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| Photo by Allen Black |
As I sit by the river,
dangling my feet
in the cool water,
longing to refresh my heart
by quieting my mind,
I hear them coming
around the upstream bend;
around the upstream bend;
finally catching sight
of a single monkey,
of a single monkey,
in a flimsy canoe.
Strong-arming his paddle,
perpendicular to the flow,
he slowly drifts toward
me,
eyes pleading.
He is followed by a larger vessel
with several monkeys on board.
They kill the outboard motor
and engage the trolling motor,
drifting sideways, so that
I can look directly into
their insatiable eyes.
The final craft in this flotilla
is a large river paddleboat.
Knowing that I would be here,
its captain has already
let the paddle wheel
cease its forward churn.
I stare into a sea
of starving primate pupils,
each one begging.
This is the arrival
of negative monkeys
each morning;
of negative monkeys
each morning;
haunting, hungry, beseeching.
I used to try to kill them;
dreaming of picking them off,
one by one, centering them
in the crosshairs of my zeal.
Each time I did, they morphed
into clones of righteous
indignation
that I grabbed to club
others’ naysaying monkeys,
wincing as my own blood flowed.
This day, I wave and smile,
showing them my empty hands.
My heart whispers,
“I have no bananas for you,
but I wish you peace
as the river carries you
downstream.”
Most days they circle back,
sometimes once more,
other times twice or thrice,
disbelieving that I will not
offer them nourishment.
Finally, disappointed and unfed,
they set their faces
they set their faces
toward the ocean.
Mine tilts toward hope;
toward a holy “yes”.
This poem reminds me of Matthew 12:43-45. About the person sweeping the house, and the spirits come back, stronger. But I like your ending better!
ReplyDeleteI hadn't thought about the house sweeping, but yes! These negative monkeys are persistent, and if I peel even one banana, all their friends show up, begging.
DeleteAhh, the monkeys...I know them well. Even this morning they came a callin' and I hunkered down in their banana mush for a bit: swirling, twirling, like a dance gone bad with partners named doubt and fear and shame. Old partners with whom the dance is familiar but no longer fun. Now, how did I go from monkeys to dancing? Hmm.
ReplyDeleteThey're tricky, aren't they? One minute they're asking you to dance, and the next, you realize it's not so much a tango or anything resembling fun, but a lockstep spiraling toward gloom, despair, and agony.
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