Why do we write? Why do we sing or make art or dance or adorn ourselves? For whom do we write? Ourselves, friends, patrons, lovers, the living, the dead? To leave our thumbprint upon the world and say we were here when life is short? What inspires us, drives us? What divine clockwork moves us forward in framing our universe in words? And the fluidity and beauty of full, sensuous word is such a departure from the neutered text and shorthand of practical life.
So whatever drives you, whatever creative resolution you make – here is a permission slip in poetry form. To be creative and divine and messy and patient and beautiful.
We watch, us Angels, even when it is not our place
We covet the human experience with all its mortal trappings
Each fleeting moment for us makes a whole lifetime for you
Sweet and singed with pain, a lovely painted lantern
Consumed by precisely
the flame it houses
A leaded glass window shattering slowly
Webbed between its faults and weaknesses
We burn, us Angels, jealous that God could love so much
Something so careless and flawed and yet His own design
Each dying second, I watch you move through
your unmapped life
Dropping leaves of poetry like a diseased willow
Shedding words like skin, leaving bits of your soul around
Breadcrumbs in a temporal trail to your body
Fragments of dream matter from your soul
We curse, us Angels, because we want to believe in your perfection
While you wipe your burning fingerprints on the milky canvas sky,
Press your bare feet into new damp grass blades to affirm
Cliches about “Footprint” poems where Someone carries you
Sets our teeth on edge and yes Angels have teeth.
Meander and shamble through time bleeding your watercolor life
Weaving your legend tapestry til the last thread is cut ragged and bare
We argue, us Angels, in your room at night over your guardianship
You awake at random dark moments to feel traces of feather and
Unsettled dark air like a thick ice block weighing down your heart
On your forehead you feel stinging in the shape of a kiss
On your neck an angry crescent because Angels have teeth.
In your stomach a dry, hot ache that no drink can quench
Immolation and purging of all human sins from the inside out
We follow, us Angels, gathering up your loose leaf life littering your wake
Setting the divine match you your gunpowder of iniquity and doubt
Breeding with your dreams, pushing and daring you to chase, to create
To bring to the page what can never be and what already is
To tap the vein and raw up the nerve of your tiny life transcendent
For Angels have teeth and we are thirsty and must drink
Until you are no more than honey-blue ash
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I am happy to be introducing a new voluntary payment system for Words of a Dandelion, Payments are at the discretion of the reader and support my written works, art, poetry and music. The same content is available to all - because the purpose of my work is to help everyone feel connected. I will not withhold content based on ability to pay.
I offer a positive perspective and unique view of an adult female who has spent the last 50 years navigating the world with Asperger's Syndrome. Despite any circumstance, I endeavor to find the hope and love within the moment.
I am in the process of creating a memoir and building a future full of possibility for my son. The dollars help toward creating art, writing, photography and original artwork.
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