There are moments in the night...
that get so quiet I can hear angels breathing in the dark. I hear them bumping into each other overcome by the darkness in my heart. I hear them tumble from clouds with the rain and the snow and the prayers that never made it back home to a God who abandoned us long ago. I hear them fumble and crumble in the chaos left behind from wars against the personal angels of some other poets private God... I hear them licking the wounds of their battered and tattered and ragged warriors as they march back to some green valley bathed in holy sun light and wait for sweet tears from Heaven to wash away the stench of love unrequited... I hear them whisper to one another secret plots against man. They scheme and they dream of setting fire to this world we took for granted and devoured with our lust and our greed and our reckless disregard for the only home... and the only chance we have... I hear them sharpening their swords and their spears and I hear the soft rubbing of silk laced with the nectar of cloves which they use to polish their armor. I hear them beating their breast plates with the steel in their hands and howl in the early hours of dawn at the lingering glow of the moon - like wolves and mad dogs and lions in chains begging to be set free to put an end to this disaster called humanity. I can hear them laugh at the suffering and the sorrow and the desperation of the week and the humble and the downtrodden... at the poor and the enslaved and the abused... and the sick and the dieing and the dead... the ones that died without knowing love and happiness and beauty and never had a chance to be touched by music and poetry and art... those that lived in fear and those that lived without ever knowing the grace of love... of God... of the light... the light that always comes to late... I hear them laugh... at those who came so close and gave up hope before they reached the truth... those poor souls who never took the time to listen in these moments of the night...
that get so quiet I can hear angels breathing in the dark. I hear them bumping into each other overcome by the darkness in my heart. I hear them tumble from clouds with the rain and the snow and the prayers that never made it back home to a God who abandoned us long ago. I hear them fumble and crumble in the chaos left behind from wars against the personal angels of some other poets private God... I hear them licking the wounds of their battered and tattered and ragged warriors as they march back to some green valley bathed in holy sun light and wait for sweet tears from Heaven to wash away the stench of love unrequited... I hear them whisper to one another secret plots against man. They scheme and they dream of setting fire to this world we took for granted and devoured with our lust and our greed and our reckless disregard for the only home... and the only chance we have... I hear them sharpening their swords and their spears and I hear the soft rubbing of silk laced with the nectar of cloves which they use to polish their armor. I hear them beating their breast plates with the steel in their hands and howl in the early hours of dawn at the lingering glow of the moon - like wolves and mad dogs and lions in chains begging to be set free to put an end to this disaster called humanity. I can hear them laugh at the suffering and the sorrow and the desperation of the week and the humble and the downtrodden... at the poor and the enslaved and the abused... and the sick and the dieing and the dead... the ones that died without knowing love and happiness and beauty and never had a chance to be touched by music and poetry and art... those that lived in fear and those that lived without ever knowing the grace of love... of God... of the light... the light that always comes to late... I hear them laugh... at those who came so close and gave up hope before they reached the truth... those poor souls who never took the time to listen in these moments of the night...
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4 comments:
Es poético, es angustioso, es la experiencia del dolor de muchos acechando en la noche, llenándola de fantasmas sufrientes... me ha impresionado.
Such darkness, Poet...
Saddest of all is the notion that angels who are themselves not human--and have never known the bittersweet nature of the human experience--could so quickly condemn us for our weakness and folly. We are all capable of so much more...so much more...
We have flashes of wisdom, moments of clarity where ultimate truth presents itself to our astonishment; we have moments of love so precious and perfect that we dare not hope for it to continue--though it often does;
we offer generosity and encouragement to others when it seems pointless.
And when there seems no beauty and love are left in the world, some of us are blessed to be able to write about it and to not let our fellow man and woman forget or to lose hope.
Perhaps we are a part of that light you mentioned. That is my hope.
I have begun to understand Isabel's Spanish...enjoyed this...
I am feeling lonely now that I stood up to a bully in this sphere; where there are no angels only devils and angels. Bittersweet nature of the human spirit can tear you up inside, and spit you out all at once...
yes... Isabel's Spanish is poetry and beauty within itself... and she is quite a lovely woman... as is my dear friend M. (writingfool), whom I have neglected for some time now - I'm sorry M. my business fentures are taking off and doing very well which means I have to keep a close eye on everything plus... chasing women like the scoundrel that I really am - I do hope you are doing well - you'r last poem was a bit on the dark side as well...
E - don't let some one who needs to pick on other people to make them feel good bring you down... it is not worth your time or your emotions... don't even waste another minute thinking about it... but... if you need to talk about it... you know where to find me... I don't have those problems as I think only ten people stop by on a regular basis... and the Deringer Files is just for them... thank you all...
oh... I was going to say - I didn't write this entry to make any one sad and I did not write it thinking that anyone would try to decypher it, though there is a deeper meaning to it than what is there... it is just one of those things written in the moment... inspired by, as Isabel said, the demons of my suffering... her English must be getting better if she was able to under stand all my crazy talk... and in the end this is all it is - just a lot of crazy talk...
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