Tag Archives: angel
second chance
Your dreams
seep from you
a vapor
rolling out the window
where a stranger nearby
unexpectedly
finds himself
smiling.
Time drifts
past you
and flows downwards
pulling you along.
A flower blooms
and in it
you see your heart,
a small angel
offers it to you;
a second chance.
– matt at shadow of iris
second chance
a shy angel
A shy angel
covering her eyes
and blushing
as her wings
hang back
delicate reserve
as the rain falls
gently.
– matt at shadow of iris
a shy angel
[Inspired by the work of Kris Kuksi.]
melun diptych
They asked him to paint the virgin Mary
along with her small child
instead he painted the king’s lover
on a throne, she’d never have
with an heir, she’d never bear.
She sits there calmly
on the Queen’s chair,
a jewel encrusted crown
upon her hair plucked forehead
and an ermine-lined cloak
resting gently upon her shoulders;
the laces that hold
the upper two halves of her dress together
have been loosened
so that one side falls away
to expose a single, full
and perfectly rounded
breast
more erotic, than tender
more seductive, than maternal
a magnetic lunar globe
that pulls all eyes
in.
The boy that sits on her lap
could careless
about his mother’s nipple
but sits already
with the weight of kings
upon his shoulders;
there is a detached air
about this naked rotund prince
as he points with disintrest
below his mother’s waste
to something hidden there
under the folds of her dress;
he can follow the golden chain
far back
and understands
his own
carnal origins.
Both the virgin and her babe
are white as snow
against a background
of endless cherubim and seraphim
some so cold and so blue
you can feel the ice on their breath
and others so hot and so red
that surely they seethe from within;
small sensual angels
in the flesh
shimmering and smooth
profane.
The virgin herself is so beautiful
that a thousand words
could never
ever
do her justice,
she is as delicate as a porcelain doll
and yet as lithe and poised
as a swan gliding across still water.
So thin as to barely be seen,
a veil surounds her oval face
and has been pushed back
to offer an invitation;
but for now she demurs
her wide eyes staring downwards
nearly closed
at a spot not near
but someplace far, far away.
This is how she will tempt you
when you step in closer
and closer
to gently lift her chin
and without thought
let her lips
meet your own.
– matt at shadow of iris
melun_diptych
[The enemies of King Charles VII of France likely poisoned Agnès Sorel with mercury years before Jean Fouquet even began his beautiful painting of her contained in the Melun Diptych.]
murmurs and shrapnel xxviii
She weaves a rainbow
high above her head
a bright swath for all to see,
they say that she’s obedient
to a fault.
Chiefs of state address
unintelligible questions
and apply unorthodox procedures
to erect a superstructure
with great care
but it comes down quickly
when the winter comes
and the winds begin to blow.
A vague human form,
an outline of a man
but too long and lanky;
a head like a football helmet
but made of bone
and old
and cracked;
all of mankind’s ills
balled up together
into yarn, web, and wires
then aged a thousand years
and spread out again
then lifted
and tossed over his shoulders
covering him like a net
or a shawl
and melting into his body
melding with it
into something strange and new
and yet frighteningly old;
a place for snakes, lizards, insects
and vermin;
a small, sad boy
hangs up tiny mementoes
among the shrapnel of his body,
dimunitive emblems
that contain photos
of his mother and father,
his aunts and uncles;
little bits of hope
amid the miasma of decay.
Conspiracies and lies,
dreams that hold you
and won’t let go;
a dark angel that lives
in an orange box
strung around the neck
of a ghoul
with a thick oxygen tube
that stretches up
to a head
that is hollow.
– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs and shrapnel xxviii
[Inspired by the work of Barry Windsor-Smith and Zdzislaw Beksinski.]
skeletons ii
Maybe she is an angel
maybe she is not
I’m just not sure
I’ve seen her now and then
walking through that slender passage
that exits out of the train station
the one where no one usually goes
because it’s fetid and smells foul
and is too dark,
the one where the water drips from the ceiling
drip drop, drip drop;
she’s always there with her little sheep
the one that has a face identical to her own –
skinless, bony, and hollow.
Moving downwards
toward a dream
that has lured me through a door
cozy and cream colored
enveloping me in softness and warmth
flesh pleasurably disintegrating
until there’s nothing left
but my own bones
deep, deep, down.
An audience of skeletons
that clap their hands and make
a scraping sound
like fingernails on a chalk board
ten times over;
and all the while
the clattering of their teeth
like a fly
buzzing around
in my left ear.
Why would you want
to be a skeleton, he said
that’s just stupid,
after all
who feels sorry for skeletons?
– matt at shadow of iris
skeletonsii
murmurs and shrapnel xx
In the town
at the edge of the barrens
rich goat herders
pay rotund town criers
to shout from their rooftops
the war has come
the war has come.
Four lazy angels
rest by the shore
and care nothing for the war;
two snuggle close
to a goat
with long horns
and black cloven feet
it bays
at the encroaching night;
the faces of these two angels
are like young children
playing hooky from school
or a man
who skips the vote;
the third angel
wades into the water
and glances coyly
at someone on the shore
while she playfully grabs
a long necked crane by the tail
and catlike yanks it down;
the fourth angel
with her feet wading into the sea water
hugs a rock
and nestles her head against
a resting owl
with mischievous eyes
she smiles knowingly
as it is she
who has beguiled the others
into their own desertions;
the long necked crane
now lies sprawled on its back
and to the surprise of the third angel
it jerks spasmodically
and begins to die –
as it looks up it sees
the last shimmering glimmers
of the fading sun
as they highlight
dark foreboding clouds
with a fading silver halo.
Permanent members
of the peace council
argue without cease
and issue communiques
full of nothing
but static
and murmurings.
I thought it was
a horseman’s pick
but on closer examination
I saw it was made of bone;
skulls and teeth
elongated and woven together
into a fabric spread across
a cubic surface
and sealed
with bolts and wire;
the contrite outsides
of a growing and gurgling
deviant machine
resting
at the heart of it all.
– matt at shadow of iris
[The second verse was inspired by a work of Esao Andrews.]
murmurs and shrapnel xix
A giant white skull
lies at the bottom
of an ancient courtyard
cracked and fading
unmolested
for a thousand years.
At an academy for priests
acolytes argue over claims
made by the great leader
as threats
in the form of barbed arrows
rain down;
political stability crumbles.
Before the war
male angels
were said to be
beautiful beyond compare
perfect faces of serenity
and radiant wisdom
gentle oceanic eyes
and with sweeping
expansive
white feathered wings
now
they wear necklaces
of skulls
and their eyes
bulge out
grey masses that see little;
their wings are tattered things
moth-like
and within their smokey patterns
you’ll find the faces
of each mortal
they have slaughtered.
Mounting tensions exist
on the border
between this world
and the next
tunnels are being used
to circumvent death
as souls travel directly
from here to there
a blockade
has left more than one
existence
totally annihilated.
A deep hole
a sheer drop
down
winched up on a hook
down you go
down
hundreds of passages
a lost labyrinth
soul smugglers
running hither tither
screaming wildly
in the blackness;
in the small moments
between the screams
if you listen closely
you’ll hear
the sounds of machinery.
– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs and shrapnel xviii
If a stranger walks into your life
with an uncertain role to play
don’t leave the stranger in left field.
A wingless angel
stark naked
and running into battle
with nothing
but spooks at her side
three bodiless spooks
with strangely oblong
old faces
one with a lolling tongue
the other with a pensive look
and one that lectures the enemy
even as it flies forward to meet them
a fourth little spook has a body
and runs forward with unfathomable terror
written across its small face
– he is the smart one
for he knows what enemy
he is the going forward to meet
and he would dash away
if given half a chance –
the angel bonds him
with a thin metallic rope
and her hand is right there
at the nape of his neck
keeping him in place;
she’s a mean looking angel
with burning eyes, twisted lips
and a briar of thick tangled hair
hollering as she strides forward
to greet the encroaching armies of evil
she’s just skin and bones
and her halo
makes her an easy target.
The father of modern analysis
is at odds with
the mother of all chance.
– matt at shadow of iris
[Middle verse inspired by a work of Zdzislaw Beksinski.]
murmurs and shrapnel xiii
Soft pale loveliness
close yet far
life’s chances
balanced on a pin
and ready to tip
all you have to do is blow
yet who has the courage.
Longtime players
step down
in an uphill struggle
contentious issues arise.
He said,
Every man needs an angel
a man don’t know who he is
and it takes faith
the faith of an angel
to teach him that.
She said,
But what of the angel?
He said,
What about her?
More pain lies ahead
says the great leader
reforms are vital
out of your pocket
and by the sweat of your brow
we will get them.
Books upon books
falling into each other
important books
pretentious books
forgotten books
hard to find books
books here
and books there
sweet books
and sour books
cold books
and hot books
so many books
you’re swimming in them
and falling asleep in them
until you don’t want to wake up
you’re dreaming books.
A long history of poor health
chronic congestive heart failure
a sad and tragic end –
psychiatric evaluations
and a post-mortem
reveal
a tendency towards
supremacism and shooting.
I miss you
I miss you in a way you can’t know
it’s not the way
you always touched me
so gently
and with such care
it’s not that beautiful look
you always had
outside on a cold day
with your cheeks flushed
and your hair just slightly falling
over your cool eyes
it’s not that at all
nor all those other things
it’s all that I should have been to you
and wasn’t
that’s what I miss.
– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs and shrapnel vii
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?
[Inspired by the work of Mark A. Nelson and recent stories of angels in the news.]
