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| Angels with the Blessed Virgin -- Botticelli |
A PRAYER TO MY ANGELS
O ye angels, fly to me
and lift me out to sea, above
the waves that rest but never sleep
while there is work undone.
Perhaps the sea’s an angel too;
it has the timeless job to do
of cleansing this untidy earth
and birthing it anew.
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| Galatea — Raphael |
O ye angels, carry me
upon thy wings, a brief escape,
then stay a bit, I beg of thee,
and help me concentrate.
My mind, it likes to creep away;
in vain I order it to stay
and serve the purpose I’m about;
but it’s gone out to play.
O ye angels, lend thy power
to my responsibilities;
I seek the effort of an hour
before my labors cease.
I have no gold to save or spend,
nor do I want thine, angel friends;
instead I need thine energy
when lethargy begins.
At last, ye angels, when the task
is finished and the cottage neat,
I’ll have but one more boon to ask:
my prayers lay at God’s feet.
THE JOY OF THE LIGHT OF GOD
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| Alleluias rolled from the east |
What are we waiting for? Why do we
hesitate? For here and plain as dawn
when every demon of the night has
fled, we see the joy of the light
of God. We need only step out of
the mist—no odyssey have we
to undertake or foe pursue, no
secrets to discover. There is only love to
be accepted, met with gratitude... now
only happiness to claim. Anxiety, regret
and shame—these were the evils
that evaporated as we watched. No
sooner were they gone than Alleluias
sweet and strong rolled from the east
and would have swept us off our feet
and carried us aloft, had we not clung
to earth, so terrified of bliss we are if it
should cost surrender of the shreds
of skin we still identify as “us.” The
lungs, the bones, contorted hands
and feet; the pain, disease, decay are
us, we say? As if God meant us to be
temporary, having used up our
allotted days, too old and slow to
overtake the measured plodding step
of entropy. But we are woven of a
better fabric, one that grows more
durable with wear and time and testing.
Still we hesitate, though faith has been
replaced by certainty.
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| St. Francis of Assisi with Al Kamil -- 15th century |
With reluctance mixed with fascination
do we draw a little nearer, inches at a time.
We cringe when light falls full upon us
and the unfamiliar frightens us. We are
accustomed to the cold, the dark, and sink
into delirium as we might fall upon a rotting
pallet in a beggar’s squalid inn, when our
soul’s comfort and security, clarity of sight,
the soundness of the body, heart repaired
and spirit whole are certain, not mysterious
as once they were, remote, the whisper
of a promise too ethereal to tempt the
desperate, the wanderers in need of solid
benefits, of food and shelter. Isn’t it more
sensible to hesitate? God isn’t going anywhere.
LOVE STICKS
Love comes later, in the wake of pain,
like rescue after piracy. Sometimes the
buccaneers escape with their ill-gotten
gains and damn the bodies and the sailors
who survived. These are forgotten or
outshone by treasure seized according to the
code of honor thieves and brigands go by.
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| Guardian angels |
I have love. Sometimes I keep it chained but it escapes eventually. The chase is
futile. I pursue it anyway, at
least to see where it alights. I’ve little
hope of catching it but I can sabotage
attachment anyway until it flickers
out of sight.
Both love and I know which of us is wiser,
stronger, and more patient. Truth be told,
I’d really rather give the game up, let love
lead, but ego won’t permit me to, not
yet at any rate, though soon, I’ll wager.
It feeds on my weakness, and I’m weary
now, as one becomes from filibustering.
Its loyalty is oddly given, not bestowed where I would choose. It forms unsuitable
alliances and clings tenaciously. I
win, it says and flashes me a saucy
grin, and so do you. It’s only face you
lose. I’ll get it back to you.
Love is like a tireless suitor, one who
could have gone away for good but stays to
tease me, plays a waiting game. I
wonder if it plans to catch me up in
some transgression. Hardly likely, as it’s
had a million chances. Still it sticks as if to
lure me, which is curious. It surely knows
I don’t deserve it.
