The Jester - A poem about Spring.
Posted: Mon Apr 23, 2018 4:46 pm
The Jester
The Jester grew bored at his desk
and turned off the processor.
He donned his motley,
of muted Greens and Browns,
not the red and yellow
of tradition,
and walked out to see the world.
Spring was in the air,
with the scent of flowers
and the perfume of Young Ladies.
And people were smiling.
Yes smiling at strangers,
even at the weird Hippy
in his tatterdemalion rags.
The girls parade their fashions,
some with the innocence
of the truly virginal,
their eyes bright with curiosity
but without speculation.
Without the 'I know now' look
which shows they can't help wondering.
Sharply dressed businesswomen
sit on park benches,
limbs neatly arranged
as artificially perfect nails peck
fastidiously at 'lean cuisine',
every calorie balanced against
their ideal self image.
Not a crumb falling
to feed the waiting pigeons.
Perfect hair, immaculate clothes,
subtle perfume - never overdone -
and a perfectly painted mouth.
Impeccably correct body language.
Nothing to offend, and nothing to please.
But at the snack wagon the gypsy-dark
girl wears a shapeless blue smock,
a natural unpainted smile,
and the welcoming fragrance
of freshly grilled Bacon.
She wears it all with a casual grace
that Ms Perfect could never match.
Gyppo
The Jester grew bored at his desk
and turned off the processor.
He donned his motley,
of muted Greens and Browns,
not the red and yellow
of tradition,
and walked out to see the world.
Spring was in the air,
with the scent of flowers
and the perfume of Young Ladies.
And people were smiling.
Yes smiling at strangers,
even at the weird Hippy
in his tatterdemalion rags.
The girls parade their fashions,
some with the innocence
of the truly virginal,
their eyes bright with curiosity
but without speculation.
Without the 'I know now' look
which shows they can't help wondering.
Sharply dressed businesswomen
sit on park benches,
limbs neatly arranged
as artificially perfect nails peck
fastidiously at 'lean cuisine',
every calorie balanced against
their ideal self image.
Not a crumb falling
to feed the waiting pigeons.
Perfect hair, immaculate clothes,
subtle perfume - never overdone -
and a perfectly painted mouth.
Impeccably correct body language.
Nothing to offend, and nothing to please.
But at the snack wagon the gypsy-dark
girl wears a shapeless blue smock,
a natural unpainted smile,
and the welcoming fragrance
of freshly grilled Bacon.
She wears it all with a casual grace
that Ms Perfect could never match.
Gyppo