Potion in a mason jar, crouched patient,
poised ready to explode, silent prophet 
of frozen time and slow forgetfulness.
Fluid crystal shadowed with bluish tint
formed and distilled into being in some
secret green leaf tinged hollow protected by 
bewhiskered men with shotguns cradled close,
clad in overalls. What wickedness or 
goodness prescribed? What mad pursuit? What great 
struggle to escape? What forbidden ecstasy?

Ah, happy, happy boughs! That hide the still 
and keep the revenuers blind and lost 
in the shades and shadows of the green hills. 
Witch man! beneath the trees, you cannot leave 
your post until the mason jars are filled. 
Distiller! never, never can you partake 
before the deed is done. Mad sorcerer, 
forever brewing bliss surrounded by 
copper tubing and metal tubs. Hard work
helps the heart grow steady and strong. Do not 
despair bliss waits wrapped in a Mason jar. 

Who are these coming to the revelry?
To what secret spot, jester, do you lead 
these innocents clad in boots and blue jeans
impatient for a night of magic bliss?
A coon dog baying at the moon is sweet, 
but a fiddle touched by madness is more; 
Fiddler! Drink up! Taste the mystic potion 
that fogs the brain and wets the parching tongue
and cools the fiery forehead. Bewitch the
ear loud and long with spirit tinged ditties
until bodies sway and feet stomp in time.
 
What little town by river or sea shore, 
or peaceful village nestled in the dark  
is emptied of its folk come Saturday
night by the siren call of flickering 
forbidden dreams trapped in a mason jar? 
Little town, where are your proud pickup trucks
with gun racks in the dusty back windows?
Only the lightening bugs and whip-poor-wills 
are witness to your empty streets and roads 
that lie quiet under the summer stars.


Mason jar, humble attitude! with clear 
and simple form, beneath the forest sky
and down the hidden path; You wait silent 
and ready with patient piety, for the 
sweet nectar of forgetfulness: Cold Fire!
When old age bends the bones and shivers the 
hand and a rocking chair on the front porch
is all that remains of life you will bring 
solace and remind us that all will turn
to dust and beauty is truth, truth beauty.

                                                            October 2016

(Inspired by Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44477/ode-on-a-grecian-urn

I wrote this poem when I was taking a creative writing workshop at Johnson County Community college. The assignment was to write a parody of something. Parodies are supposed to be comedic or even mocking but It was not my intention here to be either although going from a high brow Grecian urn to a very down to earth mason jar full of moonshine might be funny or even mocking.

I just loved the layers of description in the original poem and tried to keep that cadence and beat and of course the ending; “beauty is truth, truth beauty.”

You can decide if it is funny or mocking to you. In any case I hope you enjoy the poem. It was fun to write; to find the words and word images that paint a very different picture from Keats original yet keep the magic of the poem.