The Oracle
Fred Ostrander
Eyelids, closed upon the dark sphere emulating the celestial
As the shining upon the table (a linen fabric placed over a simple table lamp to diffuse and indeed mystify the shining. A light that does now penetrate the darkness of the room)
Ancient fingers spread with grasping motions upon the air over the shining, and under the circle of leaning, believing, yet apprehensive faces. Resembling paper masks. And a myriad of fortunes spreading outwards like spokes from a center.
And the wan features of the long passed, the long out of mind, out of the Hades
Where they assemble or remain solitary upon a darkly glowing beach of a sea
Or beside the subterranean and lightless river where few stand silent and in long
Dark cloaks who will call out with simulated voice, a half-believed land
With eyes releasing, that rise winged into trees.
One, slow of movement, alone, in a jacket, reaches his hand out of the shadow
Holding his
Expression of need, a cup where the coins fall that are withdrawn into the shadow
Others stand aloof, inarticulate and without recognition upon the nether shore
But I recognize them by the silver glare in their narrowed vision, lightless and cheerless.
And the river slides past them, a silver, a sunless, sliding stream. They wait for the ferry to carry them across. Passengers.
Fred Ostrander
Eyelids, closed upon the dark sphere emulating the celestial
As the shining upon the table (a linen fabric placed over a simple table lamp to diffuse and indeed mystify the shining. A light that does now penetrate the darkness of the room)
Ancient fingers spread with grasping motions upon the air over the shining, and under the circle of leaning, believing, yet apprehensive faces. Resembling paper masks. And a myriad of fortunes spreading outwards like spokes from a center.
And the wan features of the long passed, the long out of mind, out of the Hades
Where they assemble or remain solitary upon a darkly glowing beach of a sea
Or beside the subterranean and lightless river where few stand silent and in long
Dark cloaks who will call out with simulated voice, a half-believed land
With eyes releasing, that rise winged into trees.
One, slow of movement, alone, in a jacket, reaches his hand out of the shadow
Holding his
Expression of need, a cup where the coins fall that are withdrawn into the shadow
Others stand aloof, inarticulate and without recognition upon the nether shore
But I recognize them by the silver glare in their narrowed vision, lightless and cheerless.
And the river slides past them, a silver, a sunless, sliding stream. They wait for the ferry to carry them across. Passengers.
