THE ART OF THE SHOVEL [new poem]
Humans scuttling around like ants on steroids,
(though ants at least have a useful purpose)
making much ado about absolutely nothing.
A strictly surface people: the epitome of Bathos,
trying to heal insanity with even more insanity,
making toxic waves with all that they initiate,
and all the while imagining themselves
as masters of a cosmos they did not create.
What fun & tragedy to be an ant with wings
looking down like drones on the farce below —
a comedy of errors, a tapestry of terrors,
a dried-up lake in an artificial desert,
where leaders have no poetry
and few will give their hearts for free
where religion is idolatry
and everywhere no one agrees
and fight for ways to disagree —
divisions based on pedigree
and colo(u)r-preference
endlessly fight to the death
devoid of gentle artistry
romanticizing buggery
while placing faith in chemistry
instead of the Divine.
You can never clean the swamp
with a merely human brush.
You can only clean your heart;
that’s where it all must start
in a world that’s fallen far;
current status: Abattoir.
It sounds mundane, I know;
but simplicity means growth.
When one spends all one’s time
brushing dirt on the earth
from one fool spot to another,
one never looks up at the heavens above
nor notices the art of the shovel.
© Alan Morrison, 2020
The Naked Troubadour 