The voice like an airhorn
buffets the country
with meaningless sounds,
the swaggering gait of ignorance
futile against mounting crises.

Up has long been down
in the prison yard of violence,
combing the shadows for answers
while real light lays beyond,
outside their cold encampments
where seekers rest in moonlight,
sharpening their tools against the dark,
an old magus among them, silent.

He watches the stars in their procession,
their long orbit slowly changing.
Learning from the night, patient with the day,
the season of reckoning draws close,
the time of waiting soon to be over.

There is only one earth,
one grail that unites them.
They gather their strength
as the late hours pass
while his eyes look to the east
for the dawn that surely comes.

 

photo by Patrick Orleman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

15 Responses

  1. Don, now if we could channel some of this intensity into the Observer. Thanks for this fine poem.

  2. Wow, Don. This strikes a chord of connection in me, at the dawning of this new day – as the silvery light gives way to a violet glow in the East, to the signs and sounds of sunrise. Most beautiful because it is filled with living meaning now.

  3. Love never fails. Impatience creeps into awareness, but I rein myself in, that I may coordinate my want with a larger whole.

  4. The prophet is coming through you. The inward turn of the mind/heart is getting clearer, stronger and focused with a strong arrow to pierce the heart of the night. Thank you.

  5. Indeed, “the seekers” must “sharpen their tools” with the purification of the heart! And a deep passion for Truth!

  6. I hear the fire of the Fighting Irish Don combining with the sage master. I’ve been following your work and loving it. Keep up the wonderful work.

  7. Another great reminder – the “meaningless sounds” and “swaggering gait of ignorance” of the mind-gone-mad are increasingly revealing themselves as so, with the aid of current affairs and social media such as Twitter! Thanks Don.

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