Medieval Sensibility

The Dark Age of man is

A thousand years removed

We’ve certainly progressed,

But have all things improved?

Progress seems a given;

Advancements every year

Wiser and more civil

At the twenty-first's frontier.

Yet, after all this growth

There’s still a puerile greed;

Demanding what we want

And never what we need.

Today, we want things now,

Immediate and fast

Centered on the future,

Neglectful of the past.

Always looking forward

Grand plans to be achieved

Pleased not with the present

The here and now aggrieved.

Yet, medieval peasants

Knew well they should revere

A focus on the past ---

Their present most austere.

Not hopeless nor morbid,

But their normality

Recognized in all things

Mankind’s mortality.

If present and future

Are both so profound,

Why is their Ubi sunt

Throughout the world renowned?

We revel in today,

And dream of tomorrow,

But it's yesterday that

We pine for in sorrow.

Where are the children that breathed the clean air?

Who grinned in the sunshine with such naïveté,

Where are the players for stick ball in alleys,

Those cooling the heat in the hydrant’s quick gush?

Where is thy faith and trust in thine neighbor?

Where are the opened and unlocked doors?

The fresh-baked bread, the hot apple-pies

The mothers in aprons engaged at their stoves?

Where are the siblings and friends in backyards,

Imagining worlds much more pleasant than ours?

Where is the block party; cocktails and beers?

The pastel umbrellas and barbecue pits?

Where are the Eberhard shavings on desktops?

The scratch pad with borrow and carry-over marks?

Where are the families untouched by divorce?

The men and the women who strain but still strive?

Where is the worker with nose to the grindstone?

With shirt cuffs rolled up and sweat on greased brow?

Where are the dresses and ties for each Sunday

The sliced and glazed ham when Church service is done?

Where are the dreamers that look to the skies

Still inspired by stars on a midsummer’s night?

If right now is the best

Tell me why all the tears

Shed by sentimentalists

Recalling past years?

If someday the future

Will be worth all its praise

Why wax so nostalgic

For all the good ole days?

Love this very minute,

Cling to fleeting hours

All have bloomed and now are

Slowly, wilting flowers.

So, we must carpe diem,

Reach out and pluck the day,

Take each golden apple

And savor what we may.

For the danse macabre

Will lightly prance and twirl

Around body and soul

Of every boy and girl.

So, wallow in grasses,

As you clutch at the earth,

And bathe in the sunlight

For these moments of mirth.

Go, search for the answers,

And achieve all you can,

But memento mori ---

You are still just a man.

So, seek what you're after

All you’ll steal or will buy,

But whatever you capture,

Know this: You will die.

Flee this Age of Plastic,

Its narcissistic ways,

Freed like serfs and peasants

From spiritual malaise.

For conquering life grants no one

Their immortality

So, turn and make medieval

Your sensibility.