Caravaggio's St. John the Baptist

Brooding prophet wrapped in robes of red,

Strong reed scepter, autumnal tree your throne;

Not bound by desert wilderness as in the Gospel,

But bound by pervasive, haunting images

In your mind.  Your lean, locust-fed body

Curved in outward anguish, your eyes

Searching for meaning outside the canvas.

Your hair, the color of the tree,

Is soft and fluffy – full of youthful life,

But somehow old, lost in the hue

Of falling leaves behind you.

Your hand twirls your reed,

Ruminating over mysteries and miseries

Of your yet young life. 

What thoughts invade your calm, country idyll –

What haunts and pains?

Are thou he that should come,

Or look we for another?

Is it your doubt about the Christ:

Wearily wondering whether faith and spirit are real,

Or simply shadows created by the mind

To hide us from the traumas of human life?

Or is it the grief endemic in a prophet’s brain:

Pains that come from knowing

That the earth is not as God would have –

That love, justice, knowledge and truth

Fall when faced with the stronger forces

Of capital greed,

Contented ignorance,

Closed-minded arrogance, and

Cruel apathy?