Monday morning and dead poets.

Arriving.

Coming to consciousness in the crisp, new air
that is
Monday.

No one seems to care
or wants to wake up to the conscious absurdity
of six o’clock mornings and business-like conformity.
Is this the sum total of our lives?

Or can we step outside the rat race before our soul dies?

Or do we become like Gandhi?
Becoming the change we want to see?
Bringing loving compassion and reconciliation to the white business man’s humanity?

Or like Neil Perry in Dead Poet’s Society
do we paint, perform and preach poetry
or become trapped and dead within patriarchy?

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up before it is too late.

Or wait,

That’s just the alarm reminding us it’s Monday morning.

Or is the alarm coming deep down inside, the lover giving her warning,
that we too are succumbing to the hum-drum anthropocentric egotism of societal conforming?

The polluting, waste and violence that never stops forming.

When do we let it bubble out, groan in agony, scream in despair?
Of this seeming blindness despite education everywhere.

Maybe we are stuffing our heads with too many big words stuffed in too many essays,
Maybe we need to learn how to live in a new and different way,
and re-examine our post-enlightened mind that we seem to have strayed.

Wake up.

Now.

At six o’clock on Monday.
Before we drink our coffee and rush in with the rest of commuters and cars on the oil-filled highways.
How is this sustainable? Aren’t we tired of being so lost in the dark?
Maybe Neil Perry had it right,
let it go, admit defeat, put out the last remnants of the hope-filled spark.

And maybe then, when everything has died, I might be able to believe in resurrection:
on a Monday morning, when all of this could be transformed into the painting, performance and poetry of heaven.