Nik Boyd
An owl slept on a cable line
drawn tight between two poles
beside a country road.
What lucid visions pulse
within its fastened claws?
What powerful words ring
within its grasp and resonate
within its slackened jaws?
Does any wisdom sing therein,
or merely the tawdry
and trite reflections
of a culture gone
so far awry,
so fast asleep?
TV enthralled and unconscious,
tossing and turned in darkling dreams,
disturbed by news of distant wars,
unwarranted and unjust,
just pillage and scorched earth
and burnt out bravery,
to salve the greedy cravings
of some few supercriminals
who do so because they can,
without remorse,
and no more code,
nor even morse code
any more carries
a caring signal
through the darkened night,
so far from
and unaware of
the sacred light
on which all signals ride
and would of
its own accord
en-lighten and
waken ev'ry mind.
Should the owl's meditations
turn on these
distant dark'ning forms
or fly afar
through its lighted mind
in dreams of stealth
and field mice,
locked solely in its
personal predations
and depredations
and deprivations
and private sensations?
How local is the scope
of any little mind,
whose vision spans what
only little eyes can see?
And even though magnified
by telescopes, or televisions,
or linear accelerators,
what little more can
any man or woman see?
How local is
the scope of Man
within Reality
so vast?
How focal is
the grasp and grip
of any heart at last?
What final intervention
must release
all hearts to open
beyond their past?
What random outcome
will turn 'round and land
after the die is cast?