A Revelation of Justice

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

If monks can turn a toothache or the bray

Of donkey’s throat to something mystic, that

Does not imply that you can say,

Cassandra-like, the truth.  Our little chat

On i-Phones isn’t likely to replace

The prophets and the saints, not even false

Ones, Joseph Smiths, for instance.  There’s no race

To be involved in mysticism’s waltz

These days.  Instead the race is now to jump

To Mar a Lago to be close to power,

To hope your crotch will get a brush from tRUMP

And maybe give his gob a golden shower.

  If chances lead to folly, will its light

    Uplift you?  No, such stuff leads just to blight.

~ Phillip Whidden