The Time of Angels and The Heights Regained by Royal Rhodes

 

THE TIME OF THE ANGELS

Angels, if there were, are strangely stifled,
wrestling with the dreamers, bare and sweating,
and startled when they touch our human flesh.

They perch on heights above a smoky city,
as the dull, oppressive day creeps on,
and watch the boiling sea and far inferno.

Each one, a species of its own, has eyes
that see inside the emptiness we hold,
forgetful and so ready to lie down.

They have no need to tell us. Who would care?
Angels have their own nightmarish mazes
of dark thoughts like the landscapes we imagine.

Beauty takes you only by violence,
so your angel would not recognize you,
and you are lost among the gathered shadows.
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THE HEIGHTS REGAINED

Was it winter or in Spring
my father took me to the tower --
confusion's all my mind can bring.
Was someone else along with us,
with ice around or fields in flower?

On the taller Prospect Hill
his company had placed a dish
antenna, in a spot so still
that gave a view of distant Boston.
Some memory of that is left.

My father led me up each step,
angled steps that wound around
surprising gusts of wind that swept
the platform made without a railing,
while weeping branches hid the ground.

Above us, clouds had covered clouds,
as I stumbled -- graceless stumble --
awkward with the unseen crowds
of creatures that all held their breath,
waiting an expected tumble.

My father, rising to the sky,
looked back and urged me on to follow.
I froze -- in case he saw me cry.
If someone else was there, they climbed.
And I was left in feeling hollow.

Years of winter and of Spring
passed and then you asked me where
we could escape awhile, yet driving
near, a place where we would dare
embrace within the open air.

We climbed the wind-swept upper-flights.
You held me, helped my erring steps.
Love, much higher than these heights,
had come to guide my timid feet
to follow love, through heights and depths.