The Play—II

 
The Play—II 

The planet spins – and days and weeks
And months and years go by.
The play proceeds. We mouth our lines
And rarely question why.
 
We each could speak of our defeats,
Of all the battles lost –
Of how we struggled hard and how
We paid the bitter cost…

Or should we speak of victories,
However few the count?
For that might then fulfill our need
For cheer, in small amount…

******

But all we lost has long been gone
And never will return –
And  what we gained was either lost
Or will be, in its turn…

So let’s not talk of our defeats
Or victories in the past –
Our lives are acts that soon will end,
For time is flowing fast.

So let us each be silent then
And sip the present’s wine –
For be it sweet or bitter, it
Is pressed from grapes divine.
 
We build our lives and watch them wrecked.
And yet, we still can smile.
There’s time, within the play, to sit
And chat for just a while.
   
So every breath is precious, be
It drawn with joy or sorrow.
We each were born but yesterday
And will be gone tomorrow.

******

And though our battles might be lost
Or won and then reversed,
The others, still unborn, will come
And tread the paths traversed.

So as we view the present scene,
Reflecting on the past,
The future comes.  This act that ends –
It will not be the last.

But when that final curtain falls
And life on Earth has ended –
Will aught of consequence remain,
As men have long pretended?
 
2015 March 23rd, Mon
(first & last three stanzas added March 28th, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York
   

The Play

  
The Play
  
We come and go like actors on a stage.
We’re born, we grow – and then we swiftly age.
But once we leave, we never do return,
No matter how the actors left may rage.

Is there a script or lines for us to learn?
We train and sport – and then we’re off to earn.
We labor while we can, and then it’s time
For each of us to feed the worms or burn.

We’re born but once – and only once we die,
For that’s the rule no actor dare defy.
And each of us has roles within the play,
But here’s a question – is it all a lie?

And here’s another – who directs the play?
And yet one more – for what and wherefore, pray?
We've asked these things through eons, yet the scenes
And acts proceed – with new ones, every day.

And who, we ask, is sitting in the hall
That’s darkened, as the spot and floodlights all
Are focused on the stage on which we act?
Who cheers or weeps, when actors rise or fall?

Or is there no one – no director and
No audience – for actors, singers, band?
And is the truth or falsity of it
Beyond our wits to sense or understand?

What choice have we, except to play our roles,
With some adrift – and others after goals?
Some state the play is all there is, but some
Proclaim there’s more for our “immortal souls”.

And most of us are truly quite content
To play the minor parts, while others vent
Their sound and fury center-stage – and yet,
For neither will there be a long lament.

And some may say, the answer true is this –
The actors are, because the action is.
So audience and actors are the same,
And it’s for us to duly clap or hiss.

There still remain the who and how and why –
For few there are, who truly can deny
There’s order in the midst of chaos, yet
It’s hard to be content with just a lie.

For only those, who fancy they’re the center,
Can exit with more hubris than they enter.
The stage, they think, is built for this, our race,
And even claim acquaintance with the builder.

But those, who're humbler, try to play their parts,
And work for truth and love, beyond the arts
With which we conjure yet more sophistries,
Until their curtains fall and each departs.

2014  April 21st,  Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn