"Poems from the Quill" is where I place current works that don't fall into other collections. It is here you will find obscure poems that range from constraint to free-verse. I began this collection as a contest entry, years ago, for what was then t...
TRy to understand a seer feels the pain of a yesterday lost, they lean
EtErnally to feel each of man's sin. Our conscience
End Is only an illusion of mortality. God is
Then SalvAtion never to be forgotten, and the Lord
He is Pleased the seer never deletes what was burned into
All his Lonely secreted places, where no one grasps evil deeds.
There's A place no one ventures, yet God never fears,
Would a Creature such as us forbid God to speak?
Is hope's rEward a curse of vivid nightmares where visions
Take us, and Between realms where evil hangs our necks from trees.
Help the oracle Every time he sees warnings of
Soulsripped and Torn from bodies; spirits without legs,
Their screams will Wake hope from its restless slumber.
On bent knee each sEer's inner eye is seared with death, thousands
Of people dying at oncE. What future calamity calls out?
"Do not trespass this poiNt least all die!"
Dare prophets go through Windows dark forces fasten,
Even old souls, don't wish or wAnt this burden wrapped
Around unwelcomed chapters darK knight dare not read.
They are foreknown by God's prophEts, and ignored by listeners.
He, the unbelieving says to all, "He wArns me?
Watch nothing will happen. Surely nothiNg will transpire, who heeds
An oaf like this. Therefore, let him waddle, Ducks quack and
Show no reverence for the living, for the godS they speak
Not to a chump like this, frightened by dreams. Let them cry wolf from
Our roofs. Be cautious of the wrathful words of thE foolish,
They are not from our God, rather; they belong to thEir own
Goofiness, and are vivid visions of demented minds. Perhaps.
Only the God knows for sure if the dreamer is a lout Whowishes are
Delusions to come true. But remember that we are Headed
Into the end of days. Look around you, if not for Even-
Tide there would be no sunrise, no cycling, or a Remembering
What was yesterday? Without the end of day Even yesterday
And tomorrow are no more. So, do not say, "I do not believe."
Some fool says he knows the end of days. I Am sure he knows.
My heart desires such times, better than Man's dream, for
Eternal life is a sure hope of tomorrow!
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Self-portrait: by Olan Smith
(AN:This is a double acrostic, one reading down on the left, and the title wanders within the poem's body, and the first three letter of both acrostic line are T,H, and E)
