Rod Mendieta

Black King And The Revelers

She allowed herself to be inoculated
With the virus of terminal frivolity
And the careless self-indulgence of the Revelers.

Now when not engrossed in the mighty rumba,
She wanes to a pious child, tired feet giving way
To clasped hands, gaudy songs to low mutterings,

And the serum of my well-meaning scholarly prattle
Only makes her pray more feverishly, dance more wildly
To the myriad tunes blaring from the King's court.

I, the master plotter, came up with a brilliant strategy
But the wayward Pawn refused to take the Bishop
And the Black King slipped away unscathed.

Don't talk to her about war-torn Syria,
Or the Black King's madness (she will have none of that)
For she only wishes the music would play louder.

In a last-ditch effort I convened the council of the poets,
And they offered sound advice and ornate recitations,
But then, turned away and joined the happy Revelers.

The grass grew taller and the rebellious hand
Shirked away from the ‘intrusive' scythe,
So I got lost in my backyard, and the Black King sneered.

Topic(s) of this poem: dance, prayers

Poem Submitted: Sunday, February 5, 2017
Poem Edited: Thursday, February 9, 2017

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Comments about Black King And The Revelers by Rod Mendieta

  • Tom Billsborough (2/7/2017 2:32:00 PM)

    She sounds like the World dancing to its own destruction with irresponsible abandon. We must still try to check mate the Black King! A really good poem, Rod

    Report Reply
    Rod MendietaRod Mendieta(2/8/2017 6:35:00 PM)

    Hi Tom,

    Yes, in a way... Though more literally, as well, an attempt to pórtrait some of the beautiful women that have graced my life but have also driven me nuts!
    Really happy that you enjoyed this one!

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