My regular readers know how seldom I publish my poetry here. Tonight, however, the events in Boston and some things I’ve been pondering in my own life led me to scrawl something down. Whether it’s any good, whether it makes sense…hell, whether it’s even worth reading…I leave to the individual reader’s tastes and offices to decide.
Becoming Raphael
All humans dream of being the angel
Who bears the flaming sword
Striking down the evildoer
Punishing the guilty with divine vengeance
Teaching those who bring terror to the innocent
How much more dreadful is the terror of the guilty
When Judgment hangs fiery over their heads.
A splash of blood
A scream, a thump
All is silence
The righteous blade sheathed again
Having drunk its fill of guilty blood.
But after, what remains?
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord”
And the blood of a thousand
A million guilty souls
Cannot restore one pure soul
To life, to innocence
To a world without fear.
The sword can destroy
But never create
Can kill, but never heal.
The Angel of Divine Wrath fires
The furious, frenzied imagination
He is flashy, mighty, and awesome
But he has his purpose
And thinks nothing of the innocent.
After he takes to wing
Seeking the next villain
In whose blood to quench his steel
Who will hear the innocent cries
Of a child left motherless
Of a father bereft
Whose wings will enfold these
And allow them to weep
The healing, poisoned tears
Of innocence lost
Of the ultimate knowledge
That came from the bitter fruit
Of Eve’s tree?
None of us can be the angel
In being, clad in heavy, clumsy flesh
As we are
But we can be the angel in action
In word, thought, and deed
We can open our arms
To console and comfort
To commiserate and cradle
We can give freely of our hearts
Even when it brings tears
Even when the suffering
Our charges feel becomes as our own, and
Forces us to question our strength
Our fitness for this divine charge.
Not every angel calls forth lightning
Wields the sword that banished our parents
Or spits the sacred Name with angelic contempt
To wrack a guilty planet
No matter how well this race has earned it.
There are angels of compassion
Of mercy, of healing
And the chief of these is Raphael
Whose very name proclaims his function
“God has healed.”
Blessed is he (or she) who holds out a hand
Who stretches out their arms
Who offers a sympathetic ear
Or a shoulder upon which a wounded soul
Can freely shed aching tears
For these are they who, in
Becoming Raphael
Leaving justice and vengeance to Michael’s agents
Grant the innocent and the tormented
Surcease, hope, comfort
And love.
Until next time,
Best,
J.S. Wayne
