Music and Texts of Gary Bachlund



The Resist Dance

                  The resist dance can be quiet, passive, not even sabotage.  Rather it's a yawn, a stroll away, not hid by camouflage, that whispers loss of interest, singly desensitized. It's bored by all the fuss, and needs not to be organized.  Rather it's individual, quite solitary, lone, not oft acting out, and not oft overblown.
                  None can count its numbers, it resists even that, as it resists great powers, the state, the bureaucrat.  It wanders off, takes not up arms, but votes with walking feet, but not in herds collective with their collective bleat.  Scattered to the winds, slipping chains and cares, this resist dance is such as catches many unawares.
                  Nebulous, without center, diffuse and hard to gauge, the resist dance small and silent does deftly disengage.  Attention's lost to those who'd spotlight bright themselves, once surging crowds diminishing like vanishing, mythic elves. This resist dance cannot be countered by powers or princedoms great for with that yawn, steps stroll away, as powers meet blind fate.
                  The great and grand will stand atop an emptying field of dreams, as the resist dance without leaders corrects as it redeems.  It partners with a patience born of long necessity, softly, silently yawning, lackadaisical in great gravity.  None can counter its numbers, it resists even that, as it ever resists great powers and each puffed aristocrat.
                  Royalty always tries to rise on the urging of greed and fame, and rage against those who'd stand against their aim.  It's then a resist dance in meter proud and broad, begins its slow procession, a silent confession even when outlawed.  One and two, not ever crowds, retire to over there, as all the aristocracies cry out, "this is unfair."  The ordinary are so free, when freely they look away, and leave the high and mighty sometimes to hang and sway upon the misery halyards erected by their hand, directing many little men to wander off, unplanned.  Whither, why and wherefore sing a trio's tune, as the resist dance gathers to freedom's soothing croon.  Wither, why and wherefore, indeed, blow hot and cold, but always, ever in the dance, one need never be too bold.  Just go away towards justice, which rankles, irritates the lordly, as the mighty, lords of grand estates.  But when the walkaway steps it out, it's gone, gone, gone away.  As this happens, the mighty lords lose their mighty sway.  The resist dance is too quiet, passive, not even sabotage.  Hear it's yawn, it slips away, no need of camouflage.


Copyright © 2013 by Gary Bachlund