Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Prophet
Prophet

When Father first spoke in tongues,
it started small - like the legs of locusts
on the ears of summer corn, jumping
over, and over the buzz of Baptists
until it seemed the sound
swarming through our wooden church
was coming entirely from him;
as if he was an Old Testament Samson
with a beard full of bees, feasting on honey
from the swollen rot of a lion
he carelessly fought and slew.

posted by Carl Bryant @ 7:53 PM   5 comments Literary Shirts

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5 Comments:

At 8:57 PM, Blogger Bud Bloom said...

This little poem will knock you over.

Bud


 

 

At 10:10 PM, Blogger lorguru said...

I'm so glad you are posting at ITWS, where I already commented on this gem.
I hope my comment was understood...I mostly was trying to say that I want there to be more.
Thanks for sharing it,
-l


 

 

At 11:21 PM, Blogger Carl Bryant said...

Honesty is always appreciated, Lauren. No worries :)


 

 

At 11:57 PM, Blogger Aurora said...

I love this one.


 

 

At 8:25 PM, Blogger Carl Bryant said...

Thanks, Aurora.

I'm hoping to eventually polish this one. Knowing me, it'll go backwards. My first drafts tend to be truest to what I really feel.


 

 

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