TITLE: Febuary 13, 2015
By Donald Standeford
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Prophecy in Farm Yard Flesh(first draft, being rewritten)
Mar 11, 2013
The flesh of God is His own very word
the bones underneath the skin are light but true
to the weight upon which they take the throne
drips from sacrifice of God to man.
We cannot bow before it, too pooled
too blood-red from the dam of tears
and blood poured for you.
The seventh angel spreads its wings
The prophecy is that flesh unhindered
comes back into its own self. But truth
is relevant to the Son of God.
Those days of sin for man are gone.
Clemency is everyone. Marked as twos; then cleft
twain to explode His light inside, we are
the children of the life. He is
the truth that dwelt upon the seas
of Socrates, Euripides,
Father God, quelled the storm,
spoke against the norm.
Prophecy fleshed sits upon the bones and broods
like a hen upon her only nest. Her sign
is she is about to be blessed with the gift
which she will market to the world. “I am
feathered from the seas of human thought
though of human I am not–though
of dark’s castration I am
the recreation of an oldest faction/function.”
Her glow pours forth
from the lump beneath her stomach’s
flesh is what warms the very side of her.
Honor is more
than a Knight’s Tale dragging on
and on and more on and more on and more.
The child of God sits upon the throne and watches
The rose is before Him though He sets
it on a saucer. He thinks it looks just like a monkey
wading through the sea of desert
sand so quick to say, “This thus! I am night!”
Looks like the monkey’s toes are wiggling
the actions of the man.
Honor is more.
You can say you’ve found all truth
and then believe in Chaucer.
And He lays it on the saucer, all even
Boethius’ scattered brains. “Will this
heal your lame, walk your sick
from the gloominess of their graves?”
And the rose is split seven different ways
to be taken with the blood of communion.
“Give it a try again. How much
Shakespeare do I got to send you? How many
Napoleons must rend you? How many
Poets must abhor you; before you see
these things aren’t for you?”
And the goat is pit; the Rose placed
upon the altar for the sacrifice
has been already laid and killed and bruised
and maimed for humankind.
“Just another bite of Him to let my day
unwind a little bit–watch the days
violence again and again and again.”
Prophecy fleshed looks down upon her young.
The serpent’s spitting tongue is wet
upon the fence outside the sun, light
dripping all around. “I i i i i m m m u s s s s t t t
a i i i m f f f o r r the head t h i i i s s s s t i m m e,”
The feeding trough smells of watermelon wine,
dandy lions, seeds of turnips, greens. And the Song
the serpent sings is solely to himself–
“all that wealth, not a penny of it mine,
I must aim for the head this time.”
The Ram is cut upon the alter.
Priest gives for the snake what was the vine’s.
“Come around for more anytime,” she says.
“I will. And faster next time.” says the snake
“But I require alabaster, cinnamon, and pearls.
All you gave to Him swirls before me
in a tottered rage. You must please me freely.”
And on the farm the priest denies
that he has despised the wrong one.
narcissism opens up the chasm
and we fall right in its gory chasm.
But prophecy fleshed sees not but death
as it through fence holes, garden flees
with its own chick upon it’s back
the crucifying of the freed. “It isn’t right,”
says the wily serpent. “supposed to stick
around. I demand worship. Can’t
you see I’ve come out the grass?
The farmer dies. The son sits in
traction right now. All that’s left of
the farm is plow and woman so heavy,
but the sun burns her fair complexion.
These stalls need inspection daily.
The rooster crows, the bellowing of calves
and sows alike, the Ox that once
took the rooster’s life, the green tree
provides shade for the barn.
And all is me; I’ve been here all alone.”
And the hen’s cry comes from the grass.
A chill runs up and down the snake’s spine.
“I am in the open ground,” he says,
“I must turn myself to fly.” Cat meows.
The dog trots over to the pen to play.
“It’s getting a bit risky now. And here
now comes the woman with the plow.
Goodness, won’t she drop that heavy beam?
Where’s the farmer now? Poor poor
thing. Iron’s cooled and rusty. Wish
that kid would stop beating on me with sticks.
Poor poor poor me. “Pardon,
do you have the time?”
“Get away, nasty killer snake! You bit
my husband! Put my teenage son in bed
with half a wit and useless legs. He don’t
play anymore, just lies in front of the TV.
or goes driving around with his friends,
searches for answers in the midnight hours.
I know full well of your wicked powers!
But enough. I’ve got a job to do! But –
when I’m done I’ll take care of you!”
The serpent staggers back but whips it’s tongue.
“Outta here, snake! Don’t want you here
anymore or even near this farm! And
if I do you die. I’ll grind you up,
feed you to the sow who’ll eat anything,
even her own young if I fed them to her.
And all that will be left of you is the skin,
the slime you shed the other day in the grass
out near the rabbit’s hole
under the barn’s shadow where you lie
in wait for things of innocence and littler
than you. I’ll give you to the ground
for next year’s corn.”
So the serpent hisses, slips away.
The hen cries from the bushes, and the snake
peers around it as the woman disappears.
“It’s kind of cold out here in the open sky.
For so many years I’ve sat still in the grass,
watching and hoping for that man to die.
But things don’t end up like they’re planned.
Who could anticipate the coldness of sand?
But the bushes stir, draw the snake from
his thoughts. Silent he shivers,
and the thick air is tread through loud.
Prickly hairs rise upon the cold snake’s back.
So he dreads an attack is coming, though
he can’t quite see it. “Enemy behind that hill.
Now what if he’s off to the barn when I’m turned?
I must not leave the woman and the daughter
alone too long. They’re too easily tempted
and may be taken by another.” He laughs
but knows he’ll leave like Saul. “What?”
He says. “No lion in the road. I must
have been looking at a bird or a cow. Yes,
a cow with gossamer wings, but then
don’t only insects have them?” He’s confused.
“Cow-fairies,” he chuckles to himself, “yes,
I must be going mad.” And he laughs
with a low snake and chuckle
mixed with venom drips to the ground,
where he the shape of the scarlet “S” appears
three feet across, shades of brown tinting
in the grass. I coil as he turns away
from it, then throws itself upon him in a
most peculiar way, imbedding right into his skin,
“ouch, but such is the brand of sin,” he says.
And to think for eons this I feared? Not much
compared to all my thousand deaths. I
should’ve killed the farmer sooner outright.”
But the hen calls out again, and the house-cat
strolls out to play. And the green leaves
of the bush to his right stirs, “no!”
says the serpent. Past the trough, through the fence
he flees to the meadow and the grassy yard
“They drew me out! They did! How could I be
such a fool! The farmer’s son is in his room
cleaning his gun. And the farmer isn’t really dead,
I know it!”
Tenderly he peeks between the leaves, but all is open
ground and the turkeys flirt with the natural
“I’ll wait,” says the snake. “I’ll wait
until they show their next move. Then through the grass
I’ll stealthily escape, or bite yes, I’ll stay
and bite with deadly venom all skin I see
with all my might.
Prophecy fleshed enjoys the little run.
Chick on back she scurries right and left-
and all she hears are laughs from the little one,
“Mama, will the snake go away?”
“Just give him time to prey
upon us for a little while honey,” she says,
and laughs and jumps – taking her chick
to all new heights of six feet or better.
“Do serpents really chase themselves?”
“Oh, son, you talk too much.”
“But, mommy, I did notice that the serpent comes here
every day and plays with this and that,
but no one knows exactly where it’s at.
It hides upon the thickest grass, sneaks upon the cow.
But when the cow makes one small stir-
The sow, he thinks, will become a better prey
And when the sow plays, swishing the snake
in the mud. The snake no longer likes the sow
and goes to the lambs instead
where some follow him until the dog’s bark
comes from inside the house.
Then he’s quiet as a little mouse.”
“Oh, little one,” mama chicken tenderly says,
this is a game the snake now must always play.
Once he was the proudest being. And over the farm
he had a voice of silver thread to weave
the story and creation’s song. Whereupon
he did exalt the mighty throne of God
with genius of song and pearl strings of vocal
praise, and not just loud but with his very breath
he gave to God his all.
But that was before his fall.”
“What happened then?” The chick excited drops
from mother’s back, and upon the soft ground lies.
Beak twitching, ears peeled back.
“He gave a cry. No one knows just where
he was or why though we all looked up.
The cow had pissed too near him then,
or so the story goes. Are you sure you want
to hear this?”
“Oh yes, yes. Yes, yes.”
“Okay. The serpent, tired of the pissing rain
of the cow over him (though the cow was just refreshing
and meant no harm of course) got up dripping
one fine hot day (he was steamed of course)
though the cow apologized, the serpent had grown weary
of wading through cow pies and stepping through
the trails of mud by the water trough…”
“But serpents have no feet.”
“Be patient now, my dear. I will finish the story
if you let me. We must hurry, our time is almost
near. But the snake was spiteful–”why does no one
fear to tread on me?” it said.
“But ah,” said the cow, “you are nothing large to dread.
(The cow of course was not well versed in speech.
Rhetoric detained him and grace of thought
was for him a leash too tight and much hurt his neck)
“Of course your body’s very beautiful,” cow said
stumbling backward to his previous sentence but slipping
“In fact if I were a meat eater
I’d stomp you to death with two kicks and eat it.”
Of course the serpent
didn’t take the compliment well.
He mentioned some past winter experience
where he had thrown snowballs in hell.
And though the cow went on to calm him
the cow didn’t do too well.
The snake was gone for quite a spell.
Within a year, his beauty was forgotten.
When he returned his legs were cleft
and he had an unnatural desire for mutton
which the kind dog gently shooed him away
But for which was his equal prey
“Now son, the snake is not a natural hunter.
In fact the way the serpent’s legs were built –
well he seemed more like a runner. Made
to spread the news of God to others, shout
greatness to the world.
But the snake (let this be a lesson, son) was never
proud of its own natural act. And so with death
through sin he made the first pact
and told the lie to others, since then
he’s added to death so many brothers –
oh child, are you sure you want me to go on?”
“Unnatural perversions such as the world
had never known before. Some of the sheep
actually followed him away some were lost,
some again found; the farmer had to pay
His life’s savings for each sheep gone astray
quite a debt to have to pay. But still
he kept the snake on.”
“But why does the serpent belittle him?”
“Because,” my darling, “death’s pervasive brothers
he constantly carries upon his back, as he
shows them murder, and studies how to hunt.
Pain abounds within him, of course like blades
of grass through his mouth, settles within him,
then screams through his bowels to begin again,
It’s incestuous father journey. (little one,
don’t judge, it’s the only way that pain can learn
from such a father of lies as he) Pain must get
to the inside of what sprung it
to learn the pattern of life it will lead. And sorrow,
in its mind commits to the journey too,
(though not in actuality). It watches its father
from the maple’s limb above the water trough
and wonders what might have been. Depression
is always there with its scoff. The milk of joy,
is upon him solely lost. As he breeds
the serpent is rather indiscreet.
He favors every type of meat and like
the fly he’ll plant his seed. Whereupon
the ugliness it’ll feed.”
“I have never seen these things, my mother.”
“You’ve only been from the egg two days.”
“Still, I’ve noticed, how the serpent runs
and plays. Are you certain that he is not
“He thinks he is and is the only.”
“Very strange. But mother take me up. I must fly
high around the farm to see what’s up
with the serpent.”
“Oh no you don’t.” Think of him more you won’t.”
Prophecy fleshed, flits with her young
to the next bush or tree to play “no more talk
of the butt ugly serpent will we have today.”
She clucks as she laughs a lot.”
“Mama, put him down you said not
to do. How can I learn from you?”
“I am the sky. I am the wind. I am the sun.
I am the trees. I am the moon. I am the
Earth. I am the animals. I am every one.”
“Serpent, please move. You are on my greenest
patch of clover,” the cow moos.
“Get back! Get back.” does the serpent hiss,
“Okay, I’ll find another. And you should do something
about that lisp. I think it’s getting worse sounding,
though it sounds just fine to me. I mean
it’ll do if it’s what you’re used to. Of course
you used to sing. And that I admire. But
since you went away you’ve become so ugly
and are such a liar that…”
“Enough! Enough! You declare war on me
I must defend myself. Back! Back!
This time, I, the mighty one, am prepared
for your attack. Have you not my dear cow,
seen me strike the sheep? The little ones
from which I spare no meat? The teeny
ones, even which no mercy I spare?
Are you not aware that I prowl here?
Below your fat belly neck with a blade
of sharp silk grass with which to fend.”
“Let me try again, dear snake.”
“Will your insulting words never cease to end!”
“Nevertheless, I will try again. I am a patient
cow. To my uncouthness I will not bend.
Not eloquent, but good before the plow,
and strong, though to be weak like you
but quick with words I would admire to be.”
“You coward! Can you not insult me outright?”
“What did I say?”
“I see. But you fear my crafty mind or might.
What I might do it I got hold of you.
So you twist your words and bend compliment
to damned insult, and bend reports
into good insults to use like, ‘How do you do,
Mister Snake hiding alone in the grass.’ And
‘what happened to those free running legs,
or is that something, snake, I was not supposed
to ask?’ It’s insulting. Degrading. And that
you know full well!”
“Oh, snake, I think I see your point.
I understand now! You’re sad and suffering
from the loss of all dignity and pride,
and because you’re sentenced to eternal damnation and hell,
“No you do not!”
“The body rot, the disease, the loss of your legs,
these are things you didn’t intend. Aren’t I bright?
Aren’t I right? And it’s fear you have –
that’s the constant looking round this way and that!
And the reason the dog chases you away.
is because it would be embarrassing to you
if that job were given to the house cat
of whom even the mice have no fear.
Poor poor snake. Am I near? Am I near?
“Oh I must think. The father gave you, cow,
a craftier brain than mine. The wisdom of debate
lies in a futile position and the quickest mind,
of which I have the mind, but my wisdom full known,
I am but a target for the ‘cluck’ and ‘moo,’ oh moan.”
“You a target? I see no circles on your back,
only fine shiny scales that, I’m sure, wonderfully protect you
from the gnashing flames of your hell. I am amazed
at how tall and handsome and strong you stand.
I am but a simple cow. And you the hero,
the fighting man of which I am so proud to call
a friend. But so to be pitied those stripes upon your back
or circles or scales; I lost my train of thought;
However, whatever – it is a crime
the way they treat you! You are not used up,
already had, beaten! You are proud! You are not defeated!
Though all who prosper are against you! Though upright men
spit upon your name! Though your strength is equal
to only the tiniest weakest little thing! Though even the chicken
has defeated you in battle. You stalk on. And you will find
a smaller, weaker prey to hunt! For you are
a natural, the dinosaur of all living predators.
And the songs sang of your victory in defeat
will be among the herds and cattle a legend
from which our young ones will learn to fear God and grow!
Oh gentlest, meekest, snake!”
“I’ve met my match. Of, cow, your Wit
I am amazed not even a flicker of the eye
to give your lie away. I should but cower you
and bring you to your knees. But I shall calmly
play your game – defeating your Wit, though not with speed
It is force with which I reckon, being not like I was.
But then who is? Even the stars above,
of which I’ve seen, have you? — They too flicker out…
and die. And whole constellations fade from the eye.
Cow, your wisdom, may be unbeaten
on the farm. But I have flown the universe –
and ridden each dark thought. I’ve counted heights of waves
in flight to Hell, and lived to tell. And your pity
I can do without. The price upon my head
has put on me a weight I can only hope to hold
day and night. If you could see the struggle I fight
heroic every day
you could see the God within.”
“You would not play with my torture,
peel it back with rhetoric and read to me
the layers each one as it tears my skin.
I know what, cow, is the imagination
God has given you. None around respects you
As do I, except he, the one put me down.
Join me, cow, and against him we will fight.
Our one Wit and one mind will create
the platform for our fiendish coup — such as
the Earth and heaven has never known.
And prophecies of past retold
will talk and talk of our renown.
With my brute strength, cow, and your dark Wit
we need not fear creation, but rule it.
I will treat you as my only son — put you even
above beloved death. A fiendish plot will boil
against the enemies who now around us
play and rest.”
“And looks the cow around then at the snake
and grits its teeth, and as its brain cell does think
then look, then speak; slowly,
“of our common enemy, I will talk openly
and say no fear or hesitation. No regret.
No mercy on the one who wishes to us slay
I, cow, am with you this day.”
“Oh, cow, on this I’ve often thought
I’ll make you sacred, throw favor your way
men will no longer treat you
as if you were not our equal.”
“Of that I care not. But of what I do care
are those who are enemies of us and God;
to those I say ‘beware, beware, my friend,’
for God’s servant I am true. And travel one step
against my nature I will stomp on you –
and the snake with me too!”
“Trickery, cow! You have spoken with design;
but again, our enemy you now quote
as a friend or are you sly — against Him? eh?
that would be it.”
“I am sly against the very wind
this traitor among us makes. Where is the enemy?
I will trounce him where he stands?
I will show to him his promised land!”
“Now,” says the snake, “that better, for a moment
there, I thought you all wet again.
But I am known for my persuasive way.”
“Lead me to him today! says the cow,
I am tired of this waiting. I too have seen stars,
see, there’s the Milky Way and Mars,
and that big white and dark thing,
I think they call it the moon.
I’d soon jump all as if clearing a fence
if I only could.
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