Tragic Wisdom

Dreamer In my boyhood I waded shoal creeks; Veins of living waters swirling past my Ankles; returning home, grinding stones. I asked: How are rain drops like millstones? I watched a stream of black ants scaling a tree Through the crevices of bark; Antennae stiffened. Above, a wily woodpecker whetted his long, nose plier. I asked: How many ants to voice a flicker? The grooves are worn, the needle no longer holds. I station a toy soldier near the spindle, he turns His post slowly. Deployed, his pace quickened, Could not hold at the edge. I asked: How far from the spindle before I fledge? Awakenings A huge arm snatched me back. Startled, affright, By the sight of a man twice mine in height shouting “Boy, don’t never be drinkin’ from theirs again.” I asked: Does “colored” water not flow from the same vein? Legs stiffen straight back when the BB Entered the frog’s spine, each time. A boy hones His skill for the man who would be sent to hunt men. I asked: How many to pith before wars end? Fear reverses relationships; opposites repel, Likes attract. Tolerance, inclusion have no Currency as long as pols pervert polarity. I asked: Can we long survive the insularity? Copyright 2018 Paul Thomson