Cherub-faced angels blow bugles
sitting on billowy clouds,
trying to trim their sapphire wings.
Prayers are said for galaxies,
a fanfare for goddesses
that soar for the sun …
looking to sprinkle ashes down below,
hoping to touch us lightly on the shoulders
to make believers out of the cynical masses.
The gods knowing it’s an impossible task
to complete …
While sycamore trees line a swelled terrain along
rivers, worms crawl in and out of holes,
as watchful sparrows guard them
ready to dine. Fireflies land on new
blossoms in a quiet evening
lighting up mountainsides,
where insects nestle deep within,
burrowing and moving the earth.
New buds form at the beginning
of Spring, as flowers wilt with
Winter’s approach, forever going
in cycle – birth and death.
Where feelings of love have been
replaced by anger, prejudice
and distrust, like concrete walls covered
with barbwire that pierce our thoughts and minds.
While excavating for innocent souls
to turn them inward and selfish,
violence is outlined …
We are no longer nurturing toward each other.
What happened to Saturday afternoons
sipping tea on the front porch while
watching children play? Or trying to
respect one another in spite of our
Send the Angels to the Earth we write poems #40-triptych