Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

The Seer

The Seer

it is not my wont, nor would it be conceivable
to write of life in Elysian glades, traipsing with
fairies thru bough-laden vineyards
sheer nonsense in a time when outside my door
there is life palpitating, clamoring for attention
reality is best served head on
with traffic, pestilence, warfare and strife
poverty and ignorance abound in an era when
education is ripe for one and all, though
Arcadia is still strife with prejudicial thinking
my elysian glade, tormented by the roar of sirens
wailing into the night, rising costs of food and gas

poet: repository of worldly times, troubled or at peace
unlike the prophets of old he can only cut to the quick
cut through the chattering bullshit to the heart of life around him
though often he lives secluded from reality, often
denies the outside’s horrific chaos
art is not in regaling stories of war and hatred
crimes and petty grievances
no! cut to societies’ soul, shallow as it may be
yes! I fear it has all but withered and died
cut to that which lies under the surface and ponder
an eon hence will the story remain the same?

who gave the poet this gift? if one believes in god
then surely he must, or if not, is it the work of Lucifer
the spurned angel,
artists have been blessed with emotional insight
a multiheaded hydra, writhing in vipers but
blessed with a power to see beyond the pettiness
of human interaction into the human heart
the artists can paint or sculpt what is felt though
oft cannot express in words that quick
lightning strike cuts to the heart
the artist remains forever the spokesperson

rest assured, the poet is not a prophet, he has
no command from god to yell “repent,”
neither doomsday sayer, nor enchantress, that lies beyond
the poets realm, he doesn’t foretell the future, as though
future can be foretold, it changes with the rustling wind
or by accident makes its way along life’s highway,
oh no! the poet is not prophet, only one who wishes
with his gift, to see within the human heart
humbly offer a vision into the waiting eyes of the reader
should the reader choose to read

so the poet pauses, renewed in spirit, opening his
heart unto your mind, reader, opening his every
emotion to your critical stare and chancing that
you not tear this beauty, his vision apart

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