PURE JOY
Amigo, you know, I went a lot bit further.
It cost me a lot of years. But I saw for myself
what there was to be seen and I've been paying
the price ever since, but there no denying
the truth that I've since been crying,
on every bourgeoise boulevard.
It's not for nothing that the crows call the tune.
Towhees, hummingbirds, mockingbirds, too.
Or is it, old pal, that sudddenly you're immune
to this sympatico reveille morning retinue?
To the North Fork, the Daisy Hill folk marched
Nanners the cat led the way, hooray.
We pulled across via the miners' cable car
o'er alpine white water to fabled cabin of Lori A.
A venomous game of Scrabble we did play
pondering art books of Leonardo along the way.
In the dawn, I walked me out in the morning dew
'twas glistening prismatic every grassy blade,
and lo, ladybird beetles swarmed amid
the Douglas fir duff by thousands plus
and there by the river we pondered the
ancient rocky beds and regaled ourselves with
exploits of dear friend Glen diving for gold.
We had these things,
we had these moments,
these hours and days of truth
can you tell me, sir, whether
anything intervening can even
come close to that pure joy?
---Jack Oakes |
