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Anais Vionet Sep 2021
Do angels, those exchequers
of heaven’s golden shores,
have hearts or humor
as they focus on us with
their greedy, eternal attention?

They must be well-acquainted
with vice and the offending elements
of our ingrained, mortal weaknesses.

I’ve read those frampold canaries
- at man’s creation - coveted the gift
of choice, cruelly denied them - freedoms
that can corrupt the weak and too human.

How do those singers of exquisite songs
still find worthy peers to invite home
unless they pity, forgive or grant
endless sufferance which must,
at least in practice, resemble love.
aren't we all just a bit too human for a strict heaven?
Is it not the grave that takes them from us
It is not life’s end
Nor is it cruel fate - lost time
Nor is it God’s law - mortal frailty
It is distance that molds our memory
Light-years of joy, sacrifice, love
Painted in echoes of light
Amidst the passions of our hearts
We are tapestries woven in the womb
Adjoining the wider tapestry of family
A rope stretching back to the dawn of man
And forward to the twilight
Distance
How those echoes fade as we pass on the torch
Those who bore us are not mere fires in the dark
They are our suns
The centers of our solar families
Children, like the planets of this solar system
Revolve around each sun
Mother father, father, mother…
And when our sun fades into the endless night
Into a distance beyond our understanding
We are challenged to become the suns ourselves
To hold the worlds around us with the same
Unconditional love
Patience
Truth
Mercy
That was shown to us
A gift to light our way ahead
Into the distances we too shall cross
As we forge the light we shall leave behind.

The burden we face
When we lose the ones we love
Is one of distance
Yet we bear this weight
Not by pleasures or pain
Not by striving or seeking calm alone
We bear it by passing time with those we love
We bear it by sharing the joys vested in us
So that one day, we are the ones passing on
Leaving behind the memories of the suns that birthed us
So that they live on in all we do
We all awake
To know that there are angels among us.
We know angels by how we loved them
How they loved us
And how love unites us all,
Even in the dark
Even when there is distance all around
And the inevitability of our mortal frailty fills us with fear,
Yet, there is an irrepressible force of the human spirit
Whether it is love, creed, or purpose
We feel it when those who have gone
Are still here with us
In our hearts,
A presence in our homes,
A familiar face in our children,
Or a letter in their handwriting
They never leave us.
So that distance
Is not there at all.
It is merely a measure
Of how far we’ve come...
I wrote this poem on Thursday, May 5th, 2021.

It was written as a gift to a coworker to commemorate the death of her father.

I believe this was the second (or third time) I'd written a poem to commemorate an occasion. Both times, I did so rather quickly and on the fly, as I usually do, which fills me with a desire to write more poems to signify life events.

I felt I accomplished a consistent tone of reverence and a toeing of the line between somberness and hope, all of which serves this poem well and which the words in the poem find themselves characterized by.

My coworker was touched by this gift and I believe she read it at her father's eulogy, which, in turn, touched me.

I hope this poem touches you all, too.
I hope that, if you've lost a loved one, that they are, too, angels amongst us.

Enjoy!
DEW
old willow Aug 2021
Heart burdened, the river turns.
The bed is unmoving, curtain remains closed.
Autumn leaf dance, sun hidden, moon peek;
What is it that heaven seeks?
Tomorrow, I head to Chang’an,
Tonight, I take a sip of wine.
Sun rested, cold wind echoes;
My wine cup has shattered…
Tonight, I can’t take a sip of wine.
My mind drift far between rivers;
Dazzling among the night sky;
I find my heart unable to rest.
Sun has now dawn, my body is feeble;
Withered like ashen embers;
Today, I can’t head to Chang’an.
In the end, Man proposes and Heaven disposes.
Lou Alpha Aug 2021
Heaven got so plenty moods
At dawn she's like a sleepy maid
Just awoke, and rescheduled, still,
As she rise from her midnight bed
Dusk is her blushing face
As she sees all the love
Midday she shines bright
As she dances over the sky above
Full moon she sits up there
Her fair skin shining silver light
As she tries to fall asleep
In her gown of deep blue night
Rain can be thrice
In sadness, she sometimes weeps
In joy, she squirts water, playful laughing
Or she brings the water's salvation she keeps
When angry, her wrath masses in clouds
And cataclysms, that storm the land
Fog is a try to cover the world's darkness
As she cups it with a caring hand
Blood moon shows her scars and wounds
That had cut her deeper than any blade
Blizzards rage in her despair
When she cries out with words unsaid
In eclipse, she tries to hide her face
Shame letting her cheeks glow
For even she is not all perfect
Not always she can cover in innocent, white snow
Every girl has, sometimes,her terrible twos
And few enough are of such purity
Heaven is not perfect
But she's made of simple beauty
Ever wondered, what different weather and different daytimes mean? Heaven is perhaps the most beautiful being that is, out there...
"No rain, no flower" One does not need to be perfect. Or, in foreign words: " Chaos makes the muse."
Zywa Aug 2021
One heaven -- people

with tightly interlinked thoughts:


one mycelium.
Collection "WoofWoof"
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2021
The rose in front of me
often seems like is
the cherry picked one
treasured in the most epic hunt.

Down the blue sky
the clouds get clear over time
and the truth shows up:
It’s no invention.
A made in heaven pair found on Earth!
Brett Jul 2021
Harboring heretics horizontally, hidden behind hinged windows
Like a wry grin swearing a sinister scowl doesn’t wait within
Lovebirds and lust bugs, twisted and mixed like distorted pixels
Cruise missiles carefully catalogue the sights
Before anchoring you in the port of your designated afterlife
Fickle fragments of frayed remembrance
Languished and lost to the ages
Like pages of parchment that anoint your claims baseless
Cynicism seems to have become contagious
Live from the basement,
                                 Full of sunken ships and rusty cages.
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