Tag Archives: angels

Mustangs

There are still stacks of opened boxes, the windows still uncovered,

but I feel somewhat safe, being back from the road, and behind a

row of thick trees.

Just a couch and my laptop, and the plastic, toy horses my kid sister

played with when she was little, before the demons started an endless

war in her head.

I sit Indian style in front of them on the floor, hardwood against my bare

ankles, playing with them, trying to make stories and find the right childlike

spell that will make her whole again.

My kid sister, not a kid, now a woman, sleeps upstairs, still plagued by bad

dreams even then. The demons don’t let her be. I can’t call down the angels,

and I doubt God saying doesn’t forsake us.

I put on puppet shows for her, about King Arthur and Guinevere fighting Satan,

and make up ballads of Archangel Michael fighting Satan, casting him out forever,

giving her hope her ware can be won.

At night she’ll sometimes sit outside on the back patio, even as winter comes,

in her nightshirt and jammie bottoms, listening to melancholy hymns on her

headphones. Even with God, this world is bittersweet.

I remember, when she was little, I was her favorite brother, and she followed me

like an angelic familiar, like the hope of a new morning even after a long dark night,

and I remember playing with the horses she so loved.

And she could make me see, in my older and lazy third eye, that we were riders on

the steppes and on the plains and the ancient mountains, priests and warriors in the

world so resigned to evil.

And I try to call that magic now, re-open my third eye so I can make my way to the battle,

so doesn’t have to fight alone, so she can be happy and wild yet again, be Michael chasing

Satan out forever, so she can be Gabriel, telling the world what it needs to hear.

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Angels Lighting Candles

We’ve made it to Colorado, up in The Rockies.

The Red of Autumn is turning brown into white.

Our car is out of gas, we huddle together on

the steps of an old stone church, out in nowhere,

beneath the sky full of stars, angels burning candles.

The wind is crisp, becoming harsh through the night.

We cling to each other in the alcove of the doorway.

We whisper the secret words the angels taught her.

We whisper the verses that promised that we’re loved.

Will one of the angels come down and kiss our heads?

Who will come in the morning? Friend or Enemy?

Can’t trust a Jesus Thorns to have made a tender heart.

But we’ve got nowhere lese to go and nowhere to hide.

We’ve got to make it to the sea, so we can see again the sun.

Will those angels send a friend? Do they believe we’ve bled enough?

Archangel’s Walk Alone

Archangel’s work and walk alone,
maybe get to flirt with pretty, hard luck
waitresses in all night pancake houses.
Always a war to fight, a demon to repel,
as even heaven itself catches flames now,
and there’s no time for dates or smoke breaks.
Endless war and battle and toil wearing
even creatures of light down, of love, duty.
Even the believers have guns in their hands.
As they wipe the gore from their silver swords,
they try to think of the sister hugging her baby brother,
of the mother wiping away her daughter’s tears.
Try to remember to hear the prayers that are
not barbed with venom, that call on God in the darkness,
those that are so desperate for the light.
And, for a moment after another demon slain,
or another innocent lost, or any fire starting to burn,
they watch families love and protect one another.
They fight for what they can never have,
these creatures of light, love and duty.

 

Disgorged Beast

The dumpster being lifted and emptied,
disgorging it’s rancid trash, brackish water
into the garbage truck with clang and smash,
sounding like the cry and roar of ancient beast.

4:30 A.M., the beasts rage wakes me, in my room,
cluttered and disarrayed, to the sickly piss yellow streetlight
shining in from my bedroom window, a mocking sun,
the light of heaven gone and curdled in this world.

On the desk is the words and incantations of poetry,
last ditch hope, that I can make an angel come to me,
with her sword of fire, wings of white, and furious eyes,
or a least a kiss from her so I can fight these ancient beasts,

that roar in the night, hiding in our skins and faces,
in industrial clatter of the waking world, the noose that
is soft and sweet and slow that we welcome it’s grip like
a young and enthusiastic lover, as the ancient beasts command.

I lay in that sickly light, that ancient beast chugging on,
and compose prayers and invitations for that pure angel,
so we can fight and I can be brave and maybe the ancients beasts
won’t have their revenge in the black pool liquid of their bones.

Holy Flame in an Obsidian Eye


The Ivory Tower That Welcomes The Lost

Las Vegas is bright by it is light invisible. There is nothing revealed. There is no warmth.

The songs of my youth, of infatuation and sorrow, call only ghosts whose teeth draw blood.

All night I was awake. All that came were bad memories. Aching for sweet things lost.

Nothing soothes this longing, for what I once held close, and for what’s never been.

The sun is coming up, and to the east, away from the city, it is blinding.

On the edge of the desert, a square of green dead ends into coarse sand.

Stately and new houses already abandoned, and I was late to the party.

Their are only ghosts here, and skittering shadows inside that don’t know my name.

Coffee at a kitchen table in a house that looks cozy, but demons ruin everything for me.

All my treasures and comforts offer nothing, where I have only time, and my buzzing thoughts.

I can remember the girl that bought me the poster for some obscure Russian art film I loved.

But she is gone, and I am here, and I can’t find where my new friends are waiting for me.

Coffee in a travel cup, a thin sweatshirt and sweatpants, and I’m heading to the desert.

There is an angel there, there is a tower of bright light and ivory, where she welcomes the lost.

She will hear the honeyed prayers and grant me rest, show me the way back to a home in this world.

Out in the desert she waits, the sun would not lie to me, would not lead me astray.

But still, there’s a gun in the glove compartment, if I’m let down one more time.

Butterscotch and Wine

The flames of the stake perhaps do not purify,
but they do release, from flesh even as strong as hers,
and the weight of snow and days and years and sleep,
and the cruelty that comes down so thoughtlessly.
When she was a girl, just a moment ago, but another life,
she danced hand in hand in circles with the other girls
around The Fairy Tree, in the woods with Edenesque light,
free for a time, to laugh and dream of trifling things.
Free to climb it’s height where she could hold the sun
in the palm of her hand, and kiss the beams of light
that were butterscotch and wine, that soothed her
as she saw her nation burn, just down the road, just out of sight.
She kneeled once at it’s roots, the tree between heaven
and older realms and Eden and the waking world, loss and warmth,
God wrapped in the silver blade pulled from a Pagan breast,
and she felt the warmth of a better sun, as her angels came.
And no more trifles, now more play in the height of the tree,
though a better sun shown ever on her face, that she could not
hold in her hand, or taste it’s sweetened beams, but knew it’s grace,
as she went of to war, shorn of pride, but brighter than all the stars.
As she slept, among her soldiers, course and holy men, brave and tired,
she dreamed of The Fairy Tree, which was another tree in Eden,
that we did not choose to eat from, but just the one that showed our nakedness,
but not the life that could come from a better sun, held only in God’s hand.
And as the end came, on that stake, on that hungry and devilish fire,
her work done but her place among loved and trusted ones taken,
placed among vipers that speak in holy write and sacred scripture,
who bleed out the true and pure with the edges of words of love.
The Dove emerged from her heart that stayed whole and true and red,
and her soul with it to the sky, to the clouds all the way to that better sun,
to it’s light everlasting and all the weight of war and death and blood
were washed by blood, and she was free again, free and a child, free
And again she was at the roots of The Fairy Tree, The Tree of Life,
the better sun bright through it’s branches, and faith given over to warmth,
know that she was home, and the fruit was given and received, precious communion,
and in Eden played and wandered, and no more weight was on her forevermore.
She was a child. She was free. She was eternal. She was unashamed.

The Crimson Angel

Late night drive, from the lush green mountains of my home,
to the empty and harsh deserts, where the aliens come down.
Angels ride UFOs, and Demons and Deros jamm light vibrations.
When I get to Scottsdale, when I get to Bobbi Jo, it will be clear.
 Little pull off, thermos of coffee, didn’t know it was so cold at night.
The Eye of Mercy is brighter than the moon, than all our time.
It warms me, as the wind is cold, and their is devilish dreams about.
Eye in my eye, to see the light in the dark, in the hold out saints.
 The sun is rising, the bloody birth of the clear, blameless sky.
In the half burning light, the desert is a shadow and a star.
In the honeyed light, it’s all so mysterious, wonderous.
The light of day is so harsh to memories and hope, our angels.
 The coffee gives jitters, and there’s no smokes to steady me.
But I know she’s waiting, The Crimson Angel, the Light of Justice.
Come all this way, the demons getting in the music, even my dreams.
I will join her. I will be holy and pure, a paladin forever restored.

July

You cannot serve two masters.
As some point, you pick one
or the other. You chose who
you really are, what you really
love, what you really cherish,
what you will give your life for.
 The time is coming, I realize,
as I look in the shadowed reflection
in the glass, back lit by harsh light,
in a warm July night, as the city
hums and burns and laughs.
The time is coming to chose.
 Am I really an angel, or only a man,
or perhaps a demon, bent on revenge?
Am I really the angel, I say I want to be?
Is there a devotional heresy, or fair blasphemy,
or unloving righteousness. Which will I be.
 The choice will be made, one way or another,
in blood and fire, or in silence, or by valiant sacrifice.
The choice will be made in either bravery or craveness.
In loving her truly or going into the laughing death
of the Venusberg.
 The choice will be made, one way or another……….

Companions

Do angels weep, or hurt?
Do they bleed, or doubt?
Do they love like we do?
Do they know our souls?
 Up in heaven seems easy,
up in the sky looking down.
With a light eternal shining,
with their wings so pure.
 Do they feel rage at it all,
at the bloodshed, and war
and all the broken and weak
being tossed aside and ruined?
 Do they do it themselves?
Is it commanded of them?
Are they light, when life fades
and the darkness claims us?
 Are they there at all, is anything?
Celestial superheroes, or couriers
of god’s will, or companions in the dark,
or just dreams so we don’t feel alone?