If he had looked behind he would have known
angels
Afternoon Angels
Afternoon angels,
open-handed,
offer us
apocalypse apples
from the Nine Omens Orchard of Dread.
I awaken,
shaking my head.
There were birds
born of bullets,
packed in hospital ice,
their beaks, shrieking,
for lemon and life.
The rain ran in shivers
but found no swelled rivers.
I set the sails of the season.
Clouds.
Winds.
Shrouds.
Angels in the Hospital
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
in this place of many doors
those of us who blame the gods are only unaware
of angels standing at our backs when we are in despair
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
with all the instruments laid out bare
theatres ready, scrubbed to white,
as lives drift in and out of light
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
the anxious sad relations sip their cups of tea
the chapel here is open, silent, day or night
to catholics and atheists and sinners, all alike
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
down the low lit corridors
the trolleys come and go
with patients comatose
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
the final door awaits us all
some of us must morn
and babies will be born
silent angels glide on feathered feet
The Game
i don’t like fighting with angels
i wish they would get on my side
or if they are, as they sometimes seem
i wish they’d explain
the rules of this game
it’s far too complex for me.
i heard all the rules
plainly spelled out
but it’s never as simple as that
even good acts have consequences
you didn’t foresee or expect
and each time i learn the next step
they spin the tables around
what was right last time
is suddenly wrong
and what was wrong
is shown to be better
it’s never the same story twice
maybe they just want clowns
it must get boring up there
and who am i
in there great holy schemes?
good for a laugh perhaps
With Passion
frustration fills the air
our breath beats out our pace
no embrace is tight enough
to seal the bonds of love
glancing at your face
through tangled hair,
damp with sweat, urgent,
i look into your eyes
i hold you to my chest
i hear your moans express
a need for ever more
a need to leave this place
to fly
the planet is too small
the earth not great enough
to hold this burning love
the fervour is too strong
i hear the cosmos sigh
towards the urge of life
and children to be born
my heart is full of stars
i shower you with them all
my soul begins to fall
we call our angels in
to circle us above
suspended from their wings
when i was small
when i was small and nothing was named
triangles rounded, appealing yet strange,
pink pastel , green, powder blue, cream,
on a chain of balls hung by my hand
in the space now named kitchen, mundane,
a wondrous light gleamed on the taps
a window shaped shadow shone on the wall
sunspots and dazzle in dust motes that danced
the magical, mystical weave of the world
daydreams later, music, rhythms and words,
hidden companions jumped out of books
words that told astonishing thing, they flew
black wings, deep blue, a momentary flash,
crystalline visions, a jewel shone in a beak,
a message from angels that sheltered the bed.
morning left on the walk to the school
to the room of the witch, her ice cold eyes
held nightmares, inaccessible stars,
barred windows where birds sang outside
a world full of things not understood
diving inward, escaping
curled up tight in a ball
eternally quiet
eternally small
Flame
The world is full of blessings and light
And yet my feeble candle still stutters
Dark moths gather outside, escaping night,
They flutter softly against the shutters.
What is this feeling I cannot define,
What is the central source of this sorrow?
This darkness and loss can only be mine
I will send it away by tomorrow.
Over and over I send it away
Filling emptiness with music and song
Asking the angels to come back and stay
To help me feel I am here and belong.
Let moths burn in bright flame of desire
Transmute their wings to celestial fire.
untitled haiku
what breaks the silence of the early morning
what shadows will the evening bring
a choir of angels, distant, softly sings
Grace
emerging from a night that’s almost gone
my mother moved about the kitchen slowly
such quiet grace should herald in the holy
brush strokes of light burst forth and shone
what shadows will the evening bring
when light is low behind the window blind?
if i look out what comfort will i find?
a choir of angels, distant, softly sing
The Dreaming Path 