GloPoWriMo2019 Day Eleven

Today we consider the origin of fools.

Were they born of woman, or did they hatch
From a rancid egg laid by an old hen?
Perhaps they were spawned in a foetid
Pond, rank with stagnant water and
Slimy with rotting pondweed?
Perhaps they simply happened,
Crawling from beneath a random
Stone one cold November afternoon?

For the fools who live a luxurious life
At the expense of the downtrodden
Wise men have no moral compass by
Which to navigate a gentle and considerate
Path through daily experiences.
The wise men who know how to travel
Kindly through this land, and who
Appreciate the keening cry of the soaring hawk,
Are given no room by the fools, they
Are shouted down, and ignored, and their
Words of wisdom and gravity vanish
In the cacophonous maelstrom of jibes
And insults that are the mode of business
For the foolish ones who operate the controls.

This is where the fools come from,
They come from money and arrogance,
Transmitted from foolish father to foolish son
For ever and ever, amen.

(c) 2ndwitch, 11/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Four

Today is a day of sad fools.

When we were very small
We were told life was a dream
We would soon master it all
And things were just as they seem.
But today when we went to our house
There was water where water should not be.
Last night we had our hackles were roused
And late hours delayed when we were set free.

We do this job
For ourselves
And for the country
We live in,
But the two aims
Are now so far apart
We can no longer
Reconcile them.

Today the ship of fools left the harbour.
Today they set sail with no charts.
Today the fools stepped to the brink
Of the unknowable abyss,
The chasm of unpredictable future
Watered by the mistakes of the past,
And warmed by the infernos of
The hatred and misery
That the fools deliberately created.

(c) 2ndwitch, 04/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Two

Today is a day of questions.

Have the fools yet left the house?
Have the fools come to a conclusion?
Have the fools decided?
Have the fools yet left the house?

In this world of sunshine and showers
Where grass is growing
And the magnolia is about to burst into bloom,
In this world of rolling traffic
And buses that stop
To let people on or off,
Or off or on,
In this world, why are there fools?

April is a foolish month.
Perhaps it is the month
When the flying pasta lord,
The monster of spaghetti ,
Was Born, or rather, extruded?
Perhaps it is the month
When little lambs leap
And play in sporting oblivion?
Perhaps it is the month
When the non-foolish ones
Will allow sense to surface
And demolish the house of fools?

Or perhaps it is not?

(c) 2ndwitch, 02/04/19