Saturday, January 26, 2008

Poem

Theater of the Absurd, The Epilogue

Their end is all we have left to begin with 

The Children without Histories sit in the empty theater seats
their faces perfectly sanitized of memory 
the Humanities Director rehearses 
inside their minds 
his verses 
pristine,  manufactured 

A red wheelbarrow shot up
on the room-size screen begs 
to bleed rain  
  but it is not to be so 

The Soul now excavated 
is mute to the songless echoes 
and the hack of tears stuck 
in dry eyes  

a beat up volkswagen with a bust of Beethoven 
glued to the dashboard 
where Jesus once sat 
is coming over the hilly horizon 
Tarot cards and ancient books flap a musical rhythm in the wind  

and the artists are being called in 
on an emergency 
to paint the children some portraits.  

2 comments:

BG Dodson said...

Tsk...this commentary bit sucks because one can't exactly see what they're commenting on.

I enjoy this Theatre of the Absurd so very much. It is children without history -- children without reference -- children without art.

And so, the magicians must be called in...to hide mystery within shadows, intrigue in each corner and nuance in smiles. Else all shall become silent when all is known and expected. No applause.

Deborah said...

Well now, look who've I found! We're blogspot neighbors!
It's me, SimpleSarcasm from AP.
I will definitely be visiting this blog!