Prophecy Poet

A poet read scripture, off the tongue as it’s written,
A poet see vision, through eyes as it’s scripted,
The poet, the prophet, the keeper of many,
Hold close a low breath, to deceive the ears plenty,

A touch emblematical, felt with a word,
Softer than not, no emtion but pure,
While senses are many, often left to ignore,
Ancient wisdom, a truth, from within you’ll find more


8 thoughts on “Prophecy Poet

  1. The older I get, the more I find that wisdom does truly come from within. Love the photograph!

  2. Not only are you a talented poet, but an excellent photographer as well! That photograph looks like a painting. Just gorgeous.

  3. Wonderful poem. I do love the las line, and especially the words:
    “from within you’ll find more”.
    Thank you for sharing, and kind regards.

  4. Sometimes a child will stare out of a window
    for a moment or an hour—deciphering
    the future from a dusky summer sky.

    Does he imagine that some wisp of cloud
    reveals the signature of things to come?
    Or that the world’s a book we learn to translate?

    And sometimes a girl stands naked by a mirror
    imagining beauty in a stranger’s eyes
    finding a place where fear leads to desire.

    For what is prophecy but the first inkling
    of what we ourselves must call into being?
    The call need not be large. No voice in thunder.

    It’s not so much what’s spoken as what’s heard—
    and recognized, of course. The gift is listening
    and hearing what is only meant for you.

    Life has its mysteries, annunciations,
    and some must wear a crown of thorns. I found
    my Via Dolorosa in your love.

    And sometimes we proceed by prophecy,
    or not at all—even if only to know
    what destiny requires us to renounce.

    O Lord of indirection and ellipses,
    ignore our prayers. Deliver us from distraction.
    Slow our heartbeat to a cricket’s call.

    In the green torpor of the afternoon,
    bless us with ennui and quietude.
    And grant us only what we fear, so that

    Underneath the murmur of the wasp
    we hear the dry grass bending in the wind
    and the spider’s silken whisper from its web.

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