Sunday, January 29, 2017

Mister No Wings Poetry

Note: For better, more savory, more pleasing poetry, please see Mike Moir's post: Poetry is not for me

Broken Angel Wings

Leaning against the frame…the opened door
Lost in the sun drag…across the wood floor
Nothing is new…no thought, no sound 
Just a darker you…all around.

The fearful knowledge.
Distinguishing doubt.

Should never have remained so vacant...far
From any thoughtful keep...from opened arms
Alone, you see, is dead…dead is once lived
No such evidence of either exists.

The fear is making.
Derivative art.

Cherubs have left you…for good, and for dead
No one to christen…No thing to might live
Others see winged spirits spread overhead
Guiding their souls from cold to warmer beds

Spilt sun soaks and drains.
Your angels -- empty. Empty. Emptied.

The Problem's Resolution

I Know What Death Is…
To the ancients it was thieves that stole
Life from the living; or
The living slipped into Death’s hands,
Into its underworld; simply too weak to prevent the fall.
But can’t you see? It’s none of these things!
It’s not Death who steals life;
It’s not Life that welcomes death.
It’s not prayer that prevents this process,
It not process that welcomes prayer.
I know what Death is:


Golden Gates and Trailers

Golden Gates...
I want my Mom’s Heaven; full of angels, with real wings and smiling golden faces, and the lovely scent of roses. There, Grandma is clapping to a Beatles ditty; Grandpa telling everyone how pretty she is. I can know everything about everyone in an instant of empathy and grace and love...(in an instant!)

Pink Trailers...

And then there is my brother. He thinks Heaven is not much different than the busy lives on Earth. He says there are pink trailers and golden mansions in Heaven, too, and Springer will have the same guests, the same sound effects, the same obvious solutions to their woes while the rich will have their problem child hooked on heroin and rap and low rise pants.

No comments:

Post a Comment