John R. Deakins Poem
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The Monolithic Tourist
By
John Deakins
Out west, on a mountain, trail-hiking a slant,
He spied a great boulder, half sunk, at a cant.
He circled its shoulder, all mottled and gray.
"If you could but whisper, what words would you say?
Oh, speak, mighty boulder! Say something to me."
*"I am,"* said the rock, *"on my way to the sea."*
"Say, what?" said the poet, his jaw hanging slack.
"No boulder I've heard of can answer me back!
You must be a figment of overstressed mind:
Too long in the sun! Brain fried to a rind!
When rocks start to answer, all Hell's broken free!"
*"I am,"* said the rock, *"on my way to the sea."*
*"You prejudge, O mayfly. I cannot condone
Your spewings. Do you own this planet alone?
Aren't you bound for ocean, a tourist indeed?
Why I can't I, too, travel? Impertinent weed!
I'm headed down-river, to see all the sights.
I'll roll 'cross the landscape, beneath the star lights."*
"A mayfly!" he stuttered. "A weed! As I live,
You stony insulter! I've much to forgive.
When did you start talking? Who gave the green light?
A human has priv'lege to speak; it's our right.
But you rocky odd-ball - I asked but in jest.
Say, what made you different, apart from the rest?"
*"Why, all of us talk. It is also our right.
But babble we don't; we're a trifle more bright
Than humans, whose tongues to the heavens will flap.
You asked me to answer. You're right in my lap!
Just wait: I'll be quiet as quiet can be!
I am,"* said the rock, *"on my way to the sea."*
"No! Wait!" said the poet, aware of his slip.
"My words were too hasty. I'll give you no lip.
Continue your speaking. Pray, say what you will.
(My fortune is certain!) I mean you no ill.
(I'll wallow in riches!) Just how will you go?
This trip to the ocean . . . You seem a bit slow."
*"I'm resting here, human, and soaking up sun.
I started far higher; I've only begun.
I'm studying scen'ry, enjoying the view.
I'll catch the next slide, if I've nothing to do.
I'll be on my way when the urge reaches me.
I am,"* said the rock, *"on my way to the sea."*
"(A self-centered granite! A talky stone jerk!
I'll call in the news-team; they'll save me the work
Of hyping this boulder. I'll bank all the dough
I'll get for his chatter. To the top, here I go!)
Say, rock - Should I call you that, brother of stone?
When done, won't this trip grind you down to the bone?"
*"If I don't reach ocean, in person - or crack -
The pebbles I father will follow the track
And kiss salty sea-stones, the same as I would.
Would your human children do just as they should?
But, say, all this talking is wearying me.
I am,"* yawned the rock, *"on my way to the sea."*
The poet was worried. "You're not getting tired?
Your sharp conversation: it hasn't expired?
(I must keep him talking! I'll lose my gold mine!)
All people must hear your philosophy fine!
I'll bring them by hundreds; by thousands, they'll come!
But not if you're sleeping, (you crystalline bum!)"
*"Oh, well,"* sighed the boulder, *"I'll pass on the fame.
I'll nap a few decades, if it's all just the same
To you, noisy human. And try not to shout.
In a cent'ry or so, I'll be up and about.
Perhaps your grandchildren could come visit me.
I am,"* yawned the rock, *"on my way to the sea."*
Shouting and begging and fists beating stone
Did nothing. The frustrated man stood alone:
Surrounded by giants, asleep where they lay,
Immune to the poet, ignoring his sway.
At last he retreated, a pitiful flea:
A penniless poet - on his way to the sea.
-END-
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