The Fool On the Hill
Standing on the sloping lawn by the lake
in the pouring rain
hoping this ritual will ease my spiritual pain,
(dreams slain, memories profane)
arms wide
(as if crucified)
palms up, head tilted back, holding perfectly still,
(like The Fool on the Hill)
now this song is running through my head,
(hard to believe all but one of them are dead)
understanding the lyrics now, finally, in my old age,
(having overcome the youthful rage)
more things making sense,
(like that there's no such thing as coincidence,)
I can make my body be still but my mind races on,
an unspoken marathon,
wishing I could achieve Zen,
remembering when
I was a kid watching Kung Fu,
the serenity he knew,
my mind now leaping to the Carradine clan,
Hollywood's one-time leading man,
the patriarch John
and how my father's older brother
was a good friend of his,
(a familial brush with show biz)
the rain is letting up
(wishing my brain would shut up,)
soaking wet, hair plastered, peace unmastered,
life is overwhelming, an endless disaster,
my mother's face in her coffin:
cold and white and hard as alabaster,
and you wonder why I sleep so much (!?)
why I'm so out of touch (!?)
It's so my brain will BE QUIET
to quell the INNER RIOT...
The doctor gave me Xanax
I think I'll try it.
©Danielle White
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