In these times
the prophetic leaks out
of lesions in language -
sacred scripts fester
promises of slaughter
by revengeful gods
born out of the fury
of our own inner dark.
The same has hovered
over bloody battlefields
for millennia, the dead
wrapped in the flags
of countless faiths.
Meanwhile,
the Universe looks on
finding nothing of itself
in such weaponized deity.
It has a list of more
important things to do.
The great golden
In gleaming rims rolling
Upward like tolling bells
Rousing the blissful morning cells
Some lapsed in dreams e'er unfolding
Prophetic harmonies sung
By angelic or demonic tongue
Dissolving in wakes of light
Swelling ever more bright
Dispelling lingering night
From sleepy eyes shuttered tight
Midst pleading groans and dismal sighs
The golden morning bid ye arise
Pink fluff ball in the sky
Evergreens lean in for a closer look
Songbirds begin circling the puff ball
A mystical night signifying world changes
Custodians of ancient wisdom
Omens on wings of white
Symbols of transformation
Graceful watchers in flight
Harboring all the secrets
the creative and destruction
Protectors of the buffalo
Warning of the hunters
Beauty in white feathers
Mutation of genetics
Messengers of Apollo
Hauntingly prophetic
It's said that when you see one
"We'll know humanity as a whole
is shifting towards one of peace"
The white Raven
Mother Earths Soul.
Prophetic Dreams
David J Walker
I won’t be back
But I‘ll never leave
Leaving means 9
Different things
3 are true
And 2 are too
And 4 are more
Than it seems
I won’t be back
In visible form
In the spectrums
Sensual streams
The waters are clear
And the end is near
And the rest is measured
In reams
I won’t be back
Though you may perceive
That leaving is beyond
My means
Tethered in time
To each line that is mine
Anchored in
Prophetic dreams
In the Tale of Marah Abbadon
Whose bitter spirit is long gone,
Her mother was a jaded Jezebel,
Who cast out Marah wishing her in Hell.
In life she wandered bare terrane
Plagued by pestilence and murrain.
She dwelt in caves and holes in the ground,
The warmest homes she ever found.
Nothing ever relieved her woes,
Through desert heat and mountain snows.
Her lonesome life was fraught with danger.
Wherever she went she was a stranger,
Searching endlessly for a home,
But finding none, thus doomed to roam.
After dolorosa years of strife
She sought a place to end her life.
Through Jerusalem’s walls she made her way
Stumbling into Siloam’s pool that day.
A Spirit stirred the waters there.
Her heart felt lighter than the air.
It would not work; the angel told the wench
Her homesick thirst it could not quench.
A prophetic, white-robed passerby
Offered living water that shall not dry,
Blessing Marah with a place to dwell,
Forever closed to mama Jezebel.
5/2/2023
if a tree should fall and there is no one to hear it
not even the merest susurrus for a poet to capture the moment
the encomium will cease
with each slight
each rejection of the light
and acknowledgement withheld
the all encompassing existence of all
called into question
the glacier crevasses gape
to engulf
the whole
however
frozen to the core
we must
remain undaunted
on a steady bedrock of the conviction
that all existence
isn’t in vain
if we can dream it we will not fade away
like unalterable photographs from bygone eras
we are the essence
the stases
holding
reality of
all life
in the
balance
23rd April 2023
A Wisdom Download Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
3rd Place
Title changed AFTER the judging of the contest.
FLICK PROPHETIC FINGER
Knocking hard on a massive ancient gate,
Step out of a gaunt, granite building,
Leave behind its austere contents,
With wood-panelled box-seats,
Pinching sardine-tight orthodoxy's rumps,
Say farewell to enforced isolation,
Corralled within a pulpit-facing pew,
Flick prophetic finger
At sanctimonious conformity,
As I cross the widening threshold
Into a welcome world of
Confusing discovery.
Give place in me to an individual,
Questioning all from A to Z,
Finding the new pathway, opened out
To an approaching horizon. It holds
My curious gaze beyond
Present knowledge.
I know with some deeper weight of understanding,
Unhinged from the enclosed
Constriction in which I have been
A prisoner of my own choice.
Now the chains sheared off, scales
Fallen from once-blindfolded eyes,
I, flying as the uncaged bird,
Lift suddenly into free flight
On instinctive weaving
Of supple strength.
It can never be
This heart's fallacy;
True love dawning's, truly
Makes peaceable.
Unless through this word
Are touched by the Lord;
Earth, as paradise, restored
Makes believable.
Tell me of things hidden under the dust of night.
Tell me of hidden things under the dusk of light.
Reveal tomorrow as a play acted upon today.
Tell of the future as if you have played there today.
Unveil the mysteries surrounding creation,
Unravel wonders beyond my intuition.
Lay bare Earth's oldest, darkest secrets,
Awed with knowledge above written writs.
The form of light, the language of brightness,
The sigh of night, the whisper of darkness.
Hoary whiteness that crowns the horizon,
Inky blackness that surrounds Orion.
Tell me of things unknown, not forgotten,
Awe me with knowledge not forbidden
Let me hear of deep speeches long awaited
History in advance, foretold unabated.
If in dreams prophets wield prophetic power,
then prophetic power have I; for I dream
of things to come, and of acts too extreme:
the saint, the liar (in the cave's dark bower);
the flying rug, the ivory-tower
(that touches the sky like a spire, a theme
where my fate now is realized and supreme);
and, the forbidden fruit (at the crisis hour!).
Though no prophet, neither am I a fraud;
so for the skeptics who read these pages,
let them see their mystery, and so be awed:
for now are they set down for the ages,
like the prophets of old who spoke with God;
and read the scrolls composed by the sages.
. for public domain
Saints know best from many saints past,
you're only as welcome as your miracles last.
So they quickly move on with their lives for the Lord,
to live a good life when the rabble get bored.
Miracles are much like a flash in the sky,
but rain is more welcome when fields are dry.
Ground that is fallow one year in a seven,
not wasteland, but soil that's resting for Heaven.
So tend to the business of sowing the seed,
generously share harvest with those much in need.
Give the ground rest when it wearies and tires,
or suffer the wrath of the Heavenly fires.
Did you see My 'Red Sky' at morning?
Listen to the Lord's stern warning!
Is it loving to sidestep My truth,
To judge My words as uncouth?
To bow to the oppressor's greed,
For wont of material need?
While striving for earthly treasure,
Do your scales conceal true measure?
Watchmen are dissuaded to preach
About boundaries not to breach.
What My Spirit strives to restrain,
You cut His restraints to obtain.
It's all lies conceived in the mind,
Groping through life like you're blind.
You're missing My 'Red Sky' at night,
And you wonder what caused the blight.
Remove My rivals from your hearts!
They're not Sovereign, but upstarts.
There's no fear of Me in your eyes,
So you fail to discern My 'Red Sky'.
Return to Me, regain your sight,
For My judgment is now in flight!
Do not neglect 'signs of the times',
Watch for My return - anytime.
For giving My 'Red Sky' at night,
Is always your Savior's delight.
Galaxy of Crystal
Reader of star stories – far flung destinies
Enclosed within a midnight crystal dome
Filled with flecks of leftover stardust
Cosmic plane of star-crossed constellations
And dust storms of the lost transcendent light -
Clearly sees through falling astral luminaries
And hopes tossed up for the first twilight star;
A gypsy crossing galaxies of interstellar legend –
A woman with starry vision clad in nebula silk
Woven from threads of spiraling chambers -
Knocks at a door with no handle
Star princess – celestial royalty – spends the night
Leaving bits of stray star clusters
To enchant the eyes of a dream child
At the stargate of the dusky etheral.
Thank you Line for your inspiration. I missed the contest but your theme set me spinning into a celestial wonderland!
Based on reults of the 1918 pandemic
Covid could last a couple of years that's pathetic
Not written in stone
But has a life of its own
Sure hope my prediction is not authentic
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