Seen in many dreams,
brown waistcoat, broad-rimmed hat,
staff gnarled tree-branch.
Imagination incarnates revelation;
old man who walks daily
speaks to Jerusalem’s angel,
crow sitting on bare treetop,
thunder resounding, lightning’s
illumination. What’s your message,
amid industry’s frenzy?
People who encountered him
claimed not to understand
nature of his discourse; but
afterwards they exhibited
serenity friends thought
akin to madness.
These ancients painted, wrote poetry,
departed for wilderness places,
gave up promising careers in accounting;
started telling everyone “Pay attention!
Listen, mother groans in her labors”.
Soil awakens, brings forth tangled vines,
clinging to factory walls,
creeping into crevices,
pulling apart corporate single vision.
Night ends, with it goes dream;
sanity demands production,
submission to dehumanization.
I shall take prophet’s path,
build Jerusalem on my ground.
© Phil Kemp 2026
