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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Kentucky's late summer sunshine sunk deep into their skin as the boy rode on the back of his Grandfather's coppered horse, the tobacco harvest would begin soon, aromas of sweet leaf darkness were wafting in the field heat, to the big barn they bounced buoyant for the business of bushels crafted by a lineage of fearless farmers who knew the revolutions and roses of the land, a stop at the pond for water and shade would be wise, should be fine and fair, Edgar lept off being swated in the face by the horse's sweeping tail, at the water's edge he could see secrets loud in silence and wild in truth, a shadow took form at the horse's eyes it reared violently, with a screaming panic it pounced through the pond it charged across with Grandfather desperately holding the reins the breathing terror pumping through the horse's body was felt along it's spine by the old rider, after madly striking the fence it turned back to the shaken pond with a furious stride upon the earth, plunging in heavily it's forelegs buckled badly throwing Grandpa straight over into the broken water, on his back, shocked to death under blue sky the horse he raised from pony hammered him with no mercy into water pure, standing there, deaf to death, paralysed by slow motion murder, the eyes and teeth of the horse with it's mane electrified and hooves lancing is all he could see while life stopped in the sun, and then there was calm, his Grandfather's hands slowly closed into that terrible water, it would not be long before the boy would see the spirit of Grandpa Tom in the tobacco sheds, examining machinery, scrutinizing the sheafs, singing the seed songs, his spirit sight was not triggered by sudden tragedy, throughout childhood he conversed with the "playfolk" the children of eternal outdoor youth but as he grew they did not and age seemed to seperate the sense of their consanguinity, it was time to live amongst the fellow flesh to say goodbye to good ghosts, the schoolhouse was a strain on his simple soul, his mind meandered into mazes of biblical antiquity daydreaming of divine deluge, of wilderness wanderings and sermons that serve the heart, the Bible was the only book that brooked the heartbeat to heaven, by the time Edgar was thirteen he had read the Scriptures twelve times, possessed by the pedigree of passion he pledged to read them for every year of his life, the meaning of ministry pulsing in his purpose, immersed in the verse of Monoah by the clear water creek of contemplative quietude the wings of a resplendent woman swept Edgar's honest arid hair as his fingers pressed the pages of prophecy which lay upon his lap, she simply glittered like glory in the existence of true happiness she was an angel of auspicious alms come to ask the aim of his spirit to which he replied shyly to help the sick and searching find healing and headway through Christ, the angel woman declared with perfect joy that his wish would be realized as she went away with spellbinding evanescence, that night his Father would berate him for failing grammar lessons, over and over Edgar would sink into the questions and his Father the "Squire" would strike his apparent stupidity, the angel woman's voice spoke within the boy's head like violet against gray suggesting that if he'd sleep a minute with the lesson book under his head the knowledge therein would be known, when his Father woke him Edgar knew the contents as a clock knows the numbers, the "Squire" was stunned and a psychic gift had begun, Edgar Cayce discovered a terrific talent, an autohypnotic ability that allowed him to read the body of the Universe and everything in it, he became a seer of stars, in trance, his subconscious mind could communicate with any other, anywhere, the primary objective of his virtue was to provide medical "Readings" to those in earnest need of treatment, the medical expertise which he effortlessly espoused surpassed the skill of the best professionals in every conceivable field of medicine, physiology, diagnostics, pharmacology, psychology, physical therapy and so on, eventually friends and clients would implore him to explore the metaphysics of Man, to investigate ancient history and the rivets of religion, reincarnation would rise in import, Mr. Cayce would report karma is colorfully constant that Earth is a special soul port, to return to flesh is to return to rectifying flame, he remained a Christian not just in name, he found justice in Jesus and grace in goodwill, after dying at 67 in 1945 this unrefined farmboy of a 9th grade education left a legacy of 14,000 plus "Readings" that have given healing and hope to millions of human beings - J.A.B. This poem is dedicated to the life of "The Sleeping Prophet" Edgar Cayce and his faithful wife Gertrude Evans Cayce. I strongly recommend the biography, "There Is A River, The Story Of Edgar Cayce" Justin A. Bordner
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