Legend of the Wise (Poetry by Bob Racine)

Wise Men, reputed to be kings, what made you so? 

Were you astute in the ways of the world?  Hardly that, 

since you failed to see beneath Herod’s

artifice and disguise.

Soon enough you met him, ate flattery from his plate,

kissed his ring, watched him flash his puffy eyes

at mysteries beyond his ken, you all the while 

beguiled by his offer of safe passage.

Half-crazed you were, believing a tyrant would

accord the office of a king to a child not of his seed. 

Such “wisdom” does not become your legend.

Scholars perhaps,

nestled all snug in your parchments!

But why would scholars abandon their dusty scrolls

for the glossy stars?  Wise and foolish alike

marvel at the stately array of those heavens.

Better we deem you wise in matters of the spirit and soul,

devout in your posturing before symbol and rite,

craven in your quest of the sacred truth embedded in holy writ.

And yet, if the soul be your domain, why your costly gifts –

gold, frankincense and myrrh – to honor this babe?

Think you that this carpenter’s son cares for such things? 

It was he who was destined to offend the lust and greed

of the lofty.  Such glitter for him would be but a vain pretense,

your wealth perhaps nothing more than

a cracked lantern lost in the nimbus of its own smoke. 

Or did you cast these your pearls before him

to denounce their alleged worth, to disavow

the spoils of an old and moldering estate?

In time the belly of Herod would retch,

choking on the blood of infants.

And you left your wealth to the fate of

hovels to make your way back to

parchments and scrolls or omens and rites.

Time did not entreat you to witness the onslaught

of this child upon the rearguard of sage and princely men. 

You would not live to see the love of sacred truth

come of age by way of him.  You would sleep in the

anonymous silence of antiquity, unnamed vassals

of the spirit to this one whose infancy

your curious presence once inflamed.

Alas, old ancient wayfarers, it befits some of us

to place you among such wise as know the

insufficiency of your own minds before a glory

not of your making and the warm incubus of new life –

out of your hollow and void hounded,

in your eloquent but small knowing. . .                   

confounded.

To read other entries in my blog, please consult its website:  enspiritus.blogspot.com

I welcome feedback.  Direct it to bobracine@verizon.net