For Prophets

Once,

--unaware—

ouncely shared in cannikins,

the prophetit lay rare.

But drabbed shunts opentut,

the prophetehporp is tare. Perse’d weeds

in wheat,

planted by false hands,

            --waxen brands—

soft to the touch,

brush of the prophet’s ram.

 

The harvest in its haste

discerns but one taste.

We folk interminably

eat the shawl.

            --In the fall ofter falls

the cleaves of fourimmed trees

pepper a ground atwin with sores

            the middle bare of seeds—

O!

            --loud clearings—

fell’n silent the founders say:

Ah!

            --proud hearings—

only a Lord,

sadiating the day.

Reviews

[Tim McGovern]

I am doughnut aggrieved with the afour men-shunned revue
I happenstanced onto the workage and was de-lit
Illuminati and all
verily muchacho

[Mpotavin]

Way too old English (obsolete Dutch?). You really set yourself up for understanding problems when the language you choose to use is not used by anyone still alive. On top of that you are extremely cryptic and vague. Is prophetehporp even a word? Who planted the weeds, how were they false? Why do we eat a shawl? It is difficult to discern what connects all this together. All I get from this is a vague sense of the pastoral.