Post more comments
Want a gift card for being active Forum member? Post comments and win $25 gift card every week.
Rules: will be giving away gift cards (worth $75 in total) every week to first three members ($25 each) who participate most in our forum discussions. You just have to post comments on forum pages, poet pages or poem pages anywhere inside
Comments posted needs to be in different pages. Posting more than 1 comment on the same page will only be counted once.
Members can not post comments without being logged in. has the right to cancel or edit this contest. has a right to disqualify or ban member(s) without providing any type of reason, belief or proof in regards to any type of illegal activity or fraud.

Aaron Graham

(Glenrock, WY)

Truck Stop Prophecies ~A Sestina~

I sit in the corner of my all night diner
Listening to some twenty-something Catholic
Profess to someone, a friend perhaps,
God’s ability to protect him life’s dangers,
And how God makes him tingle with His presence.
While he lights another Marlboro Cigarette.

I resent his words and light my cigarette,
The only smoking-sanctuary left, my diner
My confessional, my liturgy. My mass: Catholic.
There was a time, lost to history, where perhaps
I was ignorant or inured to life and its dangers.
Shrapnel burns replace His tingling Presence,

The underside of war, exists beyond his Presence
Where my only solace was found in cigarette
Smoke. Privations, make me long for my diner
Whose meager comforts, seem ornate as Catholic
Sanctum’s holy alters. My life, a sacrifice, perhaps
Will be offered, mitigating accrued sins’ dangers.

For safety, I indulged in moral dangers.
Live in schism with the concept of Presence.
Penance will be measured in burnt cigarettes.
Forgiveness to be ordered, a la carte, at my diner.
The OIF-MRE-freeze-dried -cafeteria Catholic.
Preservatives to keep life: murder, Damnation perhaps.

To lengthen life’s pain, I sold my soul, perhaps.
Unless God doesn’t exist. Unless the Catholic,
Beatific, Vision is lie. And nothing beyond my diner,
Awaits the dead. Incense, sacral as a smoking cigarette.
If God exists, He’s either to weak to rebuke life’s dangers
Or a bastard, tormenting me, denying me His Presence.

I walk through a valley, the shadow of His Presence
Is a plague on my peripheral sanity, hooded, perhaps:
I cannot see the Man, woman, but recall my Catholic
Dogma, but know The Waste Land, smell the diner
Where I studied each allusion, smoking my cigarette
So I know I walk to my death, numbed by life’s dangers.

Marching, Lighting a final Cigarette, Ashes to ashes, my dust: Catholic.
Enduring evangelism in my diner, remembering life’s myriad of dangers.
Tonight I resent God’s Presence; Sunday I’ll go to Mass, perhaps.

Submitted: Tuesday, July 02, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, July 03, 2013

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem ( Truck Stop Prophecies ~A Sestina~ by Aaron Graham )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley Updates

New Poems

  1. A Fine Sight, Edgar Albert Guest
  2. World Famous Painting Haiku - Manet's A .., john tiong chunghoo
  3. At Your Own Risk, Eleanor Ross Taylor
  4. Awakening, Aqua Flower
  5. Like One Concussed, Eleanor Ross Taylor
  6. Find Me, Eleanor Ross Taylor
  7. The Diary, Eleanor Ross Taylor
  8. Departed Friends, Edgar Albert Guest
  9. Constant Beauty, Edgar Albert Guest
  10. Too Complete A Circle, RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Poem of the Day

poet George Gordon Byron

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;
But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart
...... Read complete »

[Hata Bildir]