Educated Guesswork

The honeyed carrots introduced with voice
Of patient nutriment distract the frown,
Enthrone the smile anew, as if no choice
Devolves, returning up without a down.
The servants wheel about the little king,
Their happy labor to perform each boon,
And though their tireless melody makes sing
The pampered prince, his courtiers call the tune.
As they are now, so shall he be, who feeds
On love, that gaining health attains his prime,
So he, in turn, may dote another’s needs,
From hub become a spoke of wheel sublime.
The purpos’d clutter yields unto the living;
The givers’ gifts are given to the giving.

God knows.

The tired despair I feel on rolling back the latest code
Should really not compare to heartsick feelings for the wronged,
The pained, the lost, the dying, lonely unwashed left alone.
And yet….
                 The hordes of homeless, each intersection’s beggars,
The staring children of hopeless hunger and mothers with matted hair,
Compel me only to turn away, distract from distrait worries
And fulminate against the state of things today,
While the abandoned code, the project furled, product of months
Of labor, months of work – and fear for the inescapable post mortem,
These and these alone strike the strings of despair and angst,
Pull me into funk and woe.
                                           No, no, that’s untrue.
The feeling wrapped around my spineless heart is more belike
A shallow, petty, sighing stound of hopeless black fatigue.
Unused test cases lie in readiness for needless tests
Of phases next; evaluations lacking portent sit
Within the drive unread. A sad and lingering pall, a dearth
Of meaning strikes its atonal chord against my mind,
Impaired by scores of doubts and Monday-morning quarterbacks.
But for the truly hapless, haunted by a thousand plagues
Of man’s devising, scalded by the boiling furies, damned
By broken gods bereft of power save ability
To more entirely make still lower the lowest of the low,
Why, then, no pang of anger, love, regret, or fear?
How have the humans ceased inhabiting soul and memory,
Replaced by ill-defined concern for projects not to be?
Perhaps the hungry only can provoke anxiety,
Their millions meaningless before salvation’s hopelessness.
While futile plans betrayed by harsh light may yet
Inspire redoubts of hope that make to dream what might have been.
So projects failed may be inspected, viewed, dissected, while
The plights of many – nay! a single human only can
Provoke a fatal, fearful contemplation leading straight
To resignation final ‘gainst the horrid failure seen
Within my all-too-awful worthless human soul and heart.

[coda]
But with this gentle screaming comes a hope revealing near
To human pathos and an empathetic wish for more
Than this too fragile longing towards a reconnection sure
Of sinew, synapse, temper, merit, worthy spirit most
Of all. Perhaps a mad redeeming may arise from such
A dreaming: each to each, one heart availing hope to souls
Now helpless, seeming lost but then rekindled by one
Most tiny ember, thoughts of deadlines, costs and benefits
Then ended and replaced by hungry yearning for true hearts’
Returning, facing one another eye to eye to view
With weakness open, strength refocused and unbroken breath,
Resolved to take always the things that are just as they are.
So may unworthy worry and repugnance be at ease,
And not subside as other mazy lost velleities.

Their tails beat a metronome of desire
As the last candle concedes its fire.
They trail my wife with eager feet
Hovering, quavering, awaiting their treat.
As she closes the door and from the pantry repairs,
Already the twain have dashed up the stairs,
Attentive and breathless, with focus complete,
As idle footfalls sound retreat.
So patient now they impatiently wait,
Bonny in her bed, and Blaze in his crate.

Then Anne doles the biscuits and pats each head,
Blaze in his crate and Bonny abed.
But gone in an instant is each dog’s prize,
So curl they now with falling sighs,
Await their sleep and happy dreams of chase
While Anne brushes teeth and washes face.
She stops at the doorway to contemplate
Bonny in her bed, and Blaze in his crate.

Finally still since the first of the day
Are the dogs that did frolic and play
And dote on their mistress and lie at her feet
And cavil all foreign dogs in the street.
Every step in the kitchen Blaze did investigate,
While Bonny kept guard nose beneath the gate.

Now the proud warriors of hearth and home
Into fields of dream will roam.
The bedroom by the moon palely lit,
While hiccup-like barks in their slumber emit,
As twitching paws race with imagined tread:
Blaze in his crate, and Bonny in our bed.

Flight over dark Bay.
Lightning flash in distant clouds.
They forecast no rain.

Lights of Oz below.
Gray covers to mask the ground
From old loneliness.

Another stark ride
To a room empty and clean.
No solace nor pain.

I am not yet ready to write this poem,
Yet, knowing this, I cannot refrain.
An unnoted thought may forever escape,
Never to visit again.

Someday I may understand these words,
Learn the craft, the wiles, and the way
To place beautifully the beauty
I see, but cannot say.

Perhaps in the future the ageless barriers
Will decay and slough from my eye
And mind, and I shall speak only the truth,
And not the fearful lie.

Until that day shall I hold my tongue?
Stop up my mouth with shame?
Build new defenses and promise to be good?
Dare not own my name?

Though unready, I take pen in hand
To write these words and this line.
I know no answer lies within
But the voice, at least, is mine.

We put our dirt into a box.
It comes out unnaturally clean.
The work it saves – a total loss,
Paid to our machine.

We put them in, we take them out,
The dishes we wish to clean,
And shield from view and mind throughout
Our residue obscene.

Happy the hand that holds the sponge,
That struggles with dinner’s remains,
That joins the plate in its soft plunge,
And from the war of time abstains.

In the warm water and meandering suds,
The ritual lavage flows into sea,
Reclaims the order of the morn
And hoping dawn’s simplicity.

To propitiate the gods of feckless grime
The hand offers sinew and soap,
A somatic caesura in the war of time
That measures the pulse of hope.

When at last its task is done,
The silver and fingers smooth and dry,
Though in the end nothing is won,
The washing hand tells no lie.