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Elegy for a Gay Buffoon
| Open Poetry #9 |
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Elegy for a Gay Buffoon |
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H. Arlequin Member
since 1999-08-23
Posts 210 |
Elegy for a Gay Buffoon The old man sat wondering what difference it made Who stopped to barter, who wanted to trade For items of value left lying in the shade Of the Cottonwood tree on the Rue d'Esplanade. His black eyes hardly blinked, his face never twitched As the setting of the sun had slowly cross-stitched Barred patterns of shadow where construction had switched From pole slants to lattice when the roof had been pitched. Coming darkness would end the last hope he could sell An old set of spurs with their tiny new bell, The polished medallion with a story to tell, Or the blood-rusted sword on which Don Diego fell. History, for the moment, would not move at all, Timeless and unchanging, the present standing tall To savor memories of its last masquerade ball, A snapshot of what was before age showed its pall. But time shall sail on and leave today in its wake, With the good, the bad and all those who would take To give back only crumbs out of life's birthday cake, Whose tasty enjoyment they've no clue how to bake. As the sun neared its end, the old one should have too. Motionless, soundless, he made no move to undo Tattered trappings of the stall where were left those few Hapless things his fortune had allowed to accrue. Darkness now immanent, with no aid at his command, Wouldn't lend a helping hand lest a passing brigand, Lacking sight in twilight, should fail to understand Paltry be this lot were it touched by fairy wand. With the pretense of last light changed into deep night, The bent shadow arose and stood to his full height, Gathered the belongings that bespoke his sad plight, Of the failure and heartache of life's ebbing flight. Darkness disguised delay, submerging him unseen From erstwhile friends and foes determined they must glean Some tidbit from the past, still useful to redeem Dead chapters of history in its day too extreme. He slept and ate little, spoke rarely in reply To the efforts of the ones who bothered to try To engage conversation in hopes they could pry From him a word of truth or some fanciful lie. In tireless repetition he spent his last days Lost within himself, in the old dramas and plays, Comedy, farce, a few tragedies and one chase, Unsuccessful, though it set his inferno ablaze. Left to linger he mulled what it all was about, The urgent rush to manhood, why the haste to flout What's common to each man, none unique, yet all shout His alone the best, above others with no doubt! Perfect, hateful hindsight, the guitar out of tune, Music of the maestro overflowing, too soon The hungry heart, to leave behind a gay buffoon Searching for lyrics he's forgotten how to croon. The old man wondered what difference it had made Who had stopped to barter, who'd engaged in a trade, For his life's scant items on the sand where displayed By the Cottonwood tree on the Rue d'Esplanade. |
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Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648 |
Very sad, very well written. Denise |
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