Skittish of Prophetic Noise
‘We played wedding songs,
and you didn’t dance,
so we played funeral songs,
and you didn’t weep’
Luke 7:32b
Scribes and Pharisees, lean in.
They lean away, their fingertips at play,
nimble, with no paper cut. The pipers toot
out a jig and they scowl; then a dirge
and they skirt. Skittish of prophetic noise,
they amble for their toys and go on
walkabouts to gather up the fish
before the net goes out. Digits, hush,
or like the dastardly, wiggle about
underhandedly.
Scribes and Pharisees, at the skirt
of the Savior, don’t recognize
his mild behavior; they criticize.
Whereas, one woman chances to believe,
to receive power to be healed of her infirmity;
Pharisees harrumph to repeal - “not on the Sabbath!”
The scroll rolls out like a red carpet, snatched back up.
It is only for the designated driver to enforce.
And enforce with force, he does; take his pill.
Chill while each stays blind, lame, deaf, demonic.
The wise that hide their eyes in Jesus’ hem,
go left and right, on the narrow. Miracles
and forgiveness of hidden rose petals.
Heaven is dung to those who would rather cling
to popularity, religiosity, to their perfect life.
And what will they have at the end of the dusty trail.
No one to listen to them. Will every day be like a Sabbath,
where they aren’t allowed to pick up their mat
and escape through heaven’s gate? Yet, they shall see
the walk of their enemies, piled high smiles, the light
before darkness, fire and brimstone, hell
to be exact. Never again will they catch a glimpse
of what they lost, though they try to unscramble
their minds, lost to forever time, without a save.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
