Would it be north of the Ganges?
Or south of the Pecos?
As three Sisters of the Wisdom sprouted out of Gal-veston
Well, they never were much into following, directions or otherwise
For anyplace was now truly their place
Or soon would be
Paris, Texas equaling Paris, France in the larger cosmos
These daughters of the American Revelation had quieted their internal fires
No more emulation of The Furies
Not that they would ever go gently into any night, good or bad.
Their newly adopted modus operandi:
Polish their rough edges of survival,
Continue seeking truths despite its varieties and beckoning detours
Solve the conundrum why karma is always a bitch and never a bastard.
After persuading the Four Horseman to turn the other cheek
Thereby choosing instead Win-Win, Peace, Cornucopia and Everlasting Life
The trio entered the modest state of Whimsy, population: depends on the time of day
A few residents milled about.
One, a mangy man adorned with carpenter tools crossed the road
He began distributing cards reading “I build bridges, not walls.”
Loaded down with paper files of a sort, another male approached and asked
“where might be the court of public opinion?”
Over in the corner cafe, the literati argued fervently over the divinity of the Brothers Grimm versus the Sisters Bronte,
It was not Kansas. More like a Bohemian rhapsody
One street over, the wise ones noticed a burned out hulk bobbing out in the water
A gnarled man stood before them
He said, “I am Noah and some say I failed miserably
I faithfully acquired two of each but with ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ how was I to know?
Nowadays, I meander about awaiting further instruction, grabbing thunder in order to quiet the constellations.”
Suddenly, a bolt of lightning exploded in the sky,
resurrecting scarred voices to the threesome
prayers unrecorded in formal history books,
plaintive outbursts from humanity’s collective unconscious,
debts of horror neither dollars nor words could repay or repair
all burdens borne by the innocent throughout the ages.
This was followed by the appearance of a wagon train
It emitted a vibration of cosmic energy
A townsperson mouthed “It’s truth or consequences time”
But what did that mean?
Call it a reckoning:
Those exhibiting predatory predilection
secular or otherwise
would be rendered into a void
a suspension into ever-present miasma
before eventually returning as those they harm
unless and until getting right with the purpose of life.
Facing the wagons, the women spoke in harmony:
“There is no glory in bombs bursting in air or any rockets’ red glare.
For this we know, the very hard way.
We have heard you are of true emancipation.
and not another corrosive ball and chain that poisons the magic.”
There was no audible response.
The crocuses silently continued their dawn-to-dusk interpretive ballet
Caterpillars quietly sang and butterflies flapped
The wise trio continued: “What guides us?
Enlightenment as a springboard towards grace”
All remained silent
Finally a puff of white smoke emerged from the lead wagon
The women said “yes, we were once but now are not who you seek”
That they weren’t.
Because, nevertheless, they had persisted.