The Greatest Story (for Lainey)

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The Greatest Story (for Lainey)


She has passed and reviewed pyramids, in the City Of The Dead,
Saw a time of order, where the sun never set on British soil;
She shook her head sadly at the The Seven Years War, it is said,
At the folly of those who proclaim "Sovereign" as nations toil.


It is spoken, she views through a globe of glass on a base of gold,
Centuries past, present and future, as seen through her Stoic eyes:
Reciprocity as sleight of hand, alliances and treaties are sold,
With no esteem or regard, for life and death, birth and demise.


Those who would seek a brave new world, she knows, can't go back;
"Villains in their lodges speak of repose but poison the watershed.
Loose associations with warrior societies... to run the same track,
Is as discordant as a call to order in a gold rush," so she said.


Those who might say, "We are unbreakable, beautiful and young,"
They don't talk to strangers, seeing their one life as perfect,
No thoughts of dying to live again, regret never on their tongue.
It is said when the word gets out, they will regret their neglect.


It is said, in prophecy, passed along in hushed tones, through ages,
There is one who will appear, and she will speak from her station,
As empires merge, canals surge, oft in the distance, from her pages,
With no regard for stratification, hierarchy, caste or affirmation.


Many forewarned along the way, saw this as a pocket full of dreams.
The enlightened, with open hearts and eyes, see dreaming's for sleeping;
A closed mind cannot fathom a concept of sink or swim; what seems
Conscription to one is convention to other, and worth keeping.


The time she will rise and step from her realm may well be at hand;
An epoch where the rainbows vibrant colors will fade and dissipate.
Discord demands, it is time for her to sentence, to display her brand,
When her gaze will turn from her snow globe, repairing to collate.


Some, granted audience, will be in the company of those they hold dear;
Others will be found, in the throng, as wanderers on the open road;
The faithful who seek her out, see her visage as shelter, to appear,
When she emerges from her hiding place of recompense, her humble abode.


Should all who witness, know in advance, I am not compelled to say,
But I believe, all things are revealed, especially in a last call;
Who it is that stands before them, holding steadfast in her sway,
Will be made apparent in the end, if not the outset, to one and all.


I hope to stand before her, when she shares the greatest story ever told;
Would, in the end, I be so fortunate as to be counted among her friends.
What was semblance and mirage will manifest, ours to see and hold.
Until this day dawns, even she does not know how the story ends.


Michael Todd  (2013)


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NOTE: As I was writing this poem, I was listening to Loreena McKennitt's "The Emigration Tunes." The cello player is Caroline Lavelle, who also performs as a solo act. She is my favorite cello player. If you want to get the full effect of the poem, from my humble perspective, listen along to this track, as you read.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHXi2KNBhEY


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