In the tent of the muse

once sat Langston Hughes…

along with Kipling, Wordsworth,

Longfellow and deep truth,

touched by the breeze in her

tent… candles, skin and fur,

obliged to tell it from the heart

as to reach from where we start

to understand, a longing belonging

to bloom… life long to becalming

the windmills of Quixote’s dance,

to fight despair with worded lance,

seen too Plath, Emily and Pound…

need you a Marxist if they’re around?

So stable, never the desire to cost,

“miles to go… ,” as penned by Frost

and ink to quill brought Shakespeare,

“… most strange that men should fear,”

many were the colors of windmills forth

that Don Quixote chased for true worth

as being Sancho’s servant in lieu…

like a caged bird, by Maya Angelou,

so true… so true to be honest by choice,

to gain a pen and find your own voice

for what is right and what is wrong…

the muse grants us all her dear song.

From Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra we get Don Quixote… and the ironic juxtapositional relationship between master and servant with the ironic company between Sancho and Don Quixote. Many are the ironies of life… and many will we face- even if we do not face it as chivalrously or gallantly as Don Quixote. Be honest with yourself… a good place to start or you cannot hope to be honest with anyone else!

Windmills... do you chase any- thinking yourself to be right?

Windmills… do you chase any- thinking yourself to be right?