The White Stone of Patmos
By John Herlihy

Some memories will fade quietly into dust and mist;
Other memories encircle the mind in a tightening twist.
A fugitive scene once again begins to emerge and unfold;
Shards of light sparkle as incense in the air gently rolled.

We trace back through history the thin line of an idea,
To trace back to the source without imposing any fear.
I have visited many a monument over a long lifetime,
Visited mosques and cathedrals whose blessings shine.

As the stork intuitively builds its nest in the church steeple,
I visited the tombs of knaves and kings among other people.
Nowhere does one summon the spirit of an ancient history,
Than in cavernous darkness in the nave of ancient mystery.

The day was as sunny and bright as a Greek island can be;
The island of Patmos spread out for my greedy eyes to see.
The sober waves lapped reverently against the rugged shore;
Imagination took over my mind and my heart beat even more.

We walk lightly through the pages that record the ages of man;
As journeyers, we travel to witness what the centuries command.
I visited the tombs of Nostradamus and Suleiman the Magnificent,
Dust and dried leaves have left a lingering odor most maleficent.

Legend places John the Apostle on the island for our edification,
Where he received through inspiration the holy Book of Revelation.
His blessed Master Jesus came down as he slept in dreamy vision,
Gifted with words that echo thru the centuries with clear precision.

I entered the Cave of the Apocalypse without any undue hesitation,
Although my mind and heart fluttered wildly in sweet anticipation.
The ages have witnessed miseries in the corridors of centuries past,
The apocalypse a vision that still moves us and continues to last.

As I entered the deep recesses of the sacred ancient enclosure,
I too wish to recreate what had happened to bring some closure.
I lay my head on the sanctified spot rubbed smooth by fingers,
The faintest of smells, the hint of perfume, awakens and lingers.

More than the perfumes of the Orient or the incense of Yemen,
More than the sweetest pomegranate or the tartness of lemon,
Wisdom preserves for humanity what the heart already knows,
The seed of eternal life opens the third eye and will never close.

The white stone of revelation once again descended to earth,
To create an alchemy of wisdom humans valued since birth.
The white stone of Patmos cradled the saint’s blessed head;
The cradle of civilization again found rebirth in an island bed.