Ed Shacklee: The Flowering Of Noon

He wished he knew the mind of God, and wasn't odd – like you,
he wished he had a tongue of flame, knew secret names, to woo
colossal, cross-eyed sheep and an apostle, maybe two.

He wished the lightning played along his fingers, that his teeth
did not need brightening; armed with pithy zingers, he’d bequeath
enlightenment to loonies who malingered on the heath.

How they'd marvel as he warbled like a serenading whale
in a shower built of marble, watered by the holy grail,
with virgins riding sturgeons round his feet to hear the tale.

In tuskered towers of his dreams he'd gaze, with eyes of moon,
and make the evil cower as they felt his sharp lampoon,
retiring to his bower till the flowering of noon;

and kings would dance attendance like a ring of circus bears.
He'd declare his independence, he'd divorce himself from cares.
His soul, in swift ascendance, would provoke the angels' stares.

He’d take his tea with Buddha, break unleavened bread with Jesus,
then astride a barracuda he would sample fragrant cheeses.
In the warm and fuzzy mood a man has sleeping when he pleases,

he'd dream until the Trumps of Doom and never close his eyes,
and each myopic grump who had assumed he was unwise
would look up, glumly stumped, and see a heaven full of pies.