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Green Angel
Long-fingered hands, grey-green with time,
Reach out from the darkness filling the world around me.
These hands are strong, and yet ethereal;
Ephemeral in the opacity.
Hands that cradle me gently,
Protecting me from the ravages of
A world gone mad,
And I strain to discern the face of my saviour.
This is a face of serenity smiling down at me;
A verdigris seraph who has brought me
Out of shadows and pain
Into a place suffused with soft grey light.
A green angel with hands that now encompass my world.
11/17/02
Miracle of Our Life
On the sword of a God of love, we will sacrifice our hate;
On a cross of olive branches, with nails of light,
We will crucify our own self-loathing.
The cynics will become martyrs of peace and jaded optimists
Will once again look for hope
In the ashes of a conquered religion.
The arrogant, insecure saviour of a nation of materialistic
nonentities
Shall undergo a transformation and lead a
Glorious revolution of the intellect.
And out of the mire of mediocrity, a phoenix will rise,
Like a beacon of hope,
To become the miracle of our life.
From the ashes of failure, an untainted, inhuman being
Will assume the rightful inheritance of our souls.
5/26/02
Points of Light
O say, dost thou see the shining
points of light and hope,
glittering 'midst a field of cerulean?
And these points of light illuminate the shadows
of fear and oppression,
heralding a new dawning of spiritual glory.
Thou seest a thousand points and
infinitesimal motes, coalescing into
half a hundred stars embroidered
piecemeal onto the fabric of our lives.
Stone World
Face framed by hands,long and fine-boned,
an image sculpted, carved from not-quite-perfect,
flawed marble.
Tracing of veins on the backs of stone-fleshed hands,
pulsing bluely at temples,
spidering across eyelids.
Fingers, delicate and bony,
cup gently and hold this face up,
out of water,
out of stifling thought.
Ragged nails and cuticles, tiny flaws
over the perfection of the sculpture.
These hands are unadorned;
this face is adorned by these hands.
Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, as if
waiting for the first scattered drops to
quench a thirst that has gone unrelieved too long.
A stray bit of hair across one cheek,
silken thread to the framing hands.
High, angular cheekbones
cast shadows on the rest of the face;
they try to steal all the light
and leave none for the eyes.
Eyes now half-lidded, trying surreptitiously
to soak in some small portion of the light,
which emanates indirectly
from the recessed lighting track
on the grey, grey marbled walls.
Harsh shadows thrown on the cold, unforgiving floor;
a winged creature hovering silently,
motionlessly,
eternally waiting for
the completion of a moment.
A figure waits
to transcend the beautiful into the legendary.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
but only stone beholds this tableau:
a stone society viewing its stony creation,
devoid of emotions admissible
in polite stony company.
Remaking its art over in its
biased image of self,
all is frozen marble,
flawed to the core,
yet still
full of grace.
9/5/05
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