Born to Serve [poem]
Nothing makes a scrap of sense
unless this man can make himself
of service to the order of the world
(despite the fences and the corners
and disorder and the surly chieftains
wielding crass unpower from behind).
Yet not the dying old world order
(masquerading as the new
by those whose splintered view
distorts a rainbow’s promise
into darksome swordthrust lies)
but what the truly newness harbingers
of lightly goodness show in all their glory
where his hearting gladly flies and where
a blaze of nature’s trove completes the story.
And so he stands on top of all the highest hills
(to shake his fist at heaven’s impenetrable why
while thinking of the many clouds he’s kissed)
and yelping houndly “Use me as you will” —
his flamely melting selfdom’s final cry.
Though mostly silent were those brassy skies
there was a day that booming voiceless words
surprised his former undecided mind:
“You’re not a lifeless puppet on my strings,
so follow where your footsteps boldly wing”.
And now that longful man has found
he merely has to place himself beside
some space where people pass and soon
they’ll know they only have to ask
in order to receive; for knowing now that
all he has is what he has himself received
he knows he cannot keep it as his own.
One final note: I saw that man with everything
and nothing saying to his fellow astronauts:
“Whatever’s mine is yours”. Most looked him
up and down with scowls of incredulity
while others simply frowned or wondered
how they could relieve him of his property;
and just a few would see he comes in giveful love
dispensing what’s been granted to him from above.
Undeterred, he went his rocky way,
rejoicing in the certainty that everything
we do comes back to haunt us in the end,
for better or for worse. I love those ghosts.
To me they are no curse and fear them not
but welcome them with open arms
as just and faithful lifelong angel friends.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 