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Each time rising behind
the plastic pulpit, the culprit
of opinion opines
into directions not known
beforehand; but to places
ending up God only knows
for naught and good,
into your soul and ours.
Still, must needs be to chisel
at the Rock, flinting out
flakes of your holy calling;
the specking mica cutting
but resurrecting usually that
which needs to bleed anyway;
bleeding away from colorless places,
like hell, thieving to halt your tongue.
Because 'tis you who weds with Light
and risk, against that dark knight,
who draws too slick a sword,
seeking to mutate
you into a useless yapping dog
one kicks away from their ankles,
where yaps turn to yips
echoing distances far from our ears;
so beware to ring clear
the bell of souls that tolls
for the messages you bare,
giving a hope to draw near.
And make no mistake,
'O Shaper of Words,
of the sacrifice you give,
how linguistics like birds
fly you know not where to live,
but trumpet, trumpet hard,
and a pied piper you could be,
leading legions above this earthly yard,
or walking a plank, and plummeting into the sea!
poem by Darrell Rohling
e-mail him at djrohling@aol.com
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