Hungry gypsies and ragged prophets
Have truths to tell – or find, or barter.
They are the jesters of the dangerous
Ridiculous and impossible truths,
The ones we like to hear
From dusty and dead prophets
But not from those who know us
And see our hesitant eyes.
But save me from the well-fed minstrels
Who sing for a season
With every word – and move –
Packaged and pre-sold
To the lowest bidder.
Their truth is as bland
And well-scrubbed as they are.
These truths shake no towers,
Stir no souls
And threaten no empires.
Give me the troubadors
By each rich or barren
Or probing word,
The prophets who leave me winded,
Full or empty
Challenged or lost in thoughts.
As all dead prohpets know,
There is no refuge,
And real truth
Will forever leave us hungry
And wanting more.
Show me the truth that suprizes me,
That leaves me breathless and staggering,
Shakes me loose and sometimes scares me,
And takes me to that edge of life, water and wind
And gives me a taste
Of that eternity I can almost touch.
Morf Morford considers himself a free-range Christian who is convinced that God expects far more of us than we can ever imagine, but somehow thinks God knows more than we do. To pay his bills, he’s been a teacher for adults (including those in his local county jail) in a variety of setting including Tribal colleges, vocational schools and at the university level in the People’s Republic of China. Within an academic context, he also writes an irreverent ESL blog and for the Burnside Writers Collective. As he’s getting older, he finds himself less tolerant of pettiness and dairy products.
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