My best friend accuses me of intensity
and idealism to the point
I can’t stand masks or surface clutter.
I hate it when she calls me scattered and spacey
having overlooked the betrayal of an ideal
or the muddy villain. Or even lost
my new eyeglasses again.
How can once upon a time ever be impractical
or economically frustrating or entrapping?
The children you follow are always the prettiest
or most handsome.
It’s the adults who are high-strung, emotional,
with buried anger, hurts, and resentments
in a troubled kingdom or forest.
If it weren’t for a band, I’d be arranging wildflowers
or pouring tea into fine porcelain
alone in my home garden.
But listen, now, to all that comes forth
on a cheap penny-whistle in my hands.
The way these old dance tunes tell a story.
Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
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