The Wise Man

He sat, legs crossed like the Buddha, his gaze locking me in.  Next to him was a large coal-black pot on a fire, its succulent aroma piercing my nostrils, permeating my head.

Come, my son, you must be starving.

I half sat, half collapsed as he ladled stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to me.

Eat slowly, my son.

Ravenous, I did as he said.  He was The Wise Man, His words burdened with Truth.  I hadn’t trekked across continents, nearly dying in the process, to dismiss his counsel.  I ate – slowly – and felt a tranquility settle over my spirit as the nourishing warmth traveled down my throat, into my being.  I’d made it.  A tear pearled down my cheek.  He looked at me and smiled.

Tell me, son, why have you come to me?

I explained to Him of the despair in my soul, of the confusion I felt about the world and the people in it – of their cruelty and apathy toward one another – and I told him how I ached to know to my purpose.  A look of pity came over his face.

Oh my son…no one decides to live on a mountain because they have people figured out.  Here, have another bowl of stew.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.