Edmund V. Strolis

The Motley Choir - Poem by Edmund V. Strolis

And so the lies of summer nights
Are shadows on a moonlight drive
Wind whipped shapes scatter
Time and space no longer matter

Let the wheels hiss
Let the city disappear
Let the ghosts return
Let the fever burn

Headlights pointing nowhere
A lunar landscape dancing by
Leave the ritual behind
With nothing left to find

What good are desires
What good philosophy
What good ambition
What good reason

We are no more to our destination
Then when it all began

Primitive eyes at last surrender
Cigarettes and dashboard glowing
Mayan ruins ahead it seems
Illusions of our highway dreams

Victims of our lust for curves
Puppets bent on building fences
Competing for the golden ring
Blinded by these foolish things

A fairy tale searching for an end
A motley choir without a song
Scattered dreams a cosmic debris
Travelers pretending to be free

Topic(s) of this poem: poem

Comments about The Motley Choir by Edmund V. Strolis

  • Pamela SinicropePamela Sinicrope (6/24/2017 4:54:00 PM)

    So the line of victims of our lust for curves is awesome. To me, all this newest poetry you've posted is full of images, similar to what a painter might express on a canvas. There's enough detail to see something and enough description to evoke a feeling and a message. Several of your poems talk about cars and in this one I imagine two travelers (my imaginations working here off your poem) on a summer drive who think they're going somewhere in particular (on that drive and in their lives) , when in fact, they're really headed nowhere. What is the meaning of life? What is the meaning in anything? (Report)Reply

    Edmund StrolisEdmund Strolis(6/25/2017 8:04:00 PM)

    Hello Pamela, funny thing about this poem. I began writing about one thing but like a ghost at the wheel I was taken elsewhere. The curves have a double meaning. Initially I was referring to to the lust and consequences for a man's attraction to woman. I coupled that with other things that we do building fences as tribes and pursuing gold for fortune but then the old deeper memory of an actual long drive in the wee hours heading home down country lanes with the universe before me and the real world only a dream. Realizing that fate and fortune tie our hands and leave us at the mercy of what will be. That drive I thought of people separated by distance both physical and historical. People who I had once shared the highway with were now somewhere that no amount of wishing, praying or driving could close the distance on. And so the lies of summer nights are shadows on a moonlight drive. The lies being the certainty in a midnight kiss, a promise, a joyful embracing of the future. The shadows being more honest in their dark deception.

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  • Norah TunneyNorah Tunney (6/21/2017 6:35:00 PM)

    The title is both humorous Motley Choir and sad because this Motley Choir have no song.
    If we could not see the humor in this crazy world we would all go nuts. Below my interpretation of your poem, for what it's worth-
    There is a sense of clarity here.The poet seeing through the sheer emptiness of it all- the false, the artificial, the shallow. Most people resist this kind of seeing but the poet is willing to look.Even on this moonlit drive there is no escaping theses shadows.And yet time and space no longer matter it seems as though the poet has distance, freedom for he is the one that sees.

    Edmund StrolisEdmund Strolis(6/22/2017 7:18:00 PM)

    Yes we must see the humor or we are doomed. I have a book by Douglas Fairbanks called Laugh and Live. The joke is I won't read it. I am too busy laughing and living. Each laugh is a victory. A defiant exclamation of our resilience. Perhaps we are the pinnacle of creation. The universal wonder echoing laughter in the face of creation. This poem is the dark side that makes us appreciate the light. Yes so profoundly true we must see the humor. You encapsulate because you understand and I can congratulate myself because I understand that you understand. Where has circumstance landed us Norah? Right where we are, open eyed and content within a balance. Not the balance of a trapeze walker but the balance of a swallow's tipped wing. Time will consume the careful and courageous alike. Humor is courageous, laughter triumphant.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, June 20, 2017

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