Sleepless Angels
I think the angels lie awake
Holding breath in doubt,
I’ve wondered why before
I think I’ve figured out.
They see some with plenty
But still refuse to give,
To so many in squalor
To just be able to live.
A world with poison in its kiss
And daggers in its eyes
Venom on its lips
And fire in its skies.
The angels wake to nightmares
Too often they weep,
Though these days not much better
They all pray for sleep.
Dreams turn into terrors
As murders seen as choice
They cry and wonder why
The innocent haven’t voice.
We neglect the good God
Until we turn for worst,
We’ve forgotten he’s jealous
It makes saints hearts burst.
The angels cry hot tears
Our God wants us more,
We’ve put him in the corners
When he should be in our core.
They cry at our rebellion
And because we disobey,
They choke on tears
When we run astray.
They stay awake in sadness
When sun shines on our plain,
Because we still waste the land
For which the lamb was slain.
– Vagabond Prophet
– Found this one in an old journal. I wrote this over ten years ago yikes I’m getting old.
Tag: spilled words
Sleepless Angels
I think the angels lie awake
Holding breath in doubt,
I’ve wondered why before
I think I’ve figured out.
They see some with plenty
But still refuse to give,
To so many in squalor
To just be able to live.
A world with poison in its kiss
And daggers in its eyes
Venom on its lips
And fire in its skies.
The angels wake to nightmares
Too often they weep,
Though these days not much better
They all pray for sleep.
Dreams turn into terrors
As murders seen as choice
They cry and wonder why
The innocent haven’t voice.
We neglect the good God
Until we turn for worst,
We’ve forgotten he’s jealous
It makes saints hearts burst.
The angels cry hot tears
Our God wants us more,
We’ve put him in the corners
When he should be in our core.
They cry at our rebellion
And because we disobey,
They choke on tears
When we run astray.
They stay awake in sadness
When sun shines on our plain,
Because we still waste the land
For which the lamb was slain.
– Vagabond Prophet
– Found this one in an old journal. I wrote this over ten years ago yikes I’m getting old.
Balsa Wood
If I could remake you
Out of balsa wood
Would I?
You’d be lighter
Yet strong,
Easily take flight.
The wind would push
Against your wings
And caress your face.
Ascension, descension,
Thrown by the carelessness
Of the air and the sky.
Letting every splinter
Alter your course,
Dancing on the map.
Would you even return,
Fight the current
To come back to me.
I see you in the flesh
And swear
You’re something better
Could I set you free?
Free of the land
And free of me.
Knots and imperfections
Same as now,
But you would fly.
You belong
High above me,
A distant speck.
I can’t make this choice
I’m selfish in my love,
What say You?
Wind filled wingspan?
Or me, simply me,
Pink tongue, white teeth.
I’ll be yours
To hold and kiss,
To wriggle against.
I know it’s a poor choice.
I’ve always ruffled
One too many feathers.
So which is it?
The clouds,
Cotton and dewy.
Or me, simply me
I’ll hold you close
And love you tenderly.
If you wish
I’ll remake you
Out of balsa wood
But know that if
The gale proves too much,
You may return to me
I’d make you safe again
Peeling back every ring
Of that lovely balsa wood.
– Vagabond Prophet
Mercury
Rise up! Like mercury! In this climate, in this climate
Slow down, like traffic stalled, in this city, in this city
No more talking, engines running, let’s go walking down the street.
It’s just a block and we’ve both got ten toes on two pairs of feet.
We’ve got to burn the clutch and grind the gears and stall the car for my waking fears
Turn it all off
Rise up! Like mercury! In this climate, in this climate
Slow down, like traffic stalled, in this city, in this city
All this asphalt,
it is my fault. Turn the paving stone into bricks for homes
There’s no time to idle in the queue
Burning burning
Harness the sun or the wind instead
The earth is
Yearning yearning
For us to shut it all down
Let’s shut it all down
Rise up! Like mercury! In this climate, in this climate.
Slow down, like traffic stalled, in this city, in this city
– Vagabond Prophet
– Third song, not super happy with it but I hope you like it all the same.
Unenlightening
I can hear it off the eaves
Drip drip drip.
Distant coyotes,
Yip yip yip.
The darkness and fog
Combine and decide,
Unenlightening.
Tonight we unenlighten.
The rain comes quicker
And thicker than before,
Making soil so fertile
As to be barren.
One dewy drop
Says to another,
“We’re so heavy, full of wet,
Tonight let’s unenlighten.”
That’s when I start to feel,
Along with tobacco smoke
Swirling in my mind,
I’m being unenlightened.
Flipping through your pages
Traditions get unraveled.
With your gold gilded edges,
The unenlightening is frightening.
Contradicting every wisdom
That I’ve ever known.
You put your trust in vagrants,
Rather than royalty.
You talked to strangers
Befriended cheats,
Trusted prostitutes,
Beguiling in the streets.
So I’ll do it I’ll commit,
To break the mold,
To be an idiot,
To become unenlightened.
Rain’s just pouring now,
I’ve just learned up is down,
Meaning we’re all drowning.
I’m the only one who knows.
Thank God for unenlightening.
– Vagabond Prophet
Solitary Refinement Chapter 14
Dear Joshua December 2nd 2017
I’ve never really been artistically gifted. Stick figures is all I could ever do. However lately I’ve been finding myself wishing I had paints, maybe watercolours? I like the way that the colours bleed into one another.
I once saw a graphic novel where all the people and structures were sketched in pen or pencil, solid black lines, and then the colour was all filled in with watercolours. And things like trees and clouds were watercolours too. I liked how the black line told me that this is where that object ends, and the paint suggested otherwise as it bled past the penciled boundaries just a little bit. As if to make the whole image share the page, and share the viewers attention. It was the first time I really paid much attention to the style and medium of the pieces; asking questions like, “why did the artist do it that way? that’s so unusual.” In the end the strongest feeling I got was this idea that every person extends beyond their body just a little bit to colour the world around them. Sometimes if I squint I can see it still. Nina she blurred everything pink around her. Alister orange because of his sunny disposition, his creativity so boundless that the world is created anew every time he wakes. Kal leaks grey, and I don’t know what colour bleeds out of me and I’m not about to ask anybody either.
If I were to paint what it looks like in here I would run out of grey before I touched any of the good colours. I remember learning in stories about how the world came to be, and no matter which one you listened to they were always so colourful. In the Christian story God created everything with just his words and then it happened. Trees, roosters, the seas, everything. Other stories have mother earth and father sky, so many different stories but they are all common in being vividly colourful. Rich blues and delicate yellows, royal purples and deep greens. I really miss seeing the expansive and rich diversity of the outside world.
When God creates it’s colourful. When man creates, it’s grey and monochromatic. This place is built by men, for men, because of what men have done and none of it is beautiful or worth a second glance.
The more and more I get scared about Kal doing something to me the more I wish I was on the outside. Even if it was to do something like clean the gutters. Scooping the mucky browns from above the dewy green of the grass is still so much better than being here.
I realized recently that I don’t know how I would react if I was cornered by him. If my back was against the wall and nobody was there to help me. Would I just let him hurt me and hope it’s over soon? Would I shout and scream hoping somebody came? Would I try to run or fight. Hopefully I never have to find out what will happen in that kind of situation. I like to think I might be able to fight him off until a guard came to stop him. I’ll need to find a weapon I can keep on me or hidden under my bed or something. It seems crazy that I’ve been in prison for almost six months and I’m yet to find out what kind of person I am in crisis.
It won’t be that way forever. I can’t keep counting on Ziggy or Trevor or even Mark to always be there to make sure I don’t get hurt. A person as scared of Kal as I am, I need to know what I’ll do when I’m in a situation where I have to protect myself. I could maybe find a weapon. I’ll figure it out after Christmas. Right now I’ve been working so much when I’m not in my cooking program to try and get Christmas presents, I don’t know what I’ll get yet for the kids. If I need your help again I’ll let you know. Thanks for listening to all of my random thoughts.
Unenlightening
I can hear it off the eaves
Drip drip drip.
Distant coyotes,
Yip yip yip.
The darkness and fog
Combine and decide,
Unenlightening.
Tonight we unenlighten.
The rain comes quicker
And thicker than before,
Making soil so fertile
As to be barren.
One dewy drop
Says to another,
“We’re so heavy, full of wet,
Tonight let’s unenlighten.”
That’s when I start to feel,
Along with tobacco smoke
Swirling in my mind,
I’m being unenlightened.
Flipping through your pages
Traditions get unraveled.
With your gold gilded edges,
The unenlightening is frightening.
Contradicting every wisdom
That I’ve ever known.
You put your trust in vagrants,
Rather than royalty.
You talked to strangers
Befriended cheats,
Trusted prostitutes,
Beguiling in the streets.
So I’ll do it I’ll commit,
To break the mold,
To be an idiot,
To become unenlightened.
Rain’s just pouring now,
I’ve just learned up is down,
Meaning we’re all drowning.
I’m the only one who knows.
Thank God for unenlightening.
– Vagabond Prophet
Another Scotch
When the little hand hits twelve
On the face of my watch,
I’ll get off this chair
And pour another scotch.
Yellow and sweet
In a vicious kind of way,
Taking down fences
Ferrel words at end of day.
In the morning it’s coffee
I’ll be electrically afflicted
I bounce between these tonics
When my words are constricted.
The right words never come
My mind held on a scale,
Swatted like a horsefly
Tossed by the gale.
Buzzing energetic,
All business and astute,
Or brilliant in my torpor
But wordless as a brute.
This erratic crazed ballet
Doesn’t really help,
Should make better choices,
Kale, beets, and kelp
If my habits are nonsensical
If you could call me crazy,
I’m halfway to genius
At least I’m not lazy.
– Vagabond Prophet
– Not going to lie, I was trying to write something else and it wasn’t working so I wrote this about writers block..
Solitary Refinement Chapter 14
Dear Joshua December 2nd 2017
I’ve never really been artistically gifted. Stick figures is all I could ever do. However lately I’ve been finding myself wishing I had paints, maybe watercolours? I like the way that the colours bleed into one another.
I once saw a graphic novel where all the people and structures were sketched in pen or pencil, solid black lines, and then the colour was all filled in with watercolours. And things like trees and clouds were watercolours too. I liked how the black line told me that this is where that object ends, and the paint suggested otherwise as it bled past the penciled boundaries just a little bit. As if to make the whole image share the page, and share the viewers attention. It was the first time I really paid much attention to the style and medium of the pieces; asking questions like, “why did the artist do it that way? that’s so unusual.” In the end the strongest feeling I got was this idea that every person extends beyond their body just a little bit to colour the world around them. Sometimes if I squint I can see it still. Nina she blurred everything pink around her. Alister orange because of his sunny disposition, his creativity so boundless that the world is created anew every time he wakes. Kal leaks grey, and I don’t know what colour bleeds out of me and I’m not about to ask anybody either.
If I were to paint what it looks like in here I would run out of grey before I touched any of the good colours. I remember learning in stories about how the world came to be, and no matter which one you listened to they were always so colourful. In the Christian story God created everything with just his words and then it happened. Trees, roosters, the seas, everything. Other stories have mother earth and father sky, so many different stories but they are all common in being vividly colourful. Rich blues and delicate yellows, royal purples and deep greens. I really miss seeing the expansive and rich diversity of the outside world.
When God creates it’s colourful. When man creates, it’s grey and monochromatic. This place is built by men, for men, because of what men have done and none of it is beautiful or worth a second glance.
The more and more I get scared about Kal doing something to me the more I wish I was on the outside. Even if it was to do something like clean the gutters. Scooping the mucky browns from above the dewy green of the grass is still so much better than being here.
I realized recently that I don’t know how I would react if I was cornered by him. If my back was against the wall and nobody was there to help me. Would I just let him hurt me and hope it’s over soon? Would I shout and scream hoping somebody came? Would I try to run or fight. Hopefully I never have to find out what will happen in that kind of situation. I like to think I might be able to fight him off until a guard came to stop him. I’ll need to find a weapon I can keep on me or hidden under my bed or something. It seems crazy that I’ve been in prison for almost six months and I’m yet to find out what kind of person I am in crisis.
It won’t be that way forever. I can’t keep counting on Ziggy or Trevor or even Mark to always be there to make sure I don’t get hurt. A person as scared of Kal as I am, I need to know what I’ll do when I’m in a situation where I have to protect myself. I could maybe find a weapon. I’ll figure it out after Christmas. Right now I’ve been working so much when I’m not in my cooking program to try and get Christmas presents, I don’t know what I’ll get yet for the kids. If I need your help again I’ll let you know. Thanks for listening to all of my random thoughts.
Another Scotch
When the little hand hits twelve
On the face of my watch,
I’ll get off this chair
And pour another scotch.
Yellow and sweet
In a vicious kind of way,
Taking down fences
Ferrel words at end of day.
In the morning it’s coffee
I’ll be electrically afflicted
I bounce between these tonics
When my words are constricted.
The right words never come
My mind held on a scale,
Swatted like a horsefly
Tossed by the gale.
Buzzing energetic,
All business and astute,
Or brilliant in my torpor
But wordless as a brute.
This erratic crazed ballet
Doesn’t really help,
Should make better choices,
Kale, beets, and kelp
If my habits are nonsensical
If you could call me crazy,
I’m halfway to genius
At least I’m not lazy.
– Vagabond Prophet
– Not going to lie, I was trying to write something else and it wasn’t working so I wrote this about writers block..
Vagabond Prophet 