ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND ANGELS

Certainly, the time has come
for the angels to appear,
falling to earth by the thousands,
the ten and hundred-thousand

no announcement
no battle cry
no trumpet’s call

just – angels, angels everywhere.

And what will we say on this day of awakening?
Will we know that they’ve been chosen
to deliver us from our secret
sins and fears,
to cry our tears,
to cleanse and free us all?

Many of us will suffer great confusion –
having no knowledge of our own
Divinity,
we’ve hidden and cursed our
true identities. And yet,
just wait – when we see
those tears streaming down their faces,

we’ll step gladly into
the beckoning waterfall; we’ll shed
our masks, our lies,
our self-denials
and simply drown ourselves in
the overwhelming love
of one hundred thousand angels.

Diane Randall ~ She of the Dreaming Sky   

Diane is a Sarasota poet, author, dream interpreter, spirit communicator, meditation guide, and tarot card reader. Diane says: “Angels have always assisted me in guidance and protection, sometimes in the physical realm. I am truly grateful for their help, comfort, and interventions in all areas of my life." 

I Am an Angel

Sometimes in my dreams I am an angel.
No one knows it and
 I find it almost impossible to believe.
I feel compelled to look deeper and deeper
in my heart. Opening one door after the other.
Sometimes I am lost and have only the sound
of the river to guide me. I wish I could walk with you 
and together we would find our way.
I admire you but sometimes I think
you don’t even see me.

 ~ Scyllastrangefire ~

SNOW ANGELS

I was six. No, five, I was five: my first snow.
I remember the angel suddenly coming together
and then bleeding out beneath me
like I was turning myself inside out,
and then I remember awakening
to a white field, because the angels
were always a surprise to me,
the way they kept falling in such
peculiar positions, like someone
screaming, or dying. Like the wings.
Friends would take me aside,
tell me the wings were a bit too much:
Like a Babylonian lion’s, really.
Those wings, they’d say.
They were right of course,
but what could I say to them except
I couldn’t help it, that my arms
always moved up and down like that
whenever I fell out of heaven.
Sometimes I felt like telling them
maybe it would help
if they thought of the angels
as small relief-maps of my soul,
sudden, uncontrolled curdlings
that occurred whenever I stopped,
opened myself to the sun, or the moon.
And then there were times
I didn’t know what to say, except
maybe they should think of the angels
as detailed descriptions of another life.
A life I was living but knew nothing about.

Justin Spring ~ Talkies 

I used to be a tree
With roots burrowing into the Earth
Branches stretching up to the Sun
Standing among my family and friends
Dancing with the elements

I used to be a tree, until I was cut down
Stripped of my bark, branches and leaves
Sliced and beaten into a boiling pulp
Squeezed and dried into sheets of paper
Which were used and then recycled

Now I am a book, but still alive, still conscious
My cover longs to be held
My pages yearn to feel daylight
My ink eager to be reflected within scanning retinas

I used to be a tree
But I had sacrificed myself to become paper
In prayer that someday
I would be able to invite you
To open me up

And experience
How it feels

To be me

To be you

To be us

Afterworld

It’s here in the forest
shimmering.
I feel the way
and suddenly whisper through.
The trees are greener and taller here.
The wind sifts through my brain
and in the ripple-blue water of my heart
I see a woman who is everything

From:  Scyllastrangefire

Oh Sad—Life Continues

sad oh sad they cried
the dark limbs
the hanging
how could they know
the innocent
the men the women
the small babies
hanging in the trees
the stench the flies
the rotten carcasses
falling to the ground
the tree
the falling of the leaves
the rotting acorns taking root

From:  Scyllastrangefire

Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

From: Poetry 2 no. 5 (August 1915): 153 by Joyce Kilmer

IN BETWEEN TIME by Victoria Sullivan

Awash in the wind and the chill air,
I awaken on the porch
from dreams weaving about me,
threads of disaster, or threads of indulgence.
That in between time,
half-asleep, half awake:
it is the time that feels most natural to me now.
I sense King Arthur’s knights
riding through the mists of old England,
the presence of something larger than the self,
a fairytale perhaps, a myth,
the dream state.

Those who say they do not dream,
I am amazed. Of course
the neuroscientist would say they do dream
and simply forget.
But I wonder if there are vast arid deserts
inside the souls of those
who’ve lost their dreams.
I don’t mean waking dreams, daydreams,
but that odd mélange of
incidents and perceptions,
that smoky state where you star
in your own inner film.

Waking from the foggy place
requires a certain quiet step
from the bed to the floor,
from the porch into the house.
I drink coffee but I’m still lost
in a whisper of the dream.
And outside in the early morning light
-- how lovely -- all the trees are luminous.