Day Three #Na/GloPoWriMo

#Na/GloPoWriMo 

Day 3 Prompt

And now, last but not least, here is today’s optional prompt. In his poem, “Treasure Hunt,” Prabodh Parikh brings us a refreshingly different view of what being a poet is like – that is, if you grew up on the cultural notion of poets being wan and ethereal, or ill and doomed. Parikh’s boisterous pirate of a poet might be an “unreliable” character, but seems like he’d be the life of any party, and quite satisfied with his existence. Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be. Perhaps your poem will feature a very relaxed brain surgeon, or a farmer that hates vegetables. Or maybe you have a poetical alter-ego of your own, who flies a non-wan, treasure-hunting flag with pride.

Dear readers and fellow poets,

I'm posting late today but glad to have made it. Thank you for stopping by. I look forward to your comments.

Thank you. 

A commitment-shy Sufi

'How about God then',
the Sufi, hell bent on digging turnips
in a snow storm asked his master
(who for the purposes of mystery has asked to be kept anon)

'What about Him?' the Master said.
'Why not Her?' the Sufi protested, taking a break from
tugging at the bulbous root.
The Master gurgled deeply into his sheesha
and said, 'What about God?'

'Lost the bloody plot', the Sufi looked up at the blue, blue sky.
'Language!' his Master reprimanded, knotting his hand spun khadi
scarf exactly like Clint Eastwood did in a movie once.
'On this path my son, we surrender to the beloved', the Master rallied.

'How long must I wait?' The Sufi said.
'As long as it takes.' His master patted his back.
'How will the beloved know where to find me?' the Sufi said.
'He’ll know. He found me.' The Master assured.

'It was a different time. Back then the oceans and the rivers were clean.
And no matter what language, what colour of skin
you were heard, you were seen', the Sufi said.
'We are seekers, not makers of make-believe.' The master said.
'This world has always been one part good, one part obscene.'

'You mean to say babies were butchered before?
That there were genocide and gore?
That while the powerless bled, the powerful held on to even more?
That while reason slept, common sense turned farcical, became a folklore?'

'What do you think?' The master smiled his beatific smile.
'I’m not sure. It doesn’t make sense.' The Sufi said.
'It is what it is, my son.' The master proclaimed.
'I think I’ll need another technique to uproot this brassica

or should I be like you said—it is what it is—and not worry
if we go hungry today, tomorrow, for evermore?'