The Jester is here, the announcement was made.
The King with delight waved him in.
“What have you to say, my jolly – young knave?
Make me laugh, I’ll spare you a day.”
“My Lord, I am sick – stricken with woe,
No jokes from my heart can I tell.
Your kingdom it starves, a plague has begun…
that sickens the sons of your land.
If not to be worse, your daughters now thirst –
the water is bitter when drawn.”
Now the great hall was silent, the audience still –
The lips of the Jester were pursed.
As the King deep in thought,
recalled what was taught –
The guards led the Jester away.
There, I thought to myself. I made my contribution to the First, and likely Final For Me Men’s Ecumenical Retreat. Ecumenical, yes, I read that explanation in the pamphlet that my wife picked up at church and put under my nose at the dinner table. She knew me well enough that my eyes followed where my nose went, and her cooking was always quite lovely in fragrance… yes, as if her use of perfume lessened the blandness of her many casseroles.
“You wrote that? When?” our team leader – an Episcopalian fellow – asked as we sat around the campfire. He looked at his watch, but continued to try encourage group participation, which was really quite difficult for one Presbyterian gentleman who wanted to fly sola. I smiled to myself when I thought that… you clever rascal.
“Yeah, I wrote that, ” I muttered. “Some years ago – when I was fourteen or fifteen.” I answered, but I thought it was time for lights out… the fire should’ve been doused at least; then again, the man had a hard time starting it, which I thought was apropos given the nature of the weekend’s get together. Some of the men chuckled at least when I started to sing, ‘It only takes a spark, to get a fire going.’ Of course they called this soiree a ‘retreat,’ which always bothered me. A retreat to me would have kept me at home in my study. Firmly, if not devoutly introvert, I hardly found such gatherings purposeful enough to make an extrovert of me.
“You’re how old now?” another of the campers asked.
“Seventy three. Why do you ask? Is there a door prize for the oldest participant? Glass jar perhaps to keep my dentures this evening?” I noticed that only one of the men in the group laughed – probably Pentecostal. This whole idea of coming this weekend was my wife’s idea. Oh, yes, my wife – how many times have I told her that if something was God’s will he would tell me directly, not go through her as if she was my intercessory.
“Fourteen, huh?” Another man asked and grunted.
Now, the way the man grunted was interesting. A grunt and a fart can bring men together. “As for my poem?” I offered to explain. “I was an eighth grade drop out, and as that Jester, there were things that I wanted to say, but not from me.”
“What about now?” The leader asked.
“You’d think I’d have to say, wouldn’t you?” I left it at that, and went to my tent. Bedtime.
