The Naked Poet


What the world needed when the naked poet spoke
Was only what the world has always sought;
Peace, knowing that it could not simply, be just bought.

The original sin is about what really broke
But that awful memory resonates dull
Like a bell tone rusted thudding into the lull.

The tempest that followed did not wipe it all out.
The Ark preserved something of the damp stench
Of the grit starved of sunlight in the hollow trench.

The story after that lost all its urgent clout.
So much so that no one sings anymore
Until the wringing pain hits at the very core.

If we are born again we must have died before.
And evil torched into a fiery death.
Dare we speak of salvation in the same old breath?

We learn why the bread and wine is left at the door,
Upon the reflection in the water
Of the conflict between courtesy and pleasure.

From the shining pulpits some are driven to preach
To say we are like the goodly angels.
Masters and servants are the same, the story tells.

The guardian of our faith has a hard job to teach.
No one can say for sure if it's all true,
That the hue of a clear sky will always be so blue.

 

Roma, 24 12 2006