By Lee Broom.
© Lee Broom
On display for all to see who were able,
”It is eye”
Said the natty, gnat, gnat on the nose of the fly
Who was perched on the nose of an irritable guy; “Take that”.
And the irritable man, he swatted away
At the fly on his nose,
And the gnat (there he goes),
As his world went awry, said “goodbye”.
And the irritable man with the tie in his hand
Completed the Windsor knot.
And tucking at this and that around the collar until satisfied that “handsome is as handsome does”
(He loved this tie a lot),
Except for the spot
Where the fly had landed.
So happy he was that the fly was now gone. (the fly never really knew what hit him on the return approach).
The gnat by the way, was just that, In The Way.
And the hand of the man went SWAT once again
And returned to the view in the glass in the lav
And perfected the knot in his Brooks Brothers tie and said “Dang,
I’m a handsome man.”
He appears from the darkness in silence; He may have been there for hours.
Like the minute hand on my Omega, I failed to notice him at first.
I speak; he glares.
The tattered apparition holds his gaze.
“May I pass please?” I attempt to move around him. “May I pass?”
He remains silent. His eyes hold mine. What are they telling me? He’s wearing a badly soiled, well-tailored, senatorially pinstriped suit, crafted apparently for a taller man in a different time, most certainly a better defined neighborhood. His attire assumes a sadness; a life of poverty? Perhaps a recently downgraded lifestyle forced upon him by difficult times?
I step to my right – he steps to his left.
“Please” I implore, “My lunch hour is over. I need to get back to my desk.” neither a minute flick of lash nor hint of furrowed brow.
I breathe deeply and attempt to relax the imagined lines in my forehead. He remains implacable; an immovable stoic with an unknown plan. What does he have on his mind. His left hand is hidden in the left trouser pocket where gentlemen account for their coins. Is he holding a weapon? A switch-blade?
I move to the left – he to the right.
“Are you hungry? There is a warm dinner roll in my doggie bag. I had one of these for lunch; delicious. I think you’ll enjoy it.” I raised the offering; no response.
I deke to the right and quickly left. Had I been wearing a weathered, fifty year-old, hand tailored, poorly fitting suit I might have thought for a moment that I was dancing at a street corner, practicing moves before a mirror.
Mulling momentarily: “How much to cross the street?”
“Fifty Cents”: I offer a dollar; his left hand withdraws from the left trouser pocket and places two quarters into my open palm.
The disheveled entrepreneur steps to his left.
The light turns green.
(Most who have read this describe when requested to do so, the businessman as the man with the expensive watch. In fact, the business man is the fellow in the tattered suit, the beggar being the one who asks permission to cross the city street.)
How many millions are in a zillion?
How many leaves in a forest?
How many souls exist in forever?
How many came before us?
Where is it written?’Where are the answers?
Where is the heavenly Chorus?
When did the Big Bang Beget the beginning?
Is the answer there before us?
What if I told you I knew all along?
What if you held a Thesaurus?
A new interrogative might have an answer
Or perhaps it would simply bore us.
I think i shall ask my friend Morris
By Lee Broom
When opinions reek of danger and
When bias hisses,
When judgment derides,
When prejudice misses
It is the absence of “Hark”,
The dark temptation to seekers of Truth.
Alle heil der abend
As last light fails
And discourse galls
The light of Reason.
And feeds on
The mindless nod of
A thousand, million heads.
Shall we do this cries the headman
And then arrives
An alternate view
To an optimistic few.
And a rosier future
As autumn brings a withering reminder
Of thoughtless, irretrievable syllables
This new Ship sails
To sites and sounds unknown.
A few have grown
And risen above the moan
Of grieving masses.
Life as must, moves on.
by Lee Broom
To accept Love is to Be Healed.
To do Loving things is to Be Healed
Healing begins when Fear is vanquished.
Perhaps it is the other way around.
Fear returns to the shadows and birds begin to chirp.
Fear reveals itself at first light.
The Light of Love is felt with the decision to Accept.
Acceptance lights the Path.
The Path is Today.
This is the way,
To be Healed.
Love becomes the Lover.
And Fear becomes a fading memory.
by Lee Broom
Art Is All There Is and Love Is How It Came To Be
Everything in the Universe is made from the crumbs of something else.
Surely, this is the first rule of Creativity and Creativity must certainly be the first consideration in defining art.
And for those of us who have lived this Creative Experience, whether it be to suddenly hear the first words in a poem on its way into our reality or becoming aware of a business idea rising to the surface or perhaps caressing a piece of unfettered marble and feeling the sculpture hidden among its veins or Miracle of Miracles, helping to form a new person, whether by fertilizing an egg or stumbling through the agonizing pile of paperwork and interviews to adopt a child, the feeling that accompanies such Creative Endeavors is called Love.