every since high school you’ve counted too much on angels when things were bad you’d quietly pray that your angel would take the pain away it never did but you continued to pray and when as one might expect the pain gave way to joy you credited your angel ignoring what you and your friends had done to clear away the darkness perhaps the light of joy blinds us to the real angels in our lives the ones without wings that by no standard could be confused with some angelic form but that are none the less performing miracles that change the path of our future
tell me what time will the angels of god descend from behind the walls of jericho and save this world from mankind taking up into their arms a child of god a child to be given new life when will they arrive and shall that be the time when the saints join in song filling the air like a thousand black birds whirling above the sadness we’ve known for all too long when oh when will the angels arrive making the earth truly alive
Poem Inspired by Spritual Standards Quinta: Markus Burger (Piano) & Jan Von Klewitz (Saxophone)
aunt bea and i were sitting watching the night sky i said look there’s a shooting star aunt bea said that’s no shooting star it’s a skid mark from an angel roller blading across heaven making a fast stop to drop-off a blessing
consider that every time you take a step or wander off into the dark corners of your existence an angel that relative who always called your mom before you arrived home and could formulate a reasonable excuse resulting in an all too appropriate punishment for those missteps to the full delight of said relative perhaps that same relative is hovering over your head right now taking notes you know sort of a heavenly assignment
he tiptoed into her room staring at the angel that had slept all through the night night after night a smile almost painted on her lips he knelt down and kissed her cheek then crept to bed almost on cue as he closed his eyes the child began to cry his wife gave a sign as the cries began to resemble a banshee on an irish moor for it was her week to rock the cradle and his to sleep
rain on that old tin roof would lull me to sleep i had no fears wrapped in grandma’s quilt warmer than a lover’s embrace traveling between dreams with an angel as my guide and smiles as my only currency
so smooth, so white
so still and pale
a survivor’s will
yet hauntingly frail
recalling now
that fateful night
doors forced open
brought a dreadful sight
cool dark breeze
swept right in
accompanied by
that desert djinn
no words were spoken
just a devilish grin
was on the face
of this evil djinn
innocent eyes caught
in his decaying gaze
hell was fully wrought
in that dreadful blaze
from man to beast
so went this ghoulish flame
twas my soul he sought
in his deadly game
I saw my path
just one way out
I risked his wrath
fought through my doubt
fell to my knees
and began to pray
an angel lord
please send my way
only in my dreams
could it be
I am saved by a child
a guileless babe of three
Toni L. A. Cross and I have entered into a duel poetry challenge and this is the resulting poem. Duel Poetry: a prearranged poetry writing challenge between two people to evolve a new poem where each writer must respond to the other writer’s lines (4 -5 ) until both parties agree that the poem is complete.
he lie
on the floor
a caged fallen angel
his crime
quite simply
refusal to deny hope
but that was cause enough
for the smoke of unreason
to rise from the depths of the earth
and they were as locusts upon him
grinding away at his soul
beating his dreams from his backside
breaking the legs of his resistance
leaving him as a prayer rug on the floor
to be tread upon
as if humanity’s grand mosque
were not also a place of prayer
so
no longer
do they have the seal of god
in their forehead
it has long been removed
so in their last days
the locusts shall come
with the scorpion’s sting
they will be tormented
but not killed
they will not find death
but they
shall
seek it
but death
shall flee from them
and they
shall know
his pain
