My Angels

Are the color of Easter & have extremely yellow eyes.
Their cat gazes, their nails of gold leaf
Are of laser beam precision, yet sear also
With tenderness.

They see that I sleep with a knife
Beneath my mattress & that I shall take
To quiet cat naps rather than mouth on a straw
Siphoning up gas.

"Look at us.  Look.", the lavender of their palms,
the pinks in their wings, seems to entreat.

"Look, you who are observant as anything
with your pencils & brushes, radar on perception's
rivers, what is all the awareness for if not flight?"

I need an ear trumpet, some times, true as Gabriel's
Bronze horn in order to hear what they say.

I need to pluck out my own eyes, to wander blindly
Bumping, for these beings to realize how I am not
Getting the point.

They stop me with gentle lightning force, then laugh
As they bolt like the magi first 2 amber, then 2 topaz
Beads into my life

 
Again

Wings once more,
Wings at edge of sleep.
I stir, I wake, half
Memory, half
Forget.  Angels
have been around
At some business still
With nothing still
About the stillness.

Instead, kinetic, quiet rises &
the waves of calm spread ebulliently.

I greet the faces passing, & there is
something about you haunting their
Earnest eyes.  They are of seals & goofy
Spaniels.

Surgeons, lovers, healers, saints,
The purest of the pure, know the guidance
Of this skin.

Do they also know the soul is caramel
colored as Arab sands?

About the rims it goes from pink
to yellow 'til the whole spectrum is
glowing through tangibly ineluctable.

I caress that, finding out that the touching
Touches back, & even now from the empty room
Where our loving went on, off goes your Call
Light & I astonished, answer.

Loves' absolution does not question anything
any more.  I rest.  I move.  You stay on the fringes,
Stay through me, a centering guest.

Then it's hello again, goodbye-----
But wings waltz, lift, and embrace.
After this possessed moments are modeled
with purpose unawares

 
 
                                                                  
             

No Angels

Save the mortal,
Mortal angels saving
By the hearts light
In eyes if we can see
By our empathy
What is eternity
Through the winds
Of one another's
Touch.  Far
Away, so
Close, time,
The stillest moments
In our gazes, our hands,
If we can center in
On all the ages sweeping
Over & who we are,
What we mean to them.
Love, the geographies
We house, the spirits
In our systems & how
To get across now
If realization is lost
Of what our loving purpose
Is?  Dearest, the dead
Swim back to me, as much
Expressive hieroglyphics
In dreams as they were
When breathing.  I trust
Them yet but without
A name for the business
& should I ascend for you again
to catch your descent in the circus
of flying existence than may we land
to stand knowing only the embrace
of the larger pictures' reaches

Other Angels

The scepters, the breasts,
Joan of Arc's shield being
This Sharon rose, this trumpet
Lily, the names each an alias.

Know them by oils anointing
Each doorway perfume purifies
Like a key.

My eyes are on that needle
Calling for Ariadne's stitch,
For oceanic landscapes resembling
Fish with iridescent clouds.

Surely angels cavort with swords
Of honor just above the statuary
Steeples & eaves.

Please Angels descend.  Familiars hover.
I dab this neck, this wrist, & wait

2007 Stephen Mead