Original Poetry about anything and everything.
Blood in different hues
Red’s coming from blues
Deep scarlets
And shallow crimsons.
Life stories in different shades,
Humour like strawberries,
Regret like beets,
Pride bright as the robins chest.
Dozens of you lying there
Blood pulsing through those tubes,
A colour wheel crafted by disease.
– Vagabond Prophet
Strolling hand in hand
I felt your feathers intertwined with mine,
As we meander across lines
Yellow and white
Dotted and solid.
We don’t care about the world,
We’ve got our love to keep us warm.
Even if those are cars honking at us,
Even if this is a busy road,
Even though we’re geese.
Honk.
– Vagabond Prophet
Bloody geese stopped traffic this morning, they really did look like a couple.
Hospital story of the day: overhearing a doctor on the phone “Hi I’m trying to track down a liver biopsy…” How do you lose a piece of a liver? Where did it go, who took it, was it never taken from the patient? Is there somebody who stole a chunk of liver, is there somebody who has a fully intact liver who needs a chunk taken out. All questions that will keep me up tonight. If you’re out there tonight also wondering what happened to your liver biopsy PM me and I’ll let you know how you can contact the dumbass who lost it.
He’d painstakingly inched along
From his room, in a wheelchair
So slowly that with each rotation
The world made a rotation on its axis,
He made glaciers look swift.
He was so very old
That time had made knots in his mind,
And knit wrinkles in his spine.
He sat in front
Of that silver machine
And asked me
“How do I get ice out of here?”
Honesty is the best policy,
Or so I’ve been told
So I plainly told him,
“Sir, that’s a blanket warmer.”
– Vagabond Prophet
They don’t tell you
The further down you go
The worse the chance
Of your coming back.
The top is just white collars,
The middle chemotherapy
But the bottom
Oh the bottom.
That’s for the radiation patients,
Level Zero
It’s even underground,
I guess to get them used to it.
– Vagabond Prophet
Walking through a hospital parking lot
Perfect white lines outside an imperfect building.
Mercedes to my left
Rusty van to my right.
All that separation
Dissolves on the threshold
When you peruse the catalogue
Of dying people inside.
Your wife,
His sister,
You both drove here
To weep over loved ones.
If the vehicle doesn’t matter
If your class doesn’t matter
If grief is level ground
Then can we all be family?
– Vagabond Prophet
You’re just so talkative today,
Like an aqueduct
Connected with Niagara Falls.
Overwatering everything
No longer bringing plants
The nutrition they need.
They’re just plain wet for no reason now.
– Vagabond Prophet
Bus ahead of schedule
Sit and wait awhile
For time to catch up with us.
I’m going to be busy today
Rush rush
Go go go.
Legs walking
Arms lifting
Mind waiting patiently
For a chance to be used at all.
– Vagabond Prophet
Catalogue of lives,
Rows of souls
Inked on tiny little tags.
How many stories are here?
A hundred?
A thousand?
How do they spread out
And fracture off like spiderwebs.
Are there lovers and enemies here?
Are some tags soaked with tears,
And others just with alcohol?
I used to feel small,
Now I know I’m small.
One day all that’s pertinent
Will fit in a drawer
The size of my thumb.
– Vagabond Prophet
Vagabond Prophet 