(Listen to "Tale of the Fool")

Tale of the Fool

The tale to be told is the one of the Fool

That simple old soul who’s forgotten the rules

Abandoned control, relinquished his tools

In leaving the fold in pursuit of the jewel

Perpetually hovering at the edges of cliffs

Forever recovering at the whim of a wish

Completely entranced by the current most swift

His wardrobe enhanced by aversion to thrift

He’s ever so gently been blinded by wool

For his moon is half-empty when his bed is half-full

The lover, the poet, the drifter, the dreamer

Fickle wind couldn’t blow any swifter or cleaner

Nobly inclined, his manner refined,

Consistently kind, disarmingly charming

For free of his mind, he’ll not be confined

Take care not to find his departure alarming.

Fleet of pace, his spirit winged,

He may say grace, but prefers to sing it

He’d say, “Note the quote, but don’t attribute.

It floats my boat just to contribute.

You’re ahead to understand that futures always pass.

Go ahead and make your plans, so God can have a laugh.

No, these are not the words of the fatalist sardonic

Though consider, you’ll concur—the world’s reliably ironic:

Every time I choose a frame, and trust I must now have it sussed

My paradigms infuse with flame, combust and then just turn to dust

For, though being self-fulfilling is the tendency of prophecy

Still, nothing is so thrilling as amending my philosophy.

Cosmologies all lead to show recursions in the spherical

They’ll tell you all you need to know—just give ‘em one good miracle:

The hand of God, a stroke of luck, a lightning crash into the sea

The Big Bang’s so odd, it might hold up—a frightening flash of novelty.

The metaphysic’s not for me, such disparities to contend.

For all I know we may well see singualrity at the end.

My concern is not the source;

Worlds do turn. There is a force.

The question, then, is one of kind:

What does the transcendental mind

Deem worthy for Eternal Time

To puzzle over, lose, and find?

It isn’t money. It isn’t power,

But rather honey, and bees, and flowers—

That buzzing, blooming, unassuming, zooming epistemic shove

That crooning, swooning, all consuming, mooning epidemic: Love.”

Ah, the words of the Fool, the Jester, the Bard.

They’ll tell you in school you’d best disregard:

“You listen to him, you’ll never get far.

He’s out on a limb. Stay where you are.”

But I wonder sometimes, when I switch off the news

Of plunder and crime, if there’s a niche for the muse

That skipping stone rippling the surface reflective

Quite simply outwitting the mirthless collective

If you blink twice, you’ve missed him, for he’s lost in the swirl

But dive willing for wisdom, and you might find a pearl.