angels, a poem

You want to write a poem about angels.
Not because they are winged and white and haloed
And in many paintings very beautiful
But because you have seen many things and remembered
Only angels …

from a poem about angels, by Jacqueline Osherow

Trying to stay positive
in world like this
can be hard
even for angels
that is why so many
have gone into hiding.

Beautiful colors
soft green fading into yellow and orange
I see her standing there
and I know nothing about her
but there is something there
something so alluring and so mysterious
that I’m convinced I’ve got to speak with her
at any cost
yet as I near her
she fades away
not quickly but ever so slowly
so that I’m sure
she was an angel.

Angels
winged creatures
birthed out of human imagination
solely for religious observance
they are a cultural conception
symbolic and mythical
so you thought
until today
when you saw her
floating outside your window
open up
pull her in
save her.

Out there in the grassy meadow
in the big tree that lights up every morning
when the sun shines through
when each wavering branch
is a silver silhouette against the dawning day
that’s where you’ll find her
right there in the lower branches;
after the storm
like so many others
her wings were broken
so she sits there day after day
and yet you’ve never seen her
because you were never looking;
silver and sparkles
how brilliantly she shines
a coy angel
who says not a word
yet gazes down at you fondly
every time you pass by.

Former angel stabbed,
second-hand reports say
it was the left arm
but there is no official report
of the incident
nor will they be
as angels
have fallen out of favor.

In a place where hot molten metal
is poured into a mold
and sparks fly madly
and the smell of sulfur
is powerful and overwhelming
she hides
right there in the corner
in that small cool blue space within a space
where she is immune to everything;
she hides because she’s lost her feathers
every last one of them has been taken
by the red eyed one
who even now searches for her;
she drapes a silk green cloth around her
and it blends with her green tattooed skin
intricate, geometrical organic forms
reflect her nature;
she will need long feathers
to string together a makeshift wing
if she is to rise again
if she is to get back into the battle
you must believe in her
because this battle
is for you.

A law banning winged creatures
larger than a bird
violates an angel’s right to be
so a judge ruled last Thursday
but Society for a Safer World (SSW)
plans an appeal saying
angels are a bad influence on children
who might try to duplicate their feats of flying
and hurt themselves.

Sh, be quiet,
look over there
another coy little angel
she has shrunken down
into the crooks and crannies;
she’s down there with the mites
and you’d need an electron microscope
just to see her, but even then
if your heart were too small
she’d elude you just the same;
she holds the thin red line
the one that can take her back
but only if she can hold on
long enough –
only if she can will herself
not to let go;
she is sad, so sad
because once she had wings
massive and gorgeous
but they’ve been transformed
into branches
that fan out from her
and get tangled with her hair
how it hurts
in more ways than one
her lower half is slowly
turning to stone
but she holds on
not for herself
but for me
and you.

The police laid a total of 128 charges
against three angels
that were rounded up last night
having found them singing in a grove;
it was a pre-dawn strike
the angels quickly huddling together
and surrendering in fear,
among the charges were
flying without a license
public gathering without prior approval
and public indecency –
the angels being but scantily clad;
the angels are being held without bail
until a hearing can be set.

In that shadow over there
yet another angel hides
she’s huddled up
a broken marionette
knees to chest
one wing a make shift thing
the other a broken pole
she’s covered almost entirely
in masking tattoos
that ancient, intricate pattern again
geometric and organic
soft and delicate;
a shawl is thrown over her cold naked body;
she is the saddest angel of them all,
her face is dark and covered in smears
tear blurred;
her eyes are so long
and so dark
and so sad
that they drip with a melancholia
so intense they evoke an attractive force
strong enough
to draw into it
anything that nears them;
what will it take to fix her?

by matt at shadow of iris

poem about angels
Photo by ~touchingandkissing at deviantart | cc license 3.0

Quote:
“The last thing the world needs is another poem about angels, but I can’t help it.” – unknown

I hope you enjoyed this poem about angels.

murmurs and shrapnel vi

A longtime dream dies
and realization falters
as a leader seeks agreement
and each time finds none
he swims in figures
and calculations, it’s always
the same number that
keeps coming up,
the number of the beast.

In the woods out there
way out there
in the place where you won’t go
that’s where you’ll find them
dancing in a heated frenzy
sweating a sweet scent
the leader stripping down
as steam rises up off her body;
she raises her hands to the red moon
and calls out his name
beckoning again and again
until finally he comes
and stands before them
tall and mighty
his face that of the beast
his eyes sharp and narrow, red
the horns of a ram
curving backwards from his head;
he steps out of the myst
to fulfill their rapture
but it will be their last.

On top of the peak
they stare down
at an apocalyptic vision
of a towering city shrouded
in a menacing grey smog
down there
haze blurs their eyes
and veils the ships
dotting the harbor
an inescapable toxic cocktail.

You summon this beast
at your own risk
if you think he cares for you
he does not
he is a power unto himself
something beyond death
worse than death
and he will show you that,
the horns on his head
are pincers, sharp and biting
the third horn between them
a malformed unicorn’s horn
as sharp as the candle’s flame
and ten times hotter
his face is centered
around his crocodile nose
his body nearly hidden
by a cape that flows around him
black bat wings that enshroud him,
his chest is translucent
showing you bones and guts
that rot within
but there is no heart
none at all
only a vague blue glow
that casts a spell
on those who dare look.

Negotiators
look for fresh ideas,
when none comes
they burn paper
billions and billions of dollars.

Yes you should be scared,
but what else can I tell you,
there are angels coming
but you must be patient
the dust has not settled yet
and who is the good
and who is the bad
has yet to be seen.

[Inspired by the works of Kris Verwimp with some words borrowed from this article.]

murmurs and shrapnel v

History calling
time to act
coming to terms
and
losing my perspective
battles lie there
across the horizon
so
I think I’ll stay here.

A girl
sleek, shining, green skin
thick red silken hair that puffs up
and gives her stature
I like it
she’s got small horns that peek through
just above the ears
attractive
those small red horns
her body moves ever so slowly
undulating to some rhythm
that only she can hear
with a body that already
rises and falls
in all the right places;
there is a tattoo on her butt
but aside from that
and her long black leather boots
nothing else covers her;
and for some reason I can’t fathom
around her prance two rainbow neon roosters
growing brighter by the minute.

Arrangements for a deal bring nothing
but grief, drum-beat, chants
and tear gas
they’ll shove you one way
but if you go the other
they’ll shove you that way too,
so back and forth I go.

A grotesque and sad face,
dead flesh
patched together here and there
with staples and tape
he’s falling apart
yet his eyes move
they are alive as ever
soft brown that calls to me
yet when I get near him
the thick green snake that funnels around his body
poking out here and there
warns me to stay away,
I do.

An angel tells me
blood must be spilled
for the good to prevail
a last and final battle
a battle of judgment
this angel has massive white wings
her hair is a blue pony tail
and her lips, yes, sensuous
but deep shades of indigo;
her dress is blood red
and it hugs her body,
it fits her as if it has been poured on
and when I look down at her feet
I see that it has been
for it drips into pools
that well up around her.

– matt at shadow of iris

[Inspired by works of Rockin’ Jelly Bean and Mike Sutfin]

murmurs and shrapnel iv

Time was
when time wasn’t.

He’s there now
watching me
through the window
he never leaves
and he’s waiting
till I exit the door
and at that moment
he will get me
to the nearest tree we’ll go
with barb wire
and little worm like things
he planned it long ago
and so
I’m waiting
I’m waiting for an angel
she will save me
she will have long thick golden hair
and a face of conviction
massive wings, translucent and leathery
a figure that from top to bottom
would tempt even a saint
she will exude sensuality
but her intent will be pure
and
she will cleave that demon
clear through from head to foot,
from top to bottom,
and then
I’ll be free.

A smirking demon
with soulless eyes
scaly skin
and four spikes in his head
he holds up the mask of wisdom
as if to poke fun at it
that mask is empty
in his other hand he holds a bloodied sword
for war has come
and behind him a church burns
tears for you and I.

Time was
when time wasn’t
but it’s not over
not nearly.

– matt at shadow of iris

[Inspired by works of Wes Benscoter and Luis Royo]

dark gorge

These walls stretch up on either side of me
water made this road
yet it is perfect for me
I want to crouch down and hug myself
stare up at the sheer walls
and absorb the energy
eternity flowing through me
right here
right now.

– matt at shadow of iris

(dark gorge)