Message to Mankind

Clipped British mustache
bristling over ice-clinking Chivas Regal
he eyes the manuscript once more
lips pursed into his not-quite-right frown
his fastidious Parker Twenty-one carefully
crosses out a word, replaces a slightly off-beat phrase
while, transplanted to a warmer environment
the African sun plays hide-and-seek through net curtains
casting late afternoon shadows over his toiling words
as a lazy fly settles on the Message to Mankind
mother bustles in singing supper’s ready now
and steaming beef potatoes cauliflower tempt the words to pause

Those words, the passionate outpouring of a lifetime
my unwilling companions since knee high
we tended his every call, nodded through every line
daily eased the odorous shoes off his weary feet
his work-stained cotton socks smelling of factory floor
waited through the first few healing sips of whiskey
the flare of his palm-cupped match
the grateful fragrant exhalation
and at last, the carefully enunciated phrases
rolled out like smoke rings in the waiting air

Born in the cannon fire of World War Two
the leaking stories of the camps
the stained journalistic scorn of ‘Mr. Hitler’
his words droned on
they spoke of a world without borders
of beating swords into plowshares
of one common destiny, one language, one alignment
with the Maker’s intention, which he called ‘Evolutics’

Enlightened words perhaps, but pompous too
self indulgent with more than a smidgeon of
superior smugness, of too tightly held brittle conviction
that he could save the world single-handed
And we at eight, at ten, at sixteen
swallowed each daily dose of wordy medicine
there at his ageing side
and waited for the hungry relief of beef and two veg.

He went out with hardly a whimper
they found him at dawn, rigid and gray
silver nitrate pills spilled on the bedside table, the floor
as we, trembling closed his eyes, emptied his pockets
and faced the words again one last time
They were piled high on the table, the floor
in tidy boxes and filing cabinets
pages torn from notebooks lined and unlined
papers of all colors and sizes
pinned stapled or bulldog clipped
the words stared back at us
accusing, waiting to be heard

We printed his unfinished book
sighed while collating the wordy pages
wondered why we felt so guilty
was it his guilt that we were feeling
or our own, that the words did not seem adequate?
We bound the books in heavy snobbish leather
embossed the author’s name in gold letters
and sent complimentary copies to universities
libraries, peace organizations, research institutions
to languish unread on their shelves.

Almost unburdened we donated the
filing cabinets, the cartons to a professor of contemporary history
at a lesser known university
some years later we heard that he had
Nazi sympathies, hated Jews and blacks

But we were free of our chains at last
free of the guilty shackles
It was years later that we realized
his prophecies were coming true, one by one
Global pollution, terrorism, the vanishing ozone layer
the greenhouse effect

Today we use the books to press and dry flowers
our own fragile unsung messages of hope.


©2004 Johnmichael Simon