a cup on its side at the edge of a lake in Germany in the late evening one summer as the sun begins to sink below the line of trees to the West and you are sitting on a park bench watching people feed geese and you are alone and feel good
….There is truth in the empty cup
………..or might be.
……..More so if sideways and tracing a
delicate line
……….of least resistance
…………trickling to pool in the cracks
For all that lies empty was once full,
……all that becomes a story told to friends
….was once lived
…….at full speed and with no regard for the
..last few sips,
…….overturned in fits of passion
……………another ballet of mimes on wine,
……..who, breaking their vow of silence,
………..toss coins at quiet dancers who move
………….as if asleep,
………….as if forlorn,
……………..though emotions tend to use a soft brush
which
……soaks up paint
……blurs the colour
……and seeps to form something long since undiscovered
There must be a basement
Where do the cherubs go when they grow old
….they must go to work
…..have jobs
….pay the rent and the heating bill
….on earth as it is in heaven
…they must gain weight
.and grow weary of the commute
…or forget a lover’s birthday
.and fumble in the pockets of their
jeans, wearing out a little in the seat,
like always,
…..looking for bus fare and finding only
a few old feathers
……from their small wings.
Where do the elect go,
….once all the seats in heaven are full
….they must return
….as lawyers and accountants and
….television celebrities
..they must start again, and
repeat all that pain of growing,
though even worse this time, because
….of knowing they’d made it,
………….once,
that they’d had their chance
..and blown it
…..being less righteous than the next guy.
Where do the gods go,
……………the tired ones people no longer believe in
Is there some waiting room
…………….full of old magazines and hand sanitizer
……………..with the radio playing the popular hits of the day
……full of old gods whose days of
……sorcery and radiance have passed
they must talk amongst themselves
…..reminisce
…..play cards and
…..swap stories
of the good old days
………….when The Gods Ruled The Earth
……and people lay prostrate before clay figurines
….when the cherubim were still young and their swords had not yet run out
of fuel
….when heaven was still an empty place
waiting to be filled by a lucky few
….when people believed
….and feared things
…..besides other humans
…..and the rent
…..and the bills
…..and forgetting birthdays
…..and losing their feathers through
the worn pockets of old jeans.
SEAN STEELE: Born in Vancouver, raised on Vancouver Island (Nanaimo). 31 years old. Poet, novelist, musician (records as Mareotis), painter, traveller. Part-time academic, full-time dreamer. PhD student in Humanities at York University. Has an MA in Humanities, a BA in Philosophy and History from Concordia in Montreal, and a music diploma from Vancouver Island University. Currently lives in Toronto. Committed to love, curiosity, and creativity. The eternal optimist. Enjoys the game of living. Celebrates daily. Grateful, alive, and seeking.
