“The Bearded Prophet”
I.
“This Dumb Hillbilly has a few more things up
It’s sleeve and it’ll make a go of every one before it
Rolls
over.”
We all say things like that to fill the dull hours
And only we know we mean it. I’ve seen only
A handful
Give up before they’re really beat. Clock
Rings out the hours. I’m used to insomnia.
That’s
when
The images creep in, like a hall of mirrors
Until the screen rolls with inertia, nausea, and
I want to
Scream “there are too many images here!”
That’s when he laughs – his cock-eyed smile
On
backwards.
“What is it you’re afraid of seeing, girl?”
“A golden ball corroded. A dream beyond reaching.”
I
breathe.
He laughs and I know that I will
See it.
II.
Looking through my small window on the world:
A crockpot boiling over and unattended, I am
Drawn within.
It
is a nightmare from which
We cannot wake alone – O, Scream, in you there
Is only surface relief,
Like
veneer that cracks
Under the first test of strength. Tinsel cover
Crinkled to a wad.
Don’t
examine. Don’t investigate. Don’t question.
They encourage numb credulity: on our knees
We pray to whom they say
And
fold hope like
Origami: the paper bird can fly at will and
Examine and investigate and question
Until
it’s blue
In the face. It is companion to the bearded
Prophet who still totes his sign:
“The
End of the World
Is Near.” From whom we turn away when
We pass. With no other excuse than that
They
told us to.
III.
Strip-mines open above us like deserts on top of
Green mountains, like beacons for the eyes, like wounds
That we all carry, eyes brimming over the weight of the
world.
My grandmother’s blind neighbor used to visit, sit
Pensive in the living room and touching our faces gently,
Eagerly, taking in every inch, saying she could “see” how
Much we’d grown, the frustration of it on her tongue
Like spittle clinging.
The general feeling worldwide was embodied there.
Anger ready to break violent (gives no relief) like
Thunderstorms over Indiana. We sway like a field
Of corn – helpless and terrified. When will the
Gales be finished and blown out like our hearts?
Don’t breathe – just wait – I’m looking up into
The hail, praying faster than my lips can keep
Up with. Hope resides in higher places and
I reach for it – my limbs feel like they’re separating.
It’s there, but I can’t reach it tonight – frustration
Like spittle clinging. Maybe tomorrow
My hope will cling and grow.
IV.
The sagging line of grey bodies – mankind –
Knowing no one cares beyond a glance.
This is the era of pain – stampeding pain –
We stand guarded, still crushed and overwhelmed.
Everyone is wounded; it festers up like a canker sore,
And we’re always looking for the antibiotic cream,
We are like herbicided trees – everything
Eight-feet and down shriveled brown, uglied, and
Rendered unpalatable. So where do you get off
Judging? Myself – I cling to the bearded prophet
Who only of us carries hope – he is my
Sanity, stability. Slippery heart is for
Adhesive hands, if those exist. Top that
With what you call remedy: a laughingstock.
V.
I met you underneath the leaf-out redbud tree
By
appointment.
You
sat cross-legged in the grass
And the earth framed your face. You were heavy
As
creation
In
your conversation – too loaded
To be comfortable. “The problem with the world today is
Its
godlessness.”
You
decided. I had to
Agree while I fumbled with the leaf I found on
The
ground
And
studied its veins like
A roadmap to the inner soul of the world, praying
It would
Come
to more than greed.
I’m not sure it’s always good to lose your girlish
Notions
And
I was snatching at the
Remnants of mine. You wore the set expression of
Death.
“We’ll
show them the errors
Of their ways. We’ll bring God to them.”
I said.
You
sat there unmoved,
Your stare fixed as if you had not heard, so I
Made up
My
own sign to march
With in time. “The End of the World Is Near.”
-Sabne Raznik
From "Following Hope" (Xlibris, 2007)
