hour of 5, ordained and etched
in the marble granite of time itself, as the signal not to be,
not ever to be ignored or even ridiculed, questioned, right.
And, would you, could you, or even should you, by the alert
and ever awake stretch of your dull-witted imagination see
what I see, right this very moment, coming at me, divine
is it, an intervention, not man-made but a living proof,
for me, here, now, sitting under the lusty branches of
my She Oak, surrounded by vapours of self-pity, anger even,
who would have thought? Praise the Lord and all who,
by design or choice may be affiliates of Him, it is, on a tray
of Bay Leaves and Juniper Berries, a most lovely, yes,
an astonishingly beautiful bouteille, as the French say,
of the water of life, called Wild Turkey, and it is bringing,
accident or fate or riens ne va plus, the accompaniment,
Nature's very own, ice by the cube. Must go now, surely
you understand.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: murder, nature, justice, travel, anger, son, fate, tree, beautiful, power, happy, peace, water, warning, dream
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