But Jesus, said unto them, “A prophet is not without honour, but in his own country, and among his own kin, and in his own house.” (Mark 6:4, KJV)
What kind of gloomy muse
Would animate
Such poetry
When life goes on
As it seems it always has?
But has it?
And who are these
Literary portenders of doom
Who bother so much about
A black swan
Suddenly
In the middle of a parade
Beneath a pale sun
Hung above a striped sky?
What might they already know of
Two-thousand-year-old prophecies
Concerning civilizations in decay,
The news of modern parallels
Showing up with increasing frequency
In today’s headlines
For those with eyes to see?
Is it the sounds of war here and afar
Grinding closer and more demanding
That inspire such warnings?
Certainly, these are not
The sensible poets who
Grace the insides of
Flowery greeting cards with their
Lovely words
Stacked on the rounder at the A&P
Next to the cupcakes
With sprinkles
In ordinary time.
But poets who scratch hasty verse
On available scraps
With trembling hands
To then hide in some muddy hole
Or crack in an attic wall, safe,
They pray,
As future testimonies
To jackboots, hate,
And culture vultures.
Poems we never want
To read, write, or
Remember
Yet
But the kind we must
Now.
For the ragged words repeat
That the good guys
Don’t always win
But all write
Their own history.
And we curate them only
In gentler times when
Such witnesses
To mankind’s wickedness
Are unearthed
By archeologists
And truth-seekers
Lest we think
All this
Won’t happen again
To us
In such a time as this.
Those with ears to hear
Pack their spiritual bags,
Warn,
Occupy where they may.
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