Monday, December 4, 2017

The Vandals Pushed Over Our Lawn Buddha

The Vandals Pushed Over Our Lawn Buddha

by David Hartley Mark

                                    The Vandals pushed over Our Lawn Buddha
                                    And left him, face-down, on the ground
                                    He was a menace to no one
                                    He wanted only to make people happy

                                    Playing a silent shepherd’s melody
                                    On his flute of iron
                                    With lips of stone
                                    Into the innocent wind;
                                    His silent flute is truly silent
                                    Alone and prone he lies

                                    It happened last night
                                    In the dark;
                                    Clouds covered the moon
                                    And no stars shone

                                    We picked him up
                                    And placed him back
                                    On his little seat of garden rock
                                    But he may play no more

                                    Having met the cruelties
                                    Of Men or Boys
                                    And despairing, in his Stoney Mind,
                                    That there are those who prey
                                    On the helpless

                                    He grips his iron flute
                                    Much more tightly now;
                                    A face of grimness has replaced
                                    His peaceful smile,
                                    For he now knows the ways
                                    Of Man in
                                    The Universe….

                                    And my Garden Buddha thinks
                                    Of the bloodred Octopus in the White House
                                    And the pederast senator-to-be
                                    From Alabama:

                                    And my Buddha wonders:
                                    Did the tentacles of the Octopus
                                    Reach out a White House window
                                    All the way to our garden
                                    To topple him off his perch?

                                    “What kind of country is this?”
                                    My Buddha asks, in his mythy mind,
                                    “Where the strong prey on the weak,
                                    “And peaceful folk like me
                                    “Are toppled from their homes?”
                                    He presses his iron flute
                                    Grimly to his lips
                                    And thinks,
                                    “I may not last here long.”