By Rote

This is exhaustion

This is where my mind hibernates

And my arms and legs

By rote accomplish much.

No path less traveled

Was ever tread by rote

No trails blazed by bravery

Ever made half aware.

Shock me with lightning

Make my smile frightening

Scatter the bones of the strong

Into the soil of the weak,

Inferior they rise

With nobody paying any mind.

With banners high

And sharpened spears

Remembering the pain

Throughout all the years.

Though these thoughts may abate

My soul I prostrate

Riddle me with tumors

Spread vicious rumors

Leave me torn asunder

From every past blunder.

– Vagabond Prophet

Volunteer

A volunteer from the crowd now

Step behind the shroud now

While I run you through

With steely knives.

It is plainly murder

But the crowd goes wild

As long as bright red smile

Is painted on the face.

Stay your quarrelsome tongue

While this logic you’ve clung

Listens to my explanation.

In any other scenario

You’d demand my blood too

But when I’m on the stage

And you’re in your chair

I make the rules

Understand?

– Vagabond Prophet

Okay that was weird. Thanks @josy57 for the prompt “in any other scenario.” Really don’t know where this came from…

Kernels

What good can come

From his habit of sleeplessness?

Is this your question,

Friend that ones easy.

It’s true summer is defeated

By the frozen blows of winter

Yet winter begets spring.

The ore scorched by fire

And beaten by the hammer

Turns into brilliant jewelry.

All my hobbies and interests

All of my leisure and yard work

Put on the bottom shelf

Just for a time.

This brief opportunity

To affect change in the lives

Of desperate children

With no place to rest their head,

Is worth every minute of rest

That I put to death on the altar

Of servitude.

Are you sure? Is it working?

Do your yawns create some virtue

Does your unrested mind

Really get any good work done?

You queried

Arms crossed

Smirk pulled up high

Like a flag on holiday.

In midwestern climate

Can you trust good weather

Long enough to shed

Your cynical husk?

The sunrise is majestic

Whether I’m waking

Or not yet found my bed.

It is brilliance like this

I was made to reflect

And my silver mind

Pounded into mirror

By this bludgeoning war

Of attrition will serve me well.

I care not for

The scathing mockery

For I know that through strife

I may find

The unpopped kernels

Of my genius.

– Vagabond Prophet

@josy57 Thank you for the prompt “On the bottom shelf” I enjoyed that.

Sky Wading

Late September morn

Only darkness and fog worn

Can’t see what shape

Sky thinks to take

For it’s too low

And I wade through it.

Come sun burn it up

Leave it scorched

And fling it back up

To the stars it belongs amongst.

– Vagabond Prophet

Outside the palliative care home

Walking through a descending sky

By hallowed ground

Some hope I’ve found.

Here where weakness strikes

Right where fissures

Are likely to fracture

Falling apart revealing every flaw.

Here where you only qualify

To be here if you’re dying

And only leave when you’re dead.

The doctors skill is in diagnosis,

Never treating the disease.

It’s true that given the choice

Between sugar and truth

I’ll choose truth still

The gasoline aftertaste reminding

The importance of tact,

But not in honestys stead.

But look, examine where

These trenches have led me,

The tracks my train

Of thought has traveled

Have brought me here.

I am reminded that

There are yet things that grow

In the darkest hour of night,

And even things that require

That severity of bleakness to thrive.

Though I only bring them toothbrushes,

Gloves, and bandages

That sitting on the sideline

I may help sow some seeds

For some nocturnal haunting growth

In this place so full of death.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for the prompt “Sitting on the side line.” I hope you like it.

Blue Rose

vagabondprophet:

First date I brought you a blue rose

You said nobody had ever given you one before.

A blue rose?

No.

A flower.

I couldn’t believe it,

You, my pride and joy

My flower everblooming.

I’ll spend my days being your soil,

Pruning bits that

Hinder growth.

It’ll be different for our daughter.

I’ll see to it.

One day a boy will knock for her,

Baring a flower in his hands.

Our daughter will say,

“That’s it, just one?,

Thanks but no thanks

I’ll stick with my daddy,

He knows I’m worth much more.”

– Vagabond Prophet

@delightfulharmonypoetry

Wrestle the Sun

The most skilled of cashiers

Couldn’t make change of this noise

For some quiet.

I’d wrestle the sun

To keep the night from coming

With its sinister grin

And loud taunts

That daylight may never return.

These thoughts drowned out

With songs sung in every tongue

Of good hope and love.

If your belief

Grants no reprieve

From the devil on your sleeve

Your anchor set in ground

That avoids its touch.

Leave now!

Run fast!

Take your coat

And a boat

And row right out to sea!

Rivers flow to oceans

And oceans feel the union

Deep inside themselves.

This is the answer

The remedy from cancer,

All roads don’t lead home

But all homes do have a road

Leading to them.

If you’re found with a heart

Eager for sanctuary

Having fainted exhausted in the ditch

It’s still better than having never set out.

The guide may come correct

Misguided steps but beginning is a must.

You are worth your weight in gold

Let timid souls grow bold.

– Vagabond Prophet

Hot Pipes

I’m young now but won’t always be

One day this strong back will go slack

And sag under weight of time

Will no longer bear any burden

That comes its way.

These arms like branches in winter

Will wither and stop growing fruit

As my legs like roots stop toiling

For more ground to inhabit.

My voice will no longer rush

Like church organs

Burning urgency through hot pipes

With hope for all who may listen.

My mind may writhe

And scratch at doors

Its long held keys to

Having forgotten the purpose of each.

Though it may shrivel

And lose some of it’s shine

Though I may forget even your name

I will never forget you completely.

For this poorest of memories

Must still walk down halls you tiled.

– Vagabond Prophet

@delightfulharmonypoetry

Remission

Firewood stacked in the cellar of my heart

Waiting for some rogue spark,

To make the whole thing catch,

The inferno lying in wait.

Everything takes its turn in the sky

Like the sun

Like the moon

Like my own judgement of myself.

One of those confused souls

Living vicariously through the toilet

Taking everyones shit

Except my own.

To end this marching

I just might have to

Euthanize my own legs.

Sometimes I feel like an electromagnet

With no current running through,

Having lost all of its virtue.

Unless you wanted something cold

Something hard

Something that will never

Grip you tightly.

At this particular juncture I realize

Something strange even to me,

Reality never contradicts itself

Except in the presence of hurricanes.

That the most tranquil of eyes would beget

Such a tempestuous halo dancing round it,

For cows give milk and sadness gives tears

How is it that peace births terror so strong

As to peel roofs from homes.

The typhoon that stops its spinning

To focus its efforts inwards

Inducting some insanity and rage

To that placid and torporial center,

Introduce some apocalyptic worry

To the serene eye.

This would make far more sense.

How do these coexist?

How do they share a bed

Without one taking the blanket

To let the other shiver and die?

How do black and white dance

And in their twirls and pirouettes

Not ever turn to grey?

Yet that’s what has occured in me

A rotten center amidst alien goodness

That eventually makes itself back to the center

Until it all dissipates, leaving not but calm.

Skin stretched taut over

A rib cage mast to make a sail,

Blood fills it like a gale

To push me ever onwards.

On my way one foot

In front of the other,

Trudging the road

Of happy destiny.

Though I don’t quite emit light

The disease is in remission

I’m casting a lighter shadow.

– Vagabond Prophet

– Hey @josy57 ! Thanks for the great prompt

“Casting a Lighter Shadow”.

Pounds Per Week

I am awake when I should be asleep

I am awake when I should be awake,

I save resting for the space between stanzas.

For I read these thoughts aloud

To a vast and dusty crowd

That claps and cheers me on

From the PM to the AM and back again.

I should close these eyes right now

But with stalwart rhythm this mind churns on

And the quill moves more eloquently

If I keep this blue gaze fixed

On a white page inked black.

Perpetual sleeplessness is my vocation,

Though no references save the coffee vendor

That weighs me out in pounds per week,

You should know I am a professional

And I will not burnout, for this backlog of dreams

Demands vigilance of this exact kind.

– Vagabond Prophet