Tag Archives: angel

Lake Pontchartrain Causeway

The sun is coming up, and those ruined waters are deceptively pure.

On and on over the lake, to the city below the sea, hopeless, so unsure.

The sky is wide open, and the clouds are wine dark, and slouch away.

I listen to the news, another mass casualty shooting, what good to pray?

 

Emily sleeps beside me, finally quiet, and like all angels she is unquiet,

and fearful, and plagued with nightmares, because love will not deny it

when blood is spilled and innocence taken and it’s all just a fucking mess.

I am her priest, the one to wipe away her tears, to listen to her mourn, confess.

 

Just the highway raised over water, and that water off into every direction.

Emily insisted we drive all night to see St Joan in the French Quarter, a connection

to why I became a priest, and why she didn’t give up on this misbegotten race.

I dreamed before her, unadorned and broken, and that she tenderly touched my face.

 

The news is off to another grisly death, to the stock market, to the hottest winter in years

Christians can’t write psalms anymore, pushing down every doubt, choking off all tears.

Emily’s vibrant blue spiral bound notebook is filled with the drawn blood of aching faith.

To follow God is to be beaten down and tired, trying for a fix to get by, oh Holy Wraith.

 

Emily stirs as we leave the water separating heaven and hell, heaven and earth.

The statue is a totem, made holy in our hope, in the torn heart that awaits rebirth.

I squeeze her leg to reassure her, and I give her a smile, and she smiles back to me.

Priest and angel and all the sum of our weary hearts, bitter hopes, baptized in the sea.

 

Back Country

Felicity and I were sitting in an overgrown field,

in what was once the grand yard of a regal house,

now rot and ruin and only filled with ghosts of

the family and those their riches kept underfoot.

The sun was falling away, rolling back the light

like it was being pulled up like the curtain of

a theatre stage, revealing the stars and the moon

and the shooting stars that were the real show.

Felicity and I had been riding all day together

on her ’77 yellow and blue Yamaha motorbike.

Even stopping to rest, or to eat from our packs,

hardly any words had passed between us.

Forgotten roads we’d ridden through, derelict

buildings and small towns and the wilderness the

demons had reclaimed, in dark haunted tunnels

and abandoned cemeteries, ruined, toxic factories.

We were looking for demons, we were looking for angels,

we were looking for God in what sublimity remained in

this world, and to spiritually lost misfits like us, just her

driving us on her bike into the places that we’re left behind.

We do not sleep. Pilgrims do not sleep. They do not rest.

The ruined regal house was the sharp, white fang of greed

and all that it devours to sustain itself, all the flesh and bounty

it eats to grow and grow and grow, never enough, never enough blood.

The stars were countless, out here in the back country, and we

rode on into the night, the engine of the motorbike like a high

and angry wasp, intent on revenge, intent on giving the venom

it hoarded into another, anyone would do.

In the wind, in the tunneled light of the headlight in the dark

on the winding and curvy road, her thoughts were blown back

into my head through my eyes, and I saw the vision she chased after.

A small house, with grey dirty bricks, ivy growing on a courtyard wall.

Two stories high, with a black roof, nestled against a tall, rolling hill.

There was a golden light on in the bedroom on the second floor.

“That my mother, an angel, keeping a light for me, hoping I’ll come home.”

We drove onwards to that house through the wilderness, not knowing if we’d ever make it there.

Ever Tender Light

She walks in the blue shimmering light of the aquarium.

Muted and soft, wavering over her, softening dark eyes.

Dance of shadow on jacket slits for her lost angel wings.

We watch the mermaid show among enraptured children.

Bright tails and otherworldly smiles and crowns of gold hair.

The children can touch the world beyond the water; Heaven.

We feed the rays, and she remembers her first emanation,

when God took her by the hand to show her all of His creation.

She remembers how she’d spent a sweet eternity lost at sea.

We sit watching various creatures swim and look curiously

into the blue, vibrant and hushed blue, like His ever tender light.

She takes my hand in hers, whisper those words that answer birth.

Shared

This was a secret world, among the thick green and tall grass, a lush little grotto by the clear, silver creek. The sounds of the highway and the shouts and noise of the people in the town did not come here. It was a shard of Eden.

               Gabriella was leading me by the hand. That hand was small and warm, and felt so light and strong in my own. We did not talk, as this was sacred.

               The branches and leaves of the trees hid even the twilight sky, though honeyed gold lit us in robes of flames. She pulled her hand away and faced me. She smiled, then placed her hands on my shoulders, signaling me to kneel in the dirt.

               I did.

               Her smile grew brighter, and she did the same.

               Her fingers brushed my cheek, and she looked me in the eye, locking me in her light, which was grey like starlight, and as ancient. Her eyes were the color of the water that was the only sound, deep and resonate and without blemish.

               She kissed me, softly, tenderly. Her fingers curled into my hair.

               A light began to emminate from inside her chest, crimson and pulsating and rich, the color of blood and life and birth. She put her fingers into that light, and pulled her chest open.

               The ball of crimson light came out in her hands. Our sacred place was like an unshed womb, dark with nuturing flesh.

               On her face was a shy and intimate smile, the light in her hand she was handing to me, to my hands that waited and trembled, in this most intimate moment, our most delicate bonding.

               She was handing me her soul.

               I held it, and it was heat that did not burn, a dream that did not wake, a wound that was cut and healed at birth.

               I felt the light of her, the essence that had drawn me to her, helpless against her wonder, was in my hands.

               We were one, this angel and me.

               And I felt all the sweetness of my life return, untarnished by loss and the fall from grace, I felt the times the light of heaven had poured through me like the river crashing in white capped power down the mountain, washing away all else in it’s past.

               If I had been unworthy, we both would have burned away.

               And in that fleeting eternity, that sweetness of her glory, she knew all there was in me, and all I could be, that I would be, for her, for us.

               And I returned her soul to her , and slipped back into her silk and soft flesh that closed around it, and sealed in the light.

               She looked like a young woman again, hiding her power and beauty.

               Again, she reached out and touched my face, stroking my cheek.

               Again, she gave me a soft, tender kiss.

               The tears wracked me then, unable to absorb all that had happened, that we had shared.

               She drew me in her arms and kissed my head, sang me a song from some happy land.

               I cried, then slept in her arms.

Gehenna

I invited an angel to sit with me.

She said she could not drink of

the fruit of the vine, but water

was good for both of us.

I tried to find the words to tell,

that would make it all clear to

her and to me, of all I feared

and all I almost dared hope.

Cold water from a deep well.

May her and I never thirst now.

The day was dawning in Gehenna,

and was it at all real, this Light?

She touched her hand to mine,

light and love and softest warmth.

The sun was so golden and full

and my eyes hurt to see it.

Hurt to see what was coming,

what could be, and what I was

before it. The angel drank her

water, and we sat in silence.

Sorrowful, bright light shining on us.

Divinity and a Mage (Emma)

I see her now, in my dreams, as the woman she is,

thin and lithe, with long red hair brighter than the sun.

I see myself as I was then, gaunt and callow, wisp of the wind,

madly in love with her, just like all the world, just like everyone.

Teenagers together, she an angel, me a chaos magician,

we fought the demons taking over, divinity and a mage.

High school was rife with darkness and the subterfuge,

and I fought with her, until Junior Year, now turn the page.

The chaos of my own tricks took me down, and I left her,

left the light, left all kindness, went over there to the other side.

Trying not to be weak, not lose, I lost myself to tricks and rage,

but her tears washed the sun, she was loving as heaven is wide.

So I see her now, in black jacket, faux fur lining, ear buds,

the singing of her own kind in the earbuds, still fighting.

And I’m back on her side, but afraid to call out, never be like it was.

But I love her, maybe I can holy again, this ship finally righting.

Look back, my angel, look back, maybe just a smile.

Maybe we can fight together again, side by side, brave.

I wish I could be the boy I was, who adored you like the sun,

I wish I could be the boy that didn’t become fear’s slave.

Look back, my angel, look back……….

Wash The Stars With Tears

A mother to be, a blood pact

with the child and the world,

the daylight coming.

On the beach, warm gulf waters,

dressed in black, watching the

angel come ashore.

A soul may burn, or be the sun,

or just wash the stars with tears,

like this mother to be did.

A whispering in the air, sweet,

but their a sting in it’s notes,

and in this joy.

The tide rolls in, over her bare feet,

and that angel has come, seal unbroken,

the words decided.

The angel kisses her head, makes an

ashen cross, a blood pact with the sun,

never to be taken back.

Her Bare Feet Not Touching The Ground

Angel’s eyes are grey and cold and sharp.
She looks at me, between sleep and dream,
floating in front of the TV playing a pop princess,
and that bright sight and deathless glory swallows me.
 Asleep on the couch again, the angel reachs in my head
and finds the sacred things there to burn, so I’ll be hers.
The dreams of a winter paradise and my sweet lover
are ashes as the angel’s desire for summer and blood overide.
 The angel floats over to me, looking down upon me, harshly.
Her long, thing fingers stroke my cheek, turning warmth to death.
She kisses my head, and I am sealed to her, in Earth and in Heaven.
She takes my soul through my eyes, to keep her young and mighty.
 I shiver, I shake, the cold creeping through me, my heart in a frozen fist.
Yet I adore her, as I look up at her, her bare feet not touching the ground.
I am flesh, and devoured and claimed by the powers in the sky, in the ground.
I am hers, and I worship the cold she leaves, in the deathlike promise of sex.

Sick Day Saturday

Rainy day. A cold, winter Saturday.
A chill in my skin, even as I cook her
my special recipe chicken noodle soup.
 I look at the wet and mud, muted color.
It feel so much more real to me now,
not like the lush summers of youth.
 I ladle out the soup, trapping lots of
chicken, my girlfriend loves the chicken,
and the fat egg noodles.
 Bowl on plate, spoon in bowl,
walking carefully to where she
lays on the couch.
 My breath catches, seeing her,
my lover, my woman, still a dreamer
of fantastic worlds.
 Wrapped in a blue blanket, wearing
her favorite hoodie, nose all the way
in an old Mighty Maid comic, from long ago.
 She’s kept something I’ve lost, an innocence,
a purity and hope, a belief in a better world
and the holiness of our heroes.
 Mighty Maid, like when we were young,
and she’s get a piece of that girl inside her,
where I’m just bitter, waiting for the fall.
 Like a sick day from school, curled up on
the couch, wrapped in the armor of blankets,
lost in dream worlds, fantastic places.
 So lost in the world beyond her, so ready to fly.
I watch her for a moment, just entranced by her,
her sweetness, her angelic light.
 She looks up, smiles, puts down the comic as I
place the steaming hot soup on the coffee table.
I kiss her head, her cheek, her cute little nose.
 She smiles, and starts to eat the chicken soup.
We talk, about the high and perfect days past,
about what we plan to do, once married, on our own.
 She curls up to nap, and I kiss her cheek, see her smile.
I go back to the kitchen to clean up, and see the sun coming,
and for a moment, for my lover, I believe in the light.

Cute Bruiser

Golden hair tied up tight in a bun on her head.
Clear blue eyes now dark with her veiling will.
Small hands taped and made into hard fists.
Her warm skin now tense and taut as wire.

The fight is here.

 My woman, unsexed, and washed of glamour.
Facing her rival in might, fire, not fury or hate.
Swollen eye and her cheek bruised a ripe purple.
But her gaze is iron strong, will not bend at all.
 The fight is over.
 Home again, her golden hair down and free.
She is soft again, with blood washed away
and the light and warmth is back in her eyes.
Still cute, with that hurt eye and bruised cheek.

She is the angel again.

 But I want that valkyrie too…….