A Morality Play
If practice really does
A perfect mastery make,
My wagon full of props
And I, mere mortal, win
Praises from the town.
Pride here on the straw
Sweeps his hat to take a bow.
Envy seethes deep inside the chest.
Even this is practice for the end:
Wipe the grease from my chin,
Mount the boards, proclaim aloud,
Loud enough to wake
Sloth sleeping at the reins.
Shout, "Final! Doom!"
Drive this one, clink and rattle
To the tomb.
Elizabethan, a jester, or knave, or fool? Well-played ~ReplyDelete
I don't know that practice ever leads to complete perfection, but it helps us along the journey in the midst of our humanness, our fragile mortality.ReplyDelete
well I have been practicing life for a lifetime.. but I still have a few kinks in my performance... :)ReplyDelete
enjoyed the poem...
We are always perfectly imperfect just enough for our mission...but practice helps really understand what is about...ReplyDelete
The first whole sentence thrilled me… just a rich use of imagination!ReplyDelete
This is such an excellent metaphor for life. Your imagery and vocab are rich and satisfying!ReplyDelete
Many thanks for your insightful reading of my poem, and the wonderful comment you left behind.
I found this really visual, thank you.ReplyDelete
so many different expressionsReplyDelete
Though i dislike comparisons myself this one reminded me of a Punch and Judy show. fare thee well to that which is no more and hello to the ne dawn.ReplyDelete
Be Well Karen, a vice of poetic common sense in a world with too little of any sense.
Ha, I'm not sure I will ever outgrow the need for practice!ReplyDelete