Kings' Courier

Two Views on Earthly Disappointment

Christian Lewis, Senior Writer

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Obsidian Fish Tank

There on the cliff side of nowhere stood a young man,

The one lost in his own way for far too long, of-

ten cursing the pale-blue skies- far too long. He shoved

Away the cure for the feigned love and affection-

Of course, he did it in the name of pride.

Ill intentions and Sick motives lead to terror, and

The good doctor will not fail because of the terrorizing

Image of the ill,  but it is more often he, the passively,

Impatient patient, dying there, wherever he then lays:

He who Refuses help: Singing stupidly silly songs

While it spreads to his heart.

The reality of the world is unbearable, but what should

One expect while living in some stupid obsidian fish bowl?

Sure, I’ll bite the bait, and I’ll swallow the hook, and surrender

Some legal tender and volunteer my toil and labor.

Some call me preyed upon, but our two fates are all the same

I’ll take my chances with the bait in this obsidian fish bowl; as for

This goldfish, he  wishes to know the light beyond the black glass of the earth.

Let the blue skies fill the obsidian fish bowl, I want to see.

But then isolation and weakness meets me, and  then I pray I am

Blinded to the human side of me; and I fall lower into the pit,

Asking a vaguely familiar name to make me blind forevermore.

The theologians declared, “Let hope be our virtue,”

but I am not among them still.  I am too shallow, and too weary am

I to venture into The Deepness of Thee, and silliness displayed still more,

I am still well within the fast paced range of years belonging to the youth.

 

Still I see and I hear that as for the eye and ear-

They not good for much. The two behold all the songs and sights

That made their fill in the earth; yet, such satisfaction, which they seek still,

Eludes them all- for it is  nonexistent, so they seen hiding,

Still in sight of the balances of the High Heavens,

Their emptiness in the petulant poetry they write.

Yes, our desires aren’t strong enough to desire Heaven

As we should. We’d settle for childish things like the

Entertaining pleasures of the glands,

And our identities, we let the genetic lottery

Define personality and potential.

Our shallowness prevents us from the deep satisfaction of the soul.

We try appreciating nature, but it drastically falls short, and never

Meets our needy expectations, and whenever we try to praise or

Appreciate the natural world what it is, it ceases still more whatever

We think should be, but actually, we have very little clue what we

Wish things to be.

Still, the sparrows are provided for, and some songs greet

the grieving where they are. The hymning folk are hymning away at home

And at church. The hunters hunt, and the gatherers gather, and poets

Are pronouncing uninvented and counting syllables, and I hear novelist are

Always providing new novelty to young boys. Grandmama tells me the bingo

Nights aren’t so boring for her at the Veteran’s Affairs building;

Snow on Easter was a reminded that someone died for my bitterly cold soul.

Some days I’d  like to stand on the brim of this old fish bowl, cursing

High Heaven for not hunting evil down, and gathering up the good things, and

I’d like to strangle the poets for observing misery instead of counting joys, and

I’d like something more than distraction and novelty from novelists, and I

Should like my grandparents to look forward to something so very much more,

Something especially less boring than bingo night, and I’d like me to be

Chasing after truer fruits than the dark, the very desolate shadowy fields

Of that stupid plutonian shore.

Snow on Easter reminds me that the Christ died for the fire of Truth,

And this obscure, obsidian fish bowl is all far too

Disappointing and dark and shallow and terrifyingly isolated

For any-thing else to be more true.

Envoi

All my state points upward:

All my feelings of illness,

And all my ill-fortunes,

And all my imperfections,

And all my insecurities,

And all my petty iniquities,

And something, something

Left unpoured into this cracked glass,

And all this natural fretting about humanity,

And all the sadness and despair and decay,

And knowing all the desires

Of my heart and mind

Have been thus far left unsatisfied

And not fully known.

So I am here, feeling very small and concerned,

But brave enough to long

for God’s Holy Country, and I am now

All the so very much braver with such  

Strong outwardly hope,

Especially this cold,

Snowy Easter evenin-

Within the fleeting and

Obsidian Fish Bowl,

Because I wish I were at Home.

Responding to my Bitterness 

Man makes his plans, and God laughs,
So let these hands not slip from thy craft,
until I arrivith on Thy Heavenly Shore-

Instead, let Thy hand be gentle to thee,
Deport Thy goodness not from this egg-head’s
Idiot heart.

If Mockers and Brewers of Gossip speak illy,
Stiffin no heart of mine, but let me go on chantily,
Spending time amused in my musing.

 

You and I both know, my eyes are hardly ever satisfied
By whatever they find to see, but let me not grow
Cold and dumb and blind and never satisfied:

Give me to true fantasy. Yes, fill this glass of mine.

 

More than the blue splendorosly sparkles by

Thy length of ray and arm of the rolling sunshine:
More to see than just the blueness of the rolling seas-
There has to be; let me go

Walking in a land of mystery, the one full of
Undiscovered things, and let me appreciate

Your handy work, and let me do it
Wherever I go, and whatever I see,
And whatever I have to hear.

 

On my toil and labor, I would ask Thy Hand to be

Upon me all the days of my work, finding good

Pleasure and satisfaction,

 

The same kind the Speaker of Assemblies

Declared in Ecclesiastes.

 

May I repulse to you on the changing waves of life:

Like Kind David poetically composed to you,

Thousands of years ago:

 

In sadness and rebuke, and in

Pleasure and happiness:

Let me sing and compose a new song;

 

And may my heart be broken

once daily or twice dedicated

to Thy Kingdom, starting with

My first fruits of the day:

Banishing all Bitterness and Envy.


Let no measure of cowardice spring
Backwards my weight of heart, indeed:

My iniquities are of such infirmity,
A laughably terrifying collection of flaws,

Truly, I am empowered, but unqualified and insecure.

And if I am found lacking the courage,

Or missing adequate fortitude,

Reveal Thy loving wrath to me:

Cracking the timber in storming thunder,

Breaking in half the Cedars of Lebanon,

Spare me, the half hearted idiot, no correction

Needed in your eyes.

 

Reminding me of my position in the universe,

Let Thy stars shine, and the both smaller and

The largest fowl of their kind

Sing good to me and my kind.

 

I shall pray that I may grow

To love them both, and do it in the nearest

Possible way to the Kind shown them all the

Days of our existence.

 

Envoi
I think I see the Coastside, yes…

Far, far off- so far away-

There, that is my home,

There within, yes,

There lay my Eternal  Hope.

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Lewis Cass High School, Walton, Indiana,
Two Views on Earthly Disappointment