Cymbals clash
Or is it symbols?
I am in an English classroom
Where old theories
About the meaning of
Old writers, long encrusted
In the stone, are shattered
By outworlders with
A different point of view

And though I have no truck with revisionists
And scorn their one-size-fits-all philosophy
I have to wonder if the great ones weren’t
As mean spirited and petty as she argued
That windy Monday in May.

Moral relativism is brought to
The fore like some giant catapult
Ready to hurl stones at and above
The castle walls. We seldom put
Things in perspective, and yet,
Knowing what we do know now
How is it the great ones couldn’t see?

Our problem is to dwell in our enlightenment
And think ourselves so holy. And what is
It about today we ourselves are blinded from?
What staring-in-our face reality are we missing?
What certainty are we all fleeing from now
That scholars, ages hence, will ridicule in us
For our deliberate obtuseness and failure to see?

You choose the societal ill, the one you know
And the one you don’t want to, and try to
Grasp its meaning. We cry for more oil
As if it is a birthright and kill osprey to wrench it from the sea.
Not too long from now, people in their solar cars
Will consider us whining wastrels who lacked the
Guts to drive a little less so we could save a planet.

I know: by then, moldering in our graves,
What the hell will we care what the future thought of us?

05/11/2010

Posted on 05/11/2010
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch