“A Man—Call Him an Angel”
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
A man appeared to me. He raised his hands
Like angels high above but he was here
In air space which we shared. His whorling strands
Of richest hair were thick and glossy. “Sphere
Of Heaven” came to heart, and soul, and mind.
We sang of Jesus and ethereal things.
The problem, though, was I was not quite blind
To Charles’ factors. Seraphim-like wings
Were lacking; he was crowned with glory, though—
Those darkest curls. The wrists and arms were male.
His manliness and muscles were to show
Me earth is lovely. He made heaven pale.
..We know two types of angels, good and bad.
….This one was wingless, beautiful, and sad.
A Celestial Earthy Doctrine
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The tree I planted for him is now red,
A red of autumn and of heaven. New
Jerusalems would love it. It is spread
Across the end of my front border—true
To beauty and mortality, leaves bright
As only life that faces death can be.
The leaves like Pentacostal tongues in flight
Are lovelier than immortality
Because they wait for winter. They are shaped
To make a dome above once open flowers,
Now gone. The garden border has been raped
Of sex glands. It has lost its springtime powers.
The leaves, each one an angel’s wing in flame,
Unburned like Sinai’s, say our lives are tame.