They called him the dosser.
A blessed man with a crooked,
bent and wobbly wishbone of wire,
held tight in clenched fist.
He fossicks spellbound
for water hiding deep below
in the groundwater.
His fingers compel the water
sleeping fifty feet down
to hear his call,
and echo a reply forthwith,
with a signal on the wire tap.
On some hot dry afternoon,
dumb with drought.
If he lets you watch him,
you'll see the wire tremble
ever so slightly,
and swing to one side.
Often he'll backtrack,
reset the grip,
cover the same ground,
to see if the quiver,
and swing repeats.
Then, 'X' marks the spot
for the farmer to dig.
The water diviner knows not why
he has this insight to feel
the presence of water beneath his feet.
It was pure happenstance that
he learned he had the gift when
a true believer gave him a try.
Perchance, you too
may have the diviner's gift.
To conger the wellsprings
of water deep within.
To reveal its
secret whereabouts,
with a wiggle of wire,
held tight in a believer's fist.
Born of cosmic particles of light
she is beauty beyond imagining.
When she clasps her hands
in contemplation, suns are born,
the moon rides high on her shoulders.
Diviner of the universe, boundless
power born of the goodness
that encompasses all and endless.
When the diviner reaches out for truth
And winds of fury hurry through the plains,
The youth of summer loses all her gains
Though love’s caresses linger long and smooth.
When time is lost at silly childhood’s will
Or gained again at life’s untimely end,
The heart is keen old sorrows to amend
Though all this fades and grudges come to nil.
When all seems lost, though much has been regained
By toil and sweat or at the will of chance,
The sternest hero’s heart is piercèd by the lance
Of old remorse, confessed anew or feigned.
When joy stands still and anger rises mute
Against the schemes put forth across its way,
The lot of man seems dull and merely play
To those who hear the graveyard’s solemn lute.
When the diviner moves unheard until
The joy of youth is but an old man’s pain,
The bards speak out downwind at will:
The shine of life is washed away by rain.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
Diviner of Pain
Tell me, artful diviner of pain,
I know so well your grim refrain
Your ugly mask, your sneering scowl
Your twisted knife, your jeering howl...
A deceiver with a poisoned dart
Why do you sit so easily
Upon my heart?
Chocolate Chip cookies, is there anything finer
As a bedtime snack, there ain't nuthin' diviner
'Cept maybe a steak
Or a piece of cake
Hey don't blame me, had to make it a rhymer
© Jack Ellison 2015
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