A Passion Play

Praeludium

Now the spring birds have flown To the full maturity of Summer,

Tender leaves have grown Like pale yellow shades

Under the service of a green god.

Wild Love’s impassioned draught

Brewed and bottled in Winter and Fall

Warms my breast in broiling mash

Poisoning my blood---Carving curses in my softer thought.

And from valve’d gush cours'd

On artery, vein, and capillary To the outermost

Like the great Oak’s sap crying for the sun.

The tree sings wondrous, leafy melody

In the dawn of a Summer day.

Therefore, like a swallow My tender love has flown

Casting me down aching on my native soil.

Farflung from the intoxicating Provencal sun.

Where the Mistral Wind consorts with seven sisters To seed souls in fury, color and music.

O, the long days I lament Wandering the forests In the Black Mountains’ chest, Gathering wild berries And pounds of sweet mushroom

For Winter’s store;

Pouncing on spikely chestnut coats to free the meaty captives.

With my love at my

side

I gathered dreams along crystal streams,

Bathing in turquoise pools of dancing weeds.

Yet love fell too hard 

And broke his fragile shell.

Act One

Passion is a cruel master

And of my innocence did sport and play,

Served me most barbarously,

Stealing sweet friendship away.

For friendship bears a noble ring

To glory the wearer’s hand

And blessed be those who never pawn it

To purchase Passion’s land.

The play of Passion is swift and subtle,

Hidden from all but the poet’s eye.

Like the dancing of a marionette 

Forging its mechanical lie.

Up goes Passion’s cruel dark hand

And the arms of the lovers dance

Arousing to forage his maiden’s breast

And cast fair caution to chance.

“Victory! Victory!” cries the glowing touch,

“Give me time and I will increase the score,

to win the prize of her bed

and camp inside her door.”

Such is the scene in the singer’s vision

To charm his virgin away.

To all the world

What seems so tender

Is for Master Passion a wicked play.

Out of reach I hear him laughing, mocking and scorning---

Dousing young hearts afire,

Shouting that the lovers court and spark,

“Faster, harder, and higher!”

So it is that the lovers’ tryst

By the stream in the bright forest’s clearing

Becomes a ravenous feast

Of wild beasts

Stomping, munching and tearing.

Of flesh to flesh

And limb to limb

The appetite knows no sate

But to hurl herself over the cliff

Where no soul can bend, glue, or mend

Her broken creature frame.

“Alas, it is a pity,” whispers Passion in cool jest.

“For that’s the end of my game.

AH, but give me ‘til morning

To brew an ale that tastes the same.”

Passion’s Fortress

Such is the dominion of Passion’s play

To whom all lovers grant submission---

And mighty is the stronghold

That Passion’s fortress guards.

The old man’s fort is a merry place…Come all of you who bid enter

Beware of the open gate

Where none freely leave.

Regard the treasure keep:

Red ruby, mystic opal,

diamonds glitter high and

Glimmer deep.

A small commission

For those who follow Passion’s way.

Smell the simmering stew,

Savoury seasoning in the kitchen

Of Passion’s chef.

Hear the minstrels pleasant song

Describing Passion’s conquests

In melody and rhyme!

Enjoy erotic courtesans

Who dance in Passion’s court

In swift and nimble time.

O, in all the world is there a better master?

Tell me dear friend,

With lifestyle like this,

Who would refrain to be a mere player

In this king’s court?

Surely, freedom is a little price to pay!

Come. Join the merry band!

Passion throws a lawn party

Requests your humble presence

To meet all of his famous friends

In Summer soiree.

Come, take up a silver chalice

And offer to Lord Passion,

Savor the sweet bubbly libation.

“Strike up the music minstrels

our guests have reached their destination,”

Passion cries out in a merry voice:

“Let the festivities commence!”

While all the world satisfy themselves

In dance, and drink and play,

The poet roves ever on

To discover beneath the fray

A terrible sight.

Drawn to the sound of a peeping cry

I stumbled upon

Passion’s captive chambers

Beneath the cellar wall.

Deep down in the fortress hidden behind iron gates

Quietly whimper the lovers’ souls

Whom Passion laid to waste.

I chanced to spy upon a most hideous sight...

Passion hooted and hollered, dressed up like a circus master

Demanding all forms of wanton cruelty

That spells out moral disaster.

Round and around he chased the slaves

And cracked them on their backs

And laughed grimacing until he cried

Or lost interest in this sport.

Then up passion went

To stroll about his estate

Puffed up like a peacock

Dancing before its mate.

Sly Lord,He greets all of his new devotees in this way:

“All that you please, take!

The fruit,  taste! To enjoyment there is no end!”

I observed the old man

As a guest, same as any other,

Yet I must confess

I stole a look to activities undercover.

Deep down in the entrails of the fortress strong,

Dwells Passion’s son,

And he is the cause of no small grief

To his famous father.

The son of Passion must be hidden away

For he refuses to take part in his father’s play.

Gazing solemnly on the spectacle

Causing Passion’s conscience to smart and

Though five fresh virgins should dance in lace before him,

And lay down and declare: “Fair game.”

This young lord casts away his sorrowful gaze

Never leaving his righteous aim.

The reason in short, my friends,

If we cast our glance beyond the festive wall,

We chance to find Passion

In the lonely garden prowling,

Weeping, gnashing teeth and howling.

Passion’s Lament

“My game, O Lord, Wearies my day,

For ever and ever it is the same.

The innocent fall too easily

At the whisper of my name.

They are like lemmings

Over the cliff’s edge

At the lonely piper’s piping.”

“Pshaw!” Passion spews,

“’Tis a knife with no edge to whittle!

Such weakling morons

When cup’s full of lust’s nutty mead

Are idling pawns

In a stalemate game.

This is dull seasoning

For my dreary hours.

Well any schoolgirl knows‘tis combat to sharpen

the warring sabre,

and mine is dull

for the weaklings roll over like kittens.

Tension holds the great wall in place,

Yet no one dare challenge old Passion

To his face.

Fair game, without fair match,Fairly disgusts me---“

So Passion spews and spits.

With a voice like a wounded wolf

He cries:

“O, Lord, I am loathe to continue in passionate play---

grant me a reprieve and I shall cease this very day

from terrorizing lovers

and to the hills retire

to rest a season in a cooler clime

and quell my flaming fire.”

“Passion retire?” mocked the Parrot’s wicked cry.

“Aye, Passion retire, indeed!”

leared the mad bird,Passion’s only pal.

“Fare thee well

may all of your days be foul!”

Then the dark lord rose up and prowled

From lawn to terrace to salon

Taking secret leave

Of his passionate team

Dancing in the foggy evening cool.

Out the gate,

Gathering close a pilgrim’s pack,

And down the lane

Over shoulder glancing back

Did solemnly proclaim:

“Farewell the ivy hanging down the fortress wall

farewell my castle, farewell my all.

Farewell my treasure, farewell my play

Your lord takes a sorry leave a-roving far away.

Inherit these walls---this false estate

You who dare

Scale the ivy and stone

If this be your dreaded fate.”

Then Passion began to wonder

Far and deep into the forest dark

Besieged by every obstacle along the way;

Hunger and sleepless nights,

Hideous beasts assailed him

As if on higher command

To test his fiber

And weary his trembling hand.

Nearly perished

For the rigors of the way

Famished and grieving

Laying down to offer up his mortal pay.

Here we find Master Passion

Fallen on the roadside,Ragged, weak and weary

Please succor him who passes

This wanderer fallen dreary.

Who should up the cool path

But a merry pair a-picknicking

Swinging arms in the fresh new forest air.

A young singer

With his virgin fair

Merrily singing songs and dancing.

The wind of their youthful joy

Catches ear of the fallen lord

Hidden in the brush.

Courage rises in his heart

And his voice calls out in a rush:

Passion’s Plea

“Young lovers who wander freely

so far from the village

come and sport and play in the forest dark.In secret, passionate kisses fall.”

“Whose voice creaks beneath brush and bramble?” cries the tender lad.

All at once, Master Passion resuscitated

As a flowing spring leaping

Shines in dazzling, colorful array.

The Lord in full costume

In sporting passion play!

The fair young maiden

Ventures out a curious, pale hand

Toward Passion’s multicolor cloak:

“Beautiful Lord,

so awesome in display

we have wandered a long day from the village

and seem to have lost the way.”

Passion laughs:“Lost your way, indeed, fair girl,

with this eager singer at your side;

More likely you have abandoned the village square

For the sultry country air.

Is this the secret you hide?

No need to be coy with Master Musick

As I am known in the forest deep.

I can lead you to a lover’s bower

Safely in the wooded keep.

Fear not and I will lead you safely home.”

Master Passion spoke with laughter in his eyes.

Passion’s Invitation

“Come be guests in my hut this night

and tomorrow I will guide you merrily on your way.

Now the shadows lengthen/evening’s singer ceases to sing.

Come follow me young wanderers,

Make my camp your home.”

We see the merry threesome

Into the deep thicket trampling into a clearing

Where a lover’s hut appears so cozy and soft.

Passion’s Welcoming Words: “Welcome my friends to this hut in the secret forest.

Everything is allowed,

Bar no desire from its goal;

Nobody of the village can spy on you now,

The fire is set by the bed of eider down.”

The two camp down

For a soft, calm night

When up rises a storm---

The night is terrible,

The young maiden is in terror:

“Where is the man who led us here and seems to have disappeared into the night?”

The musician is enraged by the fury of the storm,

He is inspired and glowing…

This fair girl clings to his breast and beseeches him to sing a song.

A calm descends,

Passion prowls

Stopping to Gaze through the hut’s window.

Spying the young virgin in the singer’s arms,

He howls, laughs, mocks and cries in scorn:

Achieve your end my lad,

For swiftly rises the morn.”

The singer sings:

“Your eyes, your cheeks, your breast,”

he can restrain no more

his virgin’s cheeks are all aglow and call to him,

her eyes are dark like a summer pool and ask for him,

her breast rises in the fire’s glowing a feather pillow’d canyon.

“I am on fire,” he sings.

“And would sacrifice all and everything,to enter your mellow womb.”

The Beloved’s Replies: “Come near then, my singer,

promise me all that you possess,

draw nigh up unto my canopy

and to my bosom press.”

Outside Passion is ranting, and choking

Alternating laughter with tears of joy

For never had sport been played

With more honest a pair.

The lover’s tenderly embrace

As Passion in the yard looks on,

When out of the forest wanders

Old Wonder

On his nightly stroll.

“Hey, who goes there, who rustles about in my forest hut?’ calls Wonder as Passion cowers away.

“It is Passion,that depraved and lonely soul,

my long lost brother,who lost his nerve on his wedding day.

‘Tis a pity, for he never could consummate his union,

or engage in lover’s play.

Just look at him now!

He rants and raves

Driving you ng lovers over the top,

Holding fair virgins captive,

Planting desires they can never stop.

The young lad in madness

Promises his future away

And all for the whim of cruel passion

Whose fair wife stole away.”

Old Wonder drew up a forest nymph

And framed her in the shape of an owl,

led her over to Passion’s side at the edge of the wood

Where he crawled.

She calls down sweetly from pine limb into Passion’s ear:

The maiden shall be your alone,

And you will love her well,

You must cast off her lover at once!

Act fast in Passion’s fire,

Her flower has blossomed.”

Passion leapt to the threshold of the hut

Tearing open the oaken doorIn one bounding pounce

Lands upon the singer’s shoulders.

“Away with you, my lad,

to the forest dark be pressed away,

for I shall keep your maiden fair

until the absence of day.”

Passion whispered to the lad:

"Laddy, be not deceived,

She will be equally happy with either me or you,

Now that her heart is spoiled.

Better that you should fly

To a life of honor

Than for an evening of passion’s play

Squander all.

Go, be free, be away!”

Thus the singer found himself locked out of the hut

Gazing inward

While Passion won the day.

Until he could bear no longer

With fat tears

Teared away in confusion and haste,

Lost in the forest wild

Where old man Wonder Gathers mushrooms

Beneath the light of the moon’s ceiling.

Old Wonder finds him there

Singing sad songs, sweetly weeping,

And offered him a forest meal to send

His spirit leaping.