Creation Poems

Wild Angels

Sometimes fly to Eden,
rest their wings on the ground,
lay their faces on the soil,
rich and sweet as
milky baby’s breath.

They throw handfuls of gold rings,
into rivers, watch the light
flicker and shine, and yell
kindness, kindness, kindness.

In empty sanctuaries,
they help the tall shepherd,
blue Mary, and old angels
down out of the stained glass.
They massage their backs,
warm cold feet with their big hands.
When church begins,
they hide in organ pipes,
sing the alto part too loud,
peek out at the congregation,
wink at children.

They teach old preachers
how to juggle
between sermons –
filling the air with
bananas and zucchinis
and red chili peppers.

Wild angels believe
every lit candle
is a prayer – on fire and
rising, rising, rising.

They grow bored
playing the four-stringed lute –
one string for earth,
two for fire, three for water,
four for wind.

Wild angels
add the fifth string
for the heart.

Timeos

Do you remember the day
your body turned precious?

Your aqueous humor
rivers of Zion.

Your vulnerable wrists
birches in Eden.

Your shoulders wondrous
as the far side of the moon.

Your throat
powerful as sea tides.

Your ankles shining
like secrets in the wind.

Your foot soles
mythic as Atlantis.

Your bones lapis lazuli
and gold-flecked turquoise.

Your hands something like
libraries filled with dictionaries.

Your fingers – the ten songs
every sparrow knows.