May 24, 2016 by phicks2012
I suspect that we’ve all met someone — at least once and probably multiple times in our lives — who appeared on our horizons seeming “just too good to be true”, and turning out to be “just too good to be true”, right?
Such people tend to materialize just when we need a friend, or a lover, or a helper, or an able employee, or an expert (like a financial advisor), or a specialist (like a contractor), and we really, really want to believe that we’ve gotten lucky. Rarely, we discover that we HAVE gotten lucky. Imagine that!!
Unfortunately, some people who talk big and start off strong (or perfect) just aren’t. Some are outright con-artists, and others simply make promises on which they can’t deliver or because they are really all talk and are blowing copious amounts of smoke up our…orifices. 😉
The verse below is less about the really “professional” con-artists — the ones you’d like to see thrown UNDER the jail with toxic Stachybotrys spores and brown recluse spiders — and more about the people who talk big, come in swinging, and then turn out to be more wind and flash than lasting substance…bless their hearts. 😉
Flash in the Pan
Sweeping in like a storm, full of lighting and roar,
With crescendos that deafen and flashes that blind,
From the land of Wherever he raged heretofore
We may mark his arrival expecting to find
That the storm clouds will open and fill up the streams,
With the vital rains quenching the thirst of the land,
Like a blessed revival. No one ever dreams
That the thunder may herald a flash in the pan.
So he tells to us tales of his exploits before,
When his name it was legend, and folk stood in awe,
Of the feats he accomplished, and counting the score
He regales us with stories, admitting no flaw.
And we choose to believe him, and welcome him in,
And then shoulder to shoulder beside him we stand,
Having faith in his fictions and calling him kin,
Never knowing he is but a flash in the pan.
For the thunder and lightning may awe and impress,
When we stand in the meadow atop a tall hill,
Where the clashes are deep and the squalls coalesce,
In a sky flashing bolts from which power should spill.
But a tale without substance is storm without rain,
And such droplets as fall quickly sink in the sand,
Never reaching the river to nourish the plain,
Rather fading away like a flash in the pan.
[16 April, A.S. L, 2016]