EPICS OF OPTIMISM
We, the scribblers of hope, burdened by unrelenting sunlight,
have longed to say something you will
and scrawl our words on scraps of
paper or type them neatly
so they are readable and easy to
In awe of the soaring spaces of
propelled one would think by endless
energy and enthusiasm
tuned into a station plausibly wheezy
we are writing our epics addressed to
Among the pleasures of the road up
ahead we expect
the openings of for example
marvellous boutiques of shells
and brightly-coloured plastic by
fervently umbrella'd with luminosity
absent any penumbra.
Unencumbered days, we are in
constantly silly love
with all our hours enchanted by so
many smiling teeth
it's as if all the toothpaste
commercials from television
were compressed into one immense and
Our epics of optimism roll along
concretely. I am so happy
I don't know what time it is, or
phase of the moon, I'm even
over the moon to find almost fresh
lettuce in the refrigerator
and enough water in the tank this
evening to fill a bath.
Kitty is fine now, too, all her
misplaced baubles having been
located. And finally she has accepted
the wonders of science
do not contradict the existence of a
deity, as well as the fact that
the bicycle is a natural
evolution of the horse into the modern world.
Let me introduce you to the sky and
its cotton wool clouds.
Over there is a flotation
device wrapped around a salivating child
and there is a gem of
geometric precision, a-sparkle at each point,
and there is a swan processing
its marvel into the infinite distance.
But what you want to know is does the
top of the tree actually
touch the sky, am I right? The answer
is what you want it to be
and if your heart is in the right
place it will never be the same
twice. By the way, the tree is your
friend and so is the sky.
Do not be concerned if there are more
answers than questions.
The number of questions is
greater than you can imagine
and the methods by which we enjoy
them increases as we grow
closer to ourselves and approach
the lighter than light.
It is incumbent upon us to contest each
but nobody claims this is easy to do
although once you understand
the sheer weight of enjoyment to be
gained overcoming them
it will be impossible to go back to
hiding abed curled up like a baby.
The days when moss grew between our
and bats visited us for darkened
conversations at night are over.
We, the scribes of brightness, will
write our epics of optimism
in defiance of our true feelings
which have always to be concealed.
Majesty must be defiant. Glorious
sunrise manufactured by window
salesmen, shovel-loads of glamour,
parental advice noted but gleefully
ignored. Yes, we have read the leaflet
you gave us and we admire
your ambition but deride its scale,
which is nothing like large enough.
Summer is coming, you know, and we are
planning to serenade you
with elegant phrases to massage the
inside of your mind
because to be comfortable in your skin
is angelic, warrior, bejewelled
by baubles, and all white and hot
passions pleasurably nurtured.
Always be grateful, by the way,
for any gift of music or lyrical grace,
blessings granted by an idea way
beyond us. Nothing can take
our beauty and its appurtenances away
unless we close our brains.
All we need now is for the
choir to wake up to make our joy complete.
We, the scribblers of hope, having
longed for so long to say
something you will listen to and
understand, scrawl our words
on scraps of paper or type them neatly
so they are readable
and we will assemble them later
to form our epics of optimism.
© Martin Stannard 2014