Of Mental Dustbins And Ordinary Imagination

(I)On the wall of a Spanish inn,

lizards crawl in the sultry heat.

The fluting tones of the mandolin;

The strumming notes of the guitar

Snakes above the friendly lunch-time din.

 

(II)The diners chat happy, fork tines  

  and crockery merrily clink, and food beckons

 over the heady scent of the choicest wines.

Then along comes a poet and frames an ode

to the lizards sporting in the ivy vines.

 

(III)Half a world away, obscured in the Infanta's solace;

 In a kingdom known to (Oscar)Wilde alone,

In the royal garden of this unknown place,

The lizards skitter jolly on the side walks

and simply revel in rustic grace.

 

(IV)Lizards act alike with princess and fey:

and search for cracks wide and narrow

to sun themselves during the day;

They then come out at dusk and dawn,

To philosophize, then play.

 

(V)Yet lizards look at me with rather suspect,

because in my house, I am so sorry;

they are treated with ample disrespect,

Lizards are tossed of the balcony

and then meet an unpleasant prospect.

(I am afraid, the cats think lizards are good dinner)

 

(VI)I Read of them in Wilde's tome,

Flicking their tawny tails,

Gliding on a sun-kissed lawn,

In my house lizards are tardy, but when

menaced? A blink, and they are gone.

 

(VII)I don't get it, lizards, so  ugly and scaly,

and even when we hate them so:

how come do they always remain so gaily?

They do not seem to be a tad bothered,

despite being cursed and bashed daily.

 

(VIII)Lizards with their shiny cream backs

And beady black eyes; They

share with me my shelves and racks

So looks like I must try to come in peace...

 

..."Eww gross! There is lizard c**p on my table!

 Somebody please clean this up!?" ...

 

My own exclamation on lizard droppings punctuate my poetry. So sorry.

 

POINT

 

Ill-fated home in  the

depths of the great blue brine,

Ill-fated man, thy born astride

a funeral shrine.

 

Or in the lake below,

with the heavens above,

Death is the  last gate out to reside

in the arms of a forbidden love.

 

Or for a tiller of the dry land,

a frosted farmer with no home left,

Death becomes a quick escape to the land,

where one hopes, the eternal slept.

 

Godless, forsaken and broken

Wings clipped and impaired

To fly to the happy home,

 when truth of life is bared.

 

Meager human life is yours

No time to live after birth,

Walk, run towards the end

All embracing death.

 

Death there is, as it was

Life seems to be a universal fraud

You work, you starve, maybe attend conclave

Yet final result, you are dead.

 

So what is the point in getting a grade point 10 or even  topping the class? Are we not quite missing  THE  point of living?