Richard Grahn

Prophecy

Everyone knows Dino was the last real dinosaur—the Jurassic Park superstars, just digital facsimiles conceived to honor his existence. My eight-or-so-inch-high brontosaurus from Sinclair Oil’s plastic molding machine—once warm to the touch—is also now long gone. These magnificent creatures that once roamed the swamps of my imagination are no more. “They died in the Great Flood,” Grandma said. But, I know better.

It’s easy for me to see how fragile this earth is. We live in a syndicated dream, tuning out the reruns of rainforest burning on TV. Like Fred and Wilma, we live in a stone age. As the waters rise and the sediment settles, it’s clear to me we’re soon to be fossils unless Hanna Barbera can preserve us.

the last mighty oak
has been hewn into planks
for an ark . . .
our only hope now
an olive branch

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About the Author

Richard Grahn creates sculpture, painting, music, photography, poetry, and prose from his apartment in Evanston, Illinois. Creativity is his peace.