Legend of the Wise (Poetry by Bob Racine)

Wise men, reputed to be kings, what made you wise? 

Were you astute in the ways of the world?  Hardly! 

If so, you would have seen 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.

Would a tyrant 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 parchment scrolls!

The scholar indeed!  He luxuriates in dust and ashes,

nature’s matted artifacts, ancient foils for the sun.

But why would scholars abandon their clusters of dust

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 posturings 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, frankinsense and myrrh –

to honor this babe?  Do you think this carpenter’s son

cares for such things?  Was it not he who was destined

to offend the lusts 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,

as if 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 and 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, vassals of the spirit to this one

whose infancy your curious presence once

enflamed.

Alas, old ancient wayfarers, it befits 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. To learn about me consult on the website the blog entry for August 9, 2013.