Making An Angel Poem by Julia Luber

Of where you became an angel.
I was there and truly astonished at
how you could put up with that noise
that stabbed you as everything you were
not yet demanded of you to notice to your
self that you are living in a time difficult
for angels. That the world is not of angels and
that our memories of angels are in photographs of
paintings. That was me. No mater how you dare to
ignore it.I did not see you chasing after what you
might become but saw you arrive and move from where you
are to somewhere else.You moved backwards into oblivion
but closer to the sound which chases you at night from your
own being and necessitates a closure round every bend as the
steeples of mountains and fires of fathers bare in on you like
rocking charrs where the colors of your angels are described.I
stood still in place unbelieved of your resistance within a
dedication to a friendship with the earth.That you allowed
to ask of them a favor because they were basquing in a kind
of danger.It is a danger because when the angel leaves
you do not know how the angel goes home. Home is a bad
place to talk of you think to yourself as you slowly
glosten the reality of color and the reality of how
the angels go home. How what you see and are say
resistant but attentive becomes spread throughout
the vistas that you plain.As if the angel bared
from its structure, without it swings and within
the clarity of earth has a job to do in merely the
colors of an eye or the descriptions and questions
which you listen to and shadow from your mind's eye
as a kind of regally you shall be part of as that
is what you sometimes are. I have caught you like
that too. And it sickens me to think that you know
you might be seen as an angel whose wings have been
torn because that way you are human and there is no
angel except that of the self which is strong in being
resistant to the world of walking slow and so becomes
a poem at times and then the ugliness and deaths of earth
can be tamed. You think. To yourself.
But that is not your task. You know.To yourself.
Just read your task at night. And listen. To
how our ideas may emerge fromthe theatre of light
itself. Not as stage craft. And not as rhyme.
The memories of ignorancedraw you in
but you arrest yourself from solitude
and go back to the sea where visitors land
and ask a question of GOD
for whom angels are silly too.
But you stay there long enough to
find the big poem inside your soul. And
long enough to be what pulls you back
or remember that loudly enough to
draw forwards a collected brow
realized in a song of
grey. To End!