Encoded Uncertainty

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

   

The tiny poet sits up on the lap

Of Mama, neither clueing what the years

Ahead will hold.  A family never has a map

Of futures, no true chart, though death and tears

Are certain.  Atlases cannot predict

The cancer or the stroke.  The white gold hair

Is not a prophecy, what pains inflict

On oldest brother.  Camel-jacket pair

Are so unlike each other that their eyes

Reveal in separate beauties nothing to

The blindest seers.  You can bet surprise

Is all.  No oracle presents what’s true.

  The Sibyl in the deepest cavern speaks.

    She never knows.  In hooded words she sneaks.

 ~ Phillip Whidden

by phillipw | Nov 4, 2024 | Uncategorized | 0 comments