August 27, 2018

Apocryphal Bard

To be or not to be? Whose question is that?
Not mine said the sweet pea tucked snug in its pod.
Not mine said the queen bee sipping honey through a straw.
Not mine said the oak tree, I am what I am.
Not mine said the pearl, the world is my oyster.
Not mine said the turtledove to its fetching mate.
Not mine said the mountain peak sitting pretty.
Not mine said the black hole, I'm a sucker for nothing.
Not mine said the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
Not mine said Hamlet, my creator was mistaken.
To be or not to be? Whose question is that?
Shakespeare's, I think, who was really Francis Bacon.


Karmic Laundromat

Though less than a dustball
in the lint filter of history,
he tumbled headlong
through the cycles of life's mystery
with a half-scoop of alacrity,
a tad lemony and olfactory,
but not a pinch of bleach
to leach the mortal stain,
which all must wear—alack—
upon a shirtsleeve or a brain.
Yet all was not lost;
his grimy mind he tossed
in the shuddering machine
of life's mingled joys and pain,
and he watched love's basket whirl,
the soiled thoughts slowly whitened.
The sudsy swill then drained,
the load spun out and lightened.
And when the time arrived
to dry his damp desires
in Spirit's greater fires,
he lugged the pile
across the aisle
and turned the dial to high.

by Richard Schiffman

in volume 4 issue 2

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