I am the rhabdomancer of my own divination: A poem 

I think I didn’t permit this cold day, 

coming pat in the middle of summer, 

to take me roughly by the nape of my neck 

I did my chores unaffected by the spell, 

went out to the shops scantily dressed, 

and didn’t cover my head like a bride 

I have never asked the question why 

they call this day, Boxing Day, and 

I wouldn’t venture to even explore why 

Though I am never averse to sparring 

as there is a prevailing injustice that needs feud  

I had no mistletoe hanging this Christmas 

though I tiptoed heavily through the year 

within the dimensions of my own heraldry 

leaving footprints, I think, on battlegrounds 

 Yet, there may be some sadness in a lonely warrior 

but no tragedy in knowing the expanse of himself 

I didn’t seek to be semonised from the pulpit 

No parables of alleged messiahs inspire me 

There is only a warm collusion from welcome spirits 

I can hear their tales in unspoken whispering 

within my mindscape, to which no keys are needed 

This rhapsodical literature fills the interludes 

when I have no sound coming from myself to explore 

Though most of the time I am gleaming 

in an amazing inheritance of a self-breathing, 

self-divining tapping of a Godly rhabdomancy