Love and Passion

Dear Love And Passion
I mourn the fashion
when you were the rage.

Love And Passion
Bob Komives

You said, "love our neighbors; 
You said, "make love;
You said, "don't make war."
You said we were tied in knots, up-tight, inside and 
     out, unable to know what it's like to be human.
You wanted the best for us all,
—work and play for the best—
and if we got less,
if we got the worst,
then, with passion
and with love,
let's mourn
and celebrate our mourning,
for that too is to be human.

Yes, there were arrogance and excess;
we made an occasional mess when you were the rage.

Some people wanted to be loved without loving,
to make love without giving.
Others conveniently forgot about peace.
But I think I remember
that your message was clear:
"accept ourselves;
  accept each other;
  work and play for a dream that includes us all;
  do these with love and with passion."
Amidst all those -isms that brought us so much lying 
     and killing you refused to imprison your message
     in a dogma.
Yet, you encouraged those who pursued other -isms,
one, erotic but loving,
one, passive but passionate,
one, simply human.

Now, is it an eon or an age
since you were the rage
and you held your head up high?
For so long it has been so different.

Today, for your universal love we get a kind of family
     in a fuzzy painting that maybe we could see better if 
     we wore the right prescription over our eyes.
For your acceptance of amorous passion we get a 
     passion for hate—a passion that would dispense
     with those who are different and with those who 
     just disagree.
But, they, whom we hate, hate us equally.
We hate them for that.
For your fun and your play we get games of deadly 
     embrace in which hated and hated try to win one 
     before supper.
For your sharing of need and plenty we get greed for 
     what we want. For what we want is what we need,
     and what we need we may get, and what we get 
     makes us better.
If we do not try to get we have a defect in character.

Your innocent way gets all the blame for today,
in case you haven't heard.

We must now deal with a real disease that can kill us 
     for making love.
You taught us to think of mutual pleasure.
Now, we think of our personal safety.
Pleasure and joy are slightly out of fashion.
Sex is still in.
It gives us topics and teases for sales and for politics,
but it is bad again.
If we cannot be alone, then, for god's sake, let's marry 
     and have but one partner and then pray that one of 
     us does not twist our love into abuse.
If we happen to find our neighbor abused or otherwise 
     bleeding, then, for safety's sake, for blame's sake,
     stand back; call an ambulance.
This does not feel right.
You said,
"it is right only if it feels right ," but to quote you today 
     is a crime.
Now, we say:
"if it feels wrong it may still be legal; they probably 
     won't sue us anyway; and we can find a verse
     assigned to god that says it's right."

How has this happened?
We hear that you are to blame for it all.
Are you?
Your official name is now Lust And Desire.
Most folks just call you Irresponsible.
Are you to blame?
I hope not.
You were so positive.
You liked us.
You liked our possibilities.
You left suburbia to move into the city and out to the 
     country where we noticed each other.
No one seems to notice us anymore.
No one seems to like us anymore.
A few of us like some of us, but you were the last one 
     to like us all.
None of us seems to like where we are going, but we 
     are all sure that another automobile and a bigger 
     refrigerator will make our journey nicer.
Our children are now our passengers.
We take them everywhere they have to go,
but we doubt that they will be glad they went.
Do you remember when we went about chanting,
"there is no free lunch!"?
Well, everyone remembers those words,
yet few seem to understand what they mean.
I remember a chant:
"liberty, life, pursuit of happiness!"
I think you called them free love,
but my memory is vague.
I don't remember that I defended you.
There were so many others
who defended you so well.
Now, if I were to try,
I am not sure anyone would listen—many, because 
     they despise you, most, because they have 
     forgotten.
I remember —just enough.
I remember your visit just enough to want another.

I hope sincerely, dear Love And Passion,
that if perhaps you can return to fashion
you come within my dwindling stock of more days.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1994 :: Love and Passion :: ,9411