Where Is He?

I station Beckett like Gotama, mid-table,
and spread before him
the Sunday comics. I’ve pored over
the Brueghelian welter:
each interstice of time, its tenants
and their possessions since Genesis,
secreted in a cartoon panel,
of exponential zeal and futility,
the size of a handkerchief.
The inventory of eternity,
shape-shifting, yet captured,
in pixilated frenzy.
Waldo’s somewhere in there,
gaunt, anonymous, camouflaged—
red and white striped jersey, spectacles,
bangs spilling from the stocking cap.
Every week he loses himself. One of us,
we must pluck him from this tangle.
The stakes are that high. I can never find him—
after hours and a magnifying glass.
Only Beckett—who can barely talk,
hasn’t walked yet—with the simple prompt:
Where’s Waldo? And, like a medium,
legs lotused, he gazes trance-like
into the newsprint, for mere seconds,
drops his finger, like a Ouija stylus,
into the roil and whispers, Waldo.
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Bruce Snowden
2 years 2 months ago
Celebrated poet, John Bathanti asks, "Where Is He?" Get used to walking in darkness John, in the darkness of the eclipse of God seen through the telescope of Trust, resting on the tripod of Faith, Hope, Love, not at all a hopeless journey, somehow even joyful. There discover "ah-a!" moments viewing the thin line of peripheral light encircling the eclipse of God, allowing a moment of certitudinal reprieve, knowing that, behind the darkness there resides in magnificent LIGHT the great "I AM!" But don't be surprised if a blessed Mertonian uncertainty returns and you say, "Lord Jesus, I have no idea where I am going!" And once again, and over and over again and again, the telescope of Trust refocuses and all is well. By the way, a "P.S" Are you talking about God in your tongue-twisting Poem? If so, the above applies. If not, sorry for misreading. John just read my "P.S. after posting, not a good thing to do! Now I see where what I said may come across as offensive. Please, NO OFFENCE INTENDED!


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