The Prophets

They come to us from elsewhere,

false and true,

some standing in the park on boxes, shouting,

some on buses, rising

to declare whatever moves them

to their calls for justice, retribution, mercy,

common sense. They bear

a message from the fourth dimension

of their clearest vision,

speaking to an age indifferent to reason.

It is hard to understand their grief,

their anger, and their joy.

A few disciples carry on behind them,

handing out the leaflets,

playing tapes, believing in belief.

Sad, how few words

are true enough to matter,

make us willing to attend a meeting,

answer calls, or rise above the crowd.