Phillip Medhurst

Wisdom from a Gnostic Sage



We pass over unknown lands

Eastward bound.

We see nothing.

Tunnels echo the rattle.

The wherefore fades

Of our herding to

This trembling wagon,

Rubbing shoulders

Bolt upright.


I still hope, regardless,

For a little red house,

A little white house,

Music playing

In snow-showers, fine as ash.

For then we shall be free –

Work shall make us so –

From fear incontinent.

But only a chimney I see.


Where is the pillar of cloud?

Where is the column of fire?

Will the cyclone be

The fiat “not-to-be”

From the powers that be

As I scramble, naked, up

A mound of sacrifice,

My nails scoring a riddle

On those blank walls?




Black Hole


Not in control,

A big black hole

Drives me on:



I thought I sensed

Some thing beyond –

Surely non-sense

For only no-one


Rules this world,

Until it’s rolled

Up like a scroll

Inside that hole.


And did I see

A face look down? –

No: space-time ripples

Feigned a frown.