Something Is Not Right

I

The Student knocked

on the Poet’s door,

hoping for entry.

*

As he waited, the faint sounds

of old blues music wafted through

the atmosphere,

*

underlaid with the soft sounds

of far-off wind chimes,

the mixture a holy sound in unholy times.

*

The Student waited,

brow furrowed, just starting

to turn away,

*

when the door opened,

and the Guardian appeared.

She was tall and strong,

*

lithe and limber, a fierce

force of nature behind

moss green eyes that saw

*

everything, felt everything,

knew everything,

and she took her protective role seriously.

*

The Guardian said nothing,

looking the Student up and down.

Eyes narrowing, she gently placed her hand

*

over his chest, taking one,

two,

three deep breaths with eyes closed.

*

When they opened again,

the ferocity was leavened

with understanding.

*

“You cannot enter the Sanctum,”

she said softly, “but you can

meet me at the gate.

*

“I will lead you to the Poet from there.”

II

The Old Poet was seated

under a cabana cover

on an old Adirondack chair,

*

eyes closed, with the blues,

louder now, drifting off

an old phonograph machine.

*

Buddy Guy, singing about the

trials and troubles

of a Hoochie Coochie Man.

*

The Student stood silently

while the Guardian leaned

over, kissed the old man

*

on the cheek, whispered in his ear,

then moved another Adirondack

chair beside him.

*

“If he asks you to sit,” she whispered,

“you will sit here.” She touched

the Student’s face. “Peace be upon you.”

*

The music continued as the Guardian

strode away, and the Student could

not help but watch her exit.

*

When he turned back,

the Poet was smiling at him.

“I’m a lucky man, wouldn’t you agree?”

*

he asked, his almond-colored eyes

smiling, “to be loved and protected by

one such as her?”

*

The Student could do nothing but

nod in assent, overwhelmed by the

fullness of the Poet’s attention and energy.

*

“Sit, my friend. If she

brought you here,

you have need of me.

*

“How may I be of service to you?”

III

The Student took in a long breath.

“I fear, sir. I fear for this land,

I fear for her people.

*

“I fear that our ideals

are being eroded away

in the name of power and greed.

*

“I fear that the promise of this nation,

not always kept or even attained,

is now in mortal danger.

*

“And I feel helpless, sir. I am no

man of power, I hold no office,

I have no station. But I can read,

*

“and I know history, and what

is happening now – it is not right.

Something is not right.”

*

The Poet took in the Student’s words,

hands tented, bright eyes focused on

every syllable.

*

When the Student said no more,

the Poet took a long breath,

and leaned closer to the younger man.

*

“You are seeing things clearly, my friend.

You are correct about all you see.

Something, in fact, is not right in this world.

*

“I know this feeling you feel. I felt it

when I was a young man in Rome of old,

when I had a choice to make between

*

“defending the Republic or caving

in to tyranny. I was terrified when I

made those speeches, even more

*

“terrified when I made the decision

to take my own life, rather than live

under a dictator’s mercy.

*

“Cato, they called me then. Cato the martyr.”

IV

The Student gasped a long inhale.

Stories of the Poet’s past

had long abounded.

*

The old man smiled.

“Yes, my friend. It is true,

and not the only lifetime I have lived.”

*

He leaned back in his wooden chair,

elbows on the armrests, fingers tented again.

“But you suspected as much, did you not?”

*

The Student could only nod,

and a long silence passed between them,

words unspoken passing from one to the other.

*

The Poet straightened after a while.

“The only counsel I can give you today,

my friend, is to rely on your own strengths.

*

“You mourn your lack of station,

but you shortchange your gifts, for you, too,

are an artist; I have seen your work.

*

“I have heard your own stories,

your own poems, the plays you have written,

the music you have made.

*

“And I have seen you making these things

to make sense of the world,

and this is how you will resist the oppression to come.

*

“So the instruction I give you is this:

make art as an act of resistance.

Sow love in a time of sorrow.

*

“Create mirrors of words and sounds,

of music and lyrics, of graffiti in the streets,

to hold up truth for all the world to see.

*

“This is the charge I give you,

the instruction you have come here to receive.

Go now, and resist through love.”

*

The Student listened as the old Sage

gave him his orders. He thanked

the Poet for his time and attention.

*

Walking back out the gate, he was reminded

of the Buddha’s admonition:

all is impermanent. No thing lasts forever.

*

In the meantime, me and mine, he thought -- we will do what is right.