THE MIRROR
--By Brother Joshua Seidl, SSPBy night he had command of the party,
filled with confidence, charged full of vigor.
He had the answers, free advice for all.
Others saw him more as the lead lemming.
His confidence came from a higher realm,or of a mere cranial origin.Then came morning and that stupor feelingthough not from drink, nor herbal assistance.What claim has he of the previous night?
A left shoe with a separated sole,
its mate vanished, he's no idea where,
and but a right sock with a gaping hole.
Nearby an empty water pistol lay
its handle's painted pearl worn away
along with a recorded history
rolled in a film that won't be developed.
Illusions of grandeur, fortune and fameare prized by the spurious Don Quixotechasing dragons that only he can see,while riding the night on a broomstick horse.When morning comes with the clear sun rising
casting its light through clouds of dancing dust,
he, the heavy-headed prince, sits alone
before his mirror, face to face with truth
The gray speckles of a once blacken beard
are not those of a wise and weathered king,
nor the stubble of a trained, royal prince,
but the hairs of an aged, foolish man.
He tries to erase those hairs from his face,but his old electric razor shorts out.So in his anger he rips off a bedpostto use it against the mirrored image.Whole or in shards, the mirror tells no lies.
Gray stubble and all, he's just an old fool.
The party is over; the night is gone,
the time of boasting has come to an end.
The stifling air of his room repels him,
the staleness settling on his parched tongue.
He looks toward the window for relief
and ventures over to let in fresh air.
He struggles with the frozen window latchlong neglected while he prowled the nightsand let pass by the daylight of his youthspinning yarns of a life he never knew.He banged at the latch; he pushed and pulled,
he cursed, but the window lock would not budge.
He condemns the inanimate window
for its stubborn refusal to open.
An intricate set of woven cobweb drapes
covering a pint of harden putty
subdue the angry, wild, wandering eyes,
calling back memories of times long past.
The interwoven strands of dusty webcurtained a discounted corner tableladen with souvenirs of what once wasof a bright and promising younger man:A holy medal and cheap nickel chain
the only material remembrance
from his childhood concentration camp
that others called, "The Reservation School."
A corrosion pitted, tin cased tape rule
leaned against a hand-carved, oak shadow box;
the ribbons, purple hearts and bronze medal
were pawned to the Landlord's satisfaction.
A neatly folded vacuum sweeper bagcomically bore on its outer sidewhat should have been carried on the inside.He thought he might put it to use today.He inched out a dough-studded rolling pin
and used it to separate the cobwebs
drawing back the sticky panels of age,
then lifted the sacred medal and chain.
Then suddenly the creased lines of his face
took on new life as a smile broke out.
He rinsed off and dried the holy relic
and hooked it over the shattered mirror.
Placing a small cedar box on his sinkhe pulled out his father's Eagle Featherand a dried braid of herbs, cedar and sage.Facing the four winds he gave thanks to God.He lit the sage and smudged the medallion,
then chanting the ancestral hymns of praise
he smudged the rest of his tired old room
fanning the air with the Eagle Feather.
"All My Relations," are his final words.
The Eagle Feather falls, the man walks on.
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