Wrestling with Angels

Wrestling with angels is a science.

It’s hard to grasp; you come up empty.

If they take their cue from Jacob,

saintly sorts may take a crack at it,

but he is a tough act to follow,

and the side effects involve a limp,

so try it only at your own risk.

Sometimes it’s safer to throw pebbles,

in order to gain their attention.

But it’s like tossing at a memory,

a faint whisper of something quite real,

that plays at the mind yet remains unseen.

It makes much more sense to keep on track.

Keep the faith; someday the mist will rise.

Everything will at last become clear.

Each question will be answered in full,

so relax and make good memories.

Memories can be held; angels can’t.

State of Being

The day dawned in splendid breathtaking color.

With it, spread a sense of humility.

A feeling of smallness permeated

 all but the host. The response was normal.

Then somewhere an old clock began ticking.

It measured time spent, not state of being.

Time spent; time wasted; time gone; vaporized.

The race ahead wasn't clearly mapped out.

Its course was nebulous, steep and rocky.

Overspreading clouds of uncertainty,

swept in on the tired stale winds of worry.

There’s no patron saint to come to the rescue,

not now; the race is ours alone to run.

No way to regain the losses, but one.

The host wields a hammer; the ticking stops.

The human race pauses; it holds its breath.

At last, it must learn how to really be.

Spirit of Stupidity

A spirit shot one flaming arrow.

A spell fell upon the land.

As though cursed great minds became narrow,

and spoke trite words out of hand.

Maybe the attack was one small sign,

of a mile marker ignored,

or maybe it was by some design,

a mortal wound from the sword.

The mental landscape was badly scorched,

for miles to infinity.

Creativity was victimized, torched,

to burn out its destiny.

The distant chiming of a lone bell,

like a death toll sadly rings.

Is it really over? Who can tell?

A foul spirit claps and sings.

We're All Transients

I've chosen one of my favorite poems by Edwin Arlington Robinson called : The Man Against the Sky ( I didn't include it here because it is quite long) and from it I've pulled a list of twelve interesting words. From those, I've crafted a piece of my own. The words are below and not for the faint of heart.

Planetary, Transience, Auguaries, Satraps, Infrangible, Molecules, Gules, Stoic, Atrabilious, Effete, Anodyne, Hierophants

The transience of these molecules

bound in bodies planetary

expound nothing, give forth no clue

of what must be elementary.

We live; we breathe; we have being.

As stoics we stumble toward the grave.

Requesting no auguaries,

we shun the very one who saves.

Satraps of our self-existence,

we think this life infrangible,

as we preen the dying body

and neglect the soul intangible.

Tied like atrabilious clowns

to our imaginary gules,

we play the game, keep the façade

of being safe; we are such fools.

As mortals we are so effete,

lacking strength and moral compass.

Our pride is overweening, crass,

an anodyne to the pompous.

We seek some holy hierophant

to make sense of our earthly plight.

Yet we have not the ears to hear:

death comes to all and then comes night.

  

Painful Pair of Shoes

As I review the year that passed,

I resolve to make no resolutions.

For I know they’ll go like the last,

down in flames with no solutions.

The shine has faded from the old.

It bought sadness with no relief.

I pray the new won’t leave me cold,

without hope of sheltered belief.

You were a painful pair of shoes

that mostly fit, but pinched my toes.

It’s over now and you’re old news,

so bring on better shoes and clothes.

Earths revolutions bring fresh days

in which to win, to sing, to love.

Every turn creates novel ways

to re-design life from God above.

To flow with each alteration

that 2015 holds in store

will take loads of dedication.

Ring in the year; on with the chore.

Wounded

Standing in the cold rain

in the grey of predawn,

a jaded figure mused.

Bereft of one small spark

to fan into a flame

of joy that might burn bright

enough to light the way

and cause hope to rise up,

she pushed on down the path.

Nothing satisfied her.

Life dealt her a bad hand.

The sun refused to shine

in her heart or the sky.

October was long gone.

November’s sleet was here

to slash and gnash its teeth

into her exposed face.

Pulling a black wool cloak

more tightly around her

young, slender, fragile form,

she trudged on despite pain.

Philosophers would say

that time heals life’s wounds,

but that is far from truth.

Some wounds will never heal.

Joy from Ashes

Joy will arise from the ashes.

If just one single spark remains,

all is not lost; all is not hopeless

for love will fan it into flames.

With discernment fear is unearthed.

Its identity becomes clear.

It’s the unspoken word that sticks

in the throat far from lips yet near.

Fear polarizes, robs of joy,

and brings lots of heartache and pain,

but selfless, pure, unbridled love

shall set the soul to rights again.

The human heart is resilient.

It is healed by the hands of time,

so bury fear; plant a posey

on its grave; live in love sublime.

   

Let's Join Hands

I am usually silent on politics, but thought I'd share my take. I'm sick of the pathetic circus. The major players are pretty much alike no matter what their party affiliation is. Instead of doing business for the people, they are in business for themselves. It's all about one-upmanship as the nation goes down the tubes. For once, I'd like to see them go to work on what matters to: we the people.  

stop by for a chat

please listen to our concerns

it’s past contact time

you don’t really care

to serve and collaborate

just want your own way

decades of decay

prove that people don’t matter

it is the sad truth

you should be ashamed

that communities crumble

and fall to ruin

come let us reason

the state of the state is bad

join hands to fix it

The Asylum

The asylum is a noisy prison

where everyone and everything is gray

with no shade of scarlet to signify

the transgressions of the demimonde

or oranges for lonely outsiders

like myself. Insanity levels all

to equal misery; hopelessness rules

within these institutional confines

where no candle flame is permissible.

There is nothing here to light a path out,

nothing to cast a warm inspiring glow.

There’s no escape from the hell that is this place,

but a stirring lives within, a yearning,

for the taste of freedom, sweet on the tongue.

Perhaps some grand African rite will work

a magic that will spring the doors open wide

and I shall be reborn into a world

of Technicolor and coherency. 

Walk of a Lifetime

Wander down this lane with me.

Travel east until we reach the sea.

Splendor waits beyond each bend,

each hill and dale ‘til journeys end.

Hold my hand along the way,

through these parts both night and day.

Place no limit on our talk

and meet my eye on our walk.

When I hear a scary sound,

ease unfounded fears; stick around.

Keep me walking tall and straight

with no detours to change my fate.

In case I stray from the lane

to roam through waving fields of grain

or turn back due to rain or sleet

remind me to just move my feet.

When at last we reach the water,

I’ll know that I’m your true daughter.

For the Father’s guiding hand

brought me to the promised land.

A Flamboyant Spectacle

A flamboyant sunrise signals bliss

as the sun sweeps away the darkness

and clears cobwebs from a jumbled mind

in bursts of glory a night sky can’t bear.

The blazing point of the new dawns light

rises without an audible sound.

Where is the ballyhoo it deserves?

Where is the skilled trumpeter today?

Some have no appetite for the spectacle

preferring to sleep this wonder away.

Many a shade is pulled in irritation

at the disclosure of natures slide show.

Long ago eyes closed, tired of seeing,

vowing not to open until noon,

but this is the last opportunity

to look at this particular display

for it will never be like this again.

A Magic Called Love

The forest hummed with a strange magic

without name, but it thrived and jumped

from every overhanging tree limb

as though it was a live creature.

While there were no words to describe it,

there was a sense that whatever

enchantment swarmed within the confines

of this enclosed copse it meant no harm.

The air rippled with raw energy

as rain fell lightly through the maples

and gently kissed the verdant leaves

that provided a sheltering canopy

from the heavy storming rains outside.

It was a safe haven where passions flowed

in rivulets like red wine being poured

out of a fine cut crystal decanter

into an ancient golden chalice.

Our connection seemed antediluvian

and we knew it was forbidden.

This was all wrong; it could not be.

No name existed for it in my language.

Except for these evanescent moments,

this act must never happen again.

My alien eyes stared intently

into yours that looked so blue, so human.

We parted that day holding to one truth.

Love will transcend all boundaries

of language and even of worlds.

When everything else fades and dies,

love, true love will live on forever.

Let Them Talk

Manufactured smiles, cheeky quips,

and cheap shots leave no room for doubt

that the old man wasn't honored

in the lackluster gathering,

although his valiant life eclipsed theirs.

He should have told them to take a hike,

but that wasn't his chosen path.

He wouldn't let negative words

escape from his constricted throat.

Instead he listened as one by one

they offered up a piece of their mind.

It was a gift they could ill afford.

With great patience he bore with it,

and took it all with the grace they lacked.

Finally he thanked them and left.

They were like millions of people,

agenda driven, preaching at him,

but he forgave their ignorance.

What did they know about anything?

They didn't receive a medal

or bear the scars on their bodies.

They’d never been captured or tortured,

And they’d never gone into ‘the box’.

He had and he’d come out the other side.

Let them talk; he was done with talk.

A Blood Red Candle

A red candle flickers in the window,

the image of an invitation not there.

It is the lone symbol of a blood bath,

at the mission that some think ghosts declare.

The story is relegated to myth,

just a piece of long since forgotten lore,

but a man wearing a ragged black cape,

martyred them behind a closed church door.

A torrential rain hammered the mission,

sitting shrouded from view atop a hill,

so the village was blind to the carnage,

as he crept inside and began to kill.

The convocation knelt at the altar,

with arms raised upward in silent prayer,

a simple pilgrim band dreaming of heaven,

not knowing that soon they would travel there.

It was done in a matter of minutes.

The malefactor vanished into the rain.

He left bodies of innocents to rot,

with no one to mourn their passing or pain.

The villagers were heathens by choice,

so cared not what happened on Mission Hill,

but on rainy nights one lone candle glows,

blood red as it sits on a window sill.

Is it a phantom’s match that ignites it,

in honor of the departed martyred dead,

or is an angel sent down from Heaven,

to light a memorial candle of red?

Only one man knows the answer to that.

The villagers don’t know and don’t care.

In great anguish for his drunken misdeed,

he still visits to place a candle there.

Who is beyond the hope of redemption,

the killer or the villagers below?

I’d say the man is forgiven his sin.

He buried it with the bodies years ago.

The Seduction

Seduced by the dancing creature,

While alone in the dark praying,

It would abandon amorous,

Attempts to win her over,

Tears plagued her as much as its kiss.

It was dreadful, terrifying,

As a pointed gun barrel,

Yet it produced a strange yearning,

That was as undeniable,

As it was inexplicable.

She feared most the creature’s true source,

As well as its intended goal.

The tarot cards on the table,

Flew like a flurry in winter,

And scattered in all directions.

Several whizzed wildly past her nose,

As the table levitated.

It seemed like harmless fun, at first,

But somehow she had crossed over,

A sort of imaginary line.

Now she wouldn't give a penny,

For this ungodly experience.

Curiosity was her undoing,

Always was and always will be.

Way down deep in her gut she knew,

Precisely what she must do.

This would require blood-letting,

Before it ever came to a close.