Ode to the
"Who died?", they exclaimed the eighth month of the year,
as the sounds of the dirges came where they sat near
the table of players whose game was just through,
and its personage of renown, grand Don Juan de Feu.
With the lifting of his hand, the raising of his head
he spoke his awareness of this question of the dead,
yet, not a word did he utter, no sound passed his lips
suggesting that he knew why the hearse made its trips.
But behind the sad eyes, beyond their blank look,
his time-hardened heart, (whose memory often took
him there in retrospect, to hard places he'd forgot),
was recalling her loveliness when passions ran hot.
The head-long commitment to loving him came to be,
as often is the case when given, full and free,
a swift arousal in him, an urgency to move along
to pastures viewed ahead, uncaring how wrong.
He, repetitively had responded that same way,
reveled in all given him, nothing much to say,
strewn astern broken hearts, indifferent to the pain
behind an indulgent pleasure's, sated train.
A few hearts mend quickly, others take more time,
some sundered won't repair, (such hurt should be a crime).
Tired hands often take the ruined, shattered dreams,
ending what can't be borne, rejection's silent screams.
Gentle hearts listen well, this message of the dirge!
To gratify without thought each pleasure's potent urge,
hardens that most tender and leaves such sad residue
as distinguished roue, grand master, Juan de Feu!
-Don Juan de Feu
copyright 1997, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved