The Lament of St. Guillermo B. Sideways

Come: let us drink the water

Up, up, up and in our deep and troubled souls.

When pouncing in, you bound to stranger places,

Unaware of the disturbance you have caused;

We seem to grow unchecked.

And so a share in suffering

Is what we long to own.

For no foundation has been steadier

Than bonds and tensions we are rooted in.

But when the well of gasoline runs dry,

What then may give us life

And hold us upright here?

"What joy! We spread about

Encircled by reflections 

In our fine old china,

Neatly in a row

And not to be disturbed."

How putrid they must be.

Do curious eyes still roam,

Observing all the muddying of rivers

Through the looking glass?

Then, show what eyesight does alone.

No matter: carry on.

Will it do me well, then, to see?

I strike a match

And hold your flame aloft,

Entrusting rhythm of the heat

To currents blowing through your hair,

And bringing swells of smoke into your nose,

Inhaling sweet aroma.

How good it is to break the silence

When your world is noise

And no deterrent keeps it out.

For those who seek a large supply

Of birds to chase,

Exhausted in the wind,

Will never end their hunt.

But all the while,

The candle hungers still…

Enough: how dare you

Rip the air in two

With grumblings!

How can you stay observant

Through the stained glass window

That I had commissioned

With my pocket change:

A veil of horror and a thin compassion

For the martyrs, not the saints?

Would rather peace betroth you

If you sip your tea

And bother with your reputation?

Why. you simply do not understand;

And neither, here, do I.

And so began his prayer

When he awoke from his delusions:

“Beige and paper tint the air;

It brings me comfort in my heart

That blackened marks of soot and ash

Are blotting out the reddened moon.

No longer does the sulfur taint

My nostrils, nor the world beyond.

“In theory, we are lifted up

To heights beyond our dining rooms,

And we could leave the mess behind

And feign to do the dishes.

Yet then, practicing,

The stench of rotten food

And buzzing flies about

Does not serve consciousness at all.

Incepto Ne Desistam.

“How I wish to etch this in a coffee mug,

Or on the inside of a ring

That sure and truly girds 

My trembling hands for battle,

Or within a simple garden plot

With peppers and a patch of wild orchids,

Grown beneath the arms

Spread out on soothing dirt and mud.

If this can catch my feathered wings,

Thus causing them to cock themselves

In wild curiosity

And soar headlong to feeders,

Then what rest may find them there.

“In circumspect, I bow and pray

For You to grant an ounce of fortitude.

I know that they want me

To tie my boots

And riot in the street

And burn another home,

For this is what they said to do

When they discovered growing strength

Of manhood welling up in me.

“But what if I just stop

And watch the flowers grow?”