My jester.

I have always identified with the jester.

A kind of accidental quester.

A fuddley, ‘no-fit’, kind of fool,

Who, while not born to carry ‘cool’,

Constantly gets lost in wonder

At her every bump and blunder.

When is it she will actually be

The kind of grown-up others seem to want to see!?

To me it seems illogical to try and maintain

A solid persona in this type of terrain!

No rights, no wrongs, just constant queries,

Thought processes that would make most weary.

Dodging and dancing, pretty much daily,

Tripping herself up, then laughing gaily

“Oh what a fool am I!”

But, then, she’s often treated in ways that really make me cry.

Like every other clown, in life, soon learns,

There are always ‘others’ that see the burns.

The scars from ‘bumps’, that she wears proudly,

In their, voiced opinion, far too loudly.

In innocence she exposes those who seem to enjoy the ‘twist’.

Delighted by her ‘weaknesses’, they try and enlist

the support of the crowd, as they scream

“Fall Over!”.

Then, as she clumsily regains her composure,

“Ha-ha, look at you! Naked! For all the world to see!”

Internally, they smugly crow “Thank Christ that isn’t me.”

Thank goodness for the kinder folk

Who almost get the cosmic joke

Who witness her, practically constant, messes,

And let her know, gently, the reasons, they see, for her lack of successes.

I warm to those that don’t throw stones,

Who seem to care about her bones,

Who make her cups of steaming tea,

Commend her on her honesty.

I see, though, they cannot really gauge

Just why she chooses to take the stage.

Successes do not really matter

When you live in the now and are mad as a hatter!

When that jester shakes her bells,

It shatters other’s hardened shells,

Makes it alright to bruise your knees,

Never thinking of trying to please.

So many times I process her hurt

And turn that into wholesome dirt

And from that grows all kinds of flowers,

through which she bimbles, between the showers.

No point in sharing shiny joy

With those who think that she’s just a toy.

At times I’ve lost the plot completely

Which brings me, neatly,

To.   My.    Point.

Instinct has taught us how to fall.

We’ve learned so much about it all.

While others see that hopeless jester,

That honest fool, that hopeless quester,

We only see a human ocean,

That’s constantly in tidal motion.

She and I are learning, now, to float,

No rubber ring nor crafted boat.

Buoyant based on a real ability

To float about, let it go, just feeling FREE.

She is no conscious, agenda holding, trickster,

I love my jester and have no need to fix her.

Kat Robertson (A performance poem. March 2017)

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