Approaching the stone carved fountain
on a flesh-toasting noon in Milan
there's allurement for one
to turn palms towards the sky,
immerse them beneath the fresh, cool ripple
of the iridescent umbrella of liquid
reflecting its prismesque spout
off the blinding eye of Gods sun.
However, at the center of town
in the squares where old folks
come to sit on stone steps and age,
where art is unquestionably sacred -
dipping hands in Borghese or Trevi
would be likened to the sacrelig
of ensconcing ones' callused feet
in the Baptismal of Peter's Basilica,
though ' sacred' by definition
is a clear subjective issue....
with exception of course, to the atheists,
agnostics and yes, men of the cloth
who were mortally stained
by the sins of their own choosing.
Traditionalists tend to scoff at such notion
and blink? ... not an odds-makers chance;
castes of olde-garde and bare stripped cultures,
still embrace the tarnished copper
that once shone resplendent
as deep yellow gold;
rules that withstood
maverick efforts of change;
the likes of John XXIII and Vatican II
which to traditionalists was sheer Papal faux-pas,
changes in canon law that must have had Leo
and Ignatius rolling in their tombs...
for during their time and tenure,
all which was consideded sacred
was decided by that city within a city
and was considered very objective,
indelible....'jacta alea est'!
And because so... all of this... as well as all of that
must be acknowledged and respected all the same...
as that... is ' sacred' in itself.
________________ F j R ________________
© 2013-All rights reserved
Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR
Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/s-a-c-r-e-d/
