Hot on the heels of some wonderful prose by Traveling Man, I have decided to share a poem I wrote back in April. It has some layers to it that need to be peeled away. This is one where I pretty much let the pen do the writing for me. Now, without further adieu,
The Path, by Jeff Day.
(April 30, 2008)
Three ears wane in the old fountain, where twenty fish to feed.
A quail to quell the sounding bell, high in the upper plane.
Fifteen priests from diverse lands convene to hear the plea
of a young lad beckoning to free the restless tree.
Ages have expired since it last did take a breath.
Twelve holy fruits it bore, and twelve leaves formed its dress.
"My mother and my father both have eaten from this tree.
Why then dost thou fear it; why keepest it from me?"
"Our ruling is immaculate," the Aged Ones proclaimed,
"but those who've followed after us have not held it esteemed."
Beasts of pain bearing angel-bane walk on the fire scorched path.
They fight the light in brilliant might, with condemnation, wrath.
"To you we grant the power now to make our wishes so;
to sow the ancient seed so that these fruits may forward go.
Pluck from off the tender lofty branch a glist'ning pod!
So sweet, so dear, partake, young man, and make of thee a God."
"But if I do as thou hast said, of twelve fruits, one I'd taste,
and one eternal fate I'd choose. Eleven shall I waste?"
Ten vultures loom o'er certain doom, as permeates the ring.
Below, five row against the flow while others work in vain.
'Til harvest season next year round the tree shall stand depleted,
for twelve were needed, twelve were found. One round completed.
Steps to the Endowment.
1 year ago