Sunday, August 03, 2014

If only there were a renegade angel
whose task it were to gather lists
of love letters un-sent, kisses un-spent,
wisps of longing tightly spooled,

who'd transcribe onto his sleeve
in fluorescent calligraphy
a calculation of human heart-ache,
until, utterly forlorn, be compelled

to reconcile these heavy accounts,

to swoop unseen over a people provoked,
and sprinkle snowflakes of quiet comfort,
to transform armaments into bread,
and turn rows of ready-made coffins into beds,

undoing the deeds of one with another's intent,
I'd hold vigil at my window until he passed by,
and beg him to relieve me of my burdens,
letting his celestial caprice be my sole delight.

In absence of angel, I turn to this page.


Harlequin said...

Just as you say ...

Iulia Flame said...

Ah! A song I had not heard. Thank you!

Tim Buck said...

Good poem.

Iulia Flame said...

Thank you. Forward my regards to every molecule in our universe that loves peace. (If we got down to that level, we'd probably find that most of them do.)

when trees as gilded as bees

Above the 61st parallel, the colors of Autumn mark our parting with the bees, and the last days of real warmth. I had begun to transl...

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