I asked John

I asked John

when did you hear

the first trumpet

the first voice

through the open door

did you pause and consider

running back to the cave

the cave atop the island

in the sea

I heard the voice he said

I heard the voice

there was no choice

I walked through the door

to see and hear

be blinded and deafened

so I could see and hear

I asked John

what did you see

A white dove

in a red sky soaring

in expressed light

a twig in its mouth

a twig of deliverance

from the unknown

Photograph by Lydia Woomer via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission. 

Approaching Patmos

Each motion of the waves courses

age through arthritic limbs, now

bound within strips of leather.

The galley slaves moan, in unison,

maintaining a tempo with their oars.

The barren rock approaches, larger

than anticipated with only

catacomb-caves to offer shelter

from sun’s heat. It will end here,

alone but for God. A fear swells

within, not of isolation or even death,

but a fear of revelation.

This photo of Patmos is courtesy of TripAdvisor

John on Patmos

Exile pronounced
a sardonic smile
the worst penalty
not death but worse
isolation
from the beloved
as he was once beloved
left in silence
on rocks lapped by waves
an old man aging older
in ancient silence
of barrenness of stones, of dust

Sits in a cave high
upon a hill, clinging to nothing
but faith, the faith
that had closed
the eyes of the woman
your mother, your son
when the visions start
the coal burns his lips
a drop of eternity
falls upon his forehead
the scrolls open
he sees

This poem is submitted for One Shot Wednesday sponsored by One Stop Poetry. To see other submitted poems, please visit the site. The links will be live at 4 p.n. central time today.

Painting: St. John on the Island of Patmos, by Titian (c. 1547). Samuel H. Kress Collection, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.