Angel
I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set [him] free.
—Michelangelo (attributed)
One wonders what an angel does all day.
Just sit there, wings slack, staring into space?
But that assumes space-time is where she’ll stay.
A comrade of the host that fell from grace?
In heaven, no work needed, would she pace?
At least that’s movement—maybe hum and pray?
Is there a glass so she can glimpse her face?
Like every other, or unique, each day?
If brought to life, abstraction might convey
Perfection she embodies. Hands embrace
Symbolic spirit’s need Art must obey.
What’s undisturbed and solid, tools erase
To grace her goddess beauty honed to stone
Displayed—from which the angel’s soul has flown.
Spirit Dance
The Great One casts spell-binding nets with hands
That swarm spring’s lusty bees down clovered hills
While black bears raid their hives in shady stands
Of elms that edge the field the farmer tills.
Down here where winter’s high ridge snowfall spills
In the Ohio, one flint arrowhead
Has flushed from silt and pilings of the mills
That once ground corn, until some shot Confed
Set fire, and from his ashy bones the lead
Was scavenged, hammered into arrow tips
That killed the farmer’s ancestor whose dread
Made warrior chiefs press burnt sage to their lips.
This arrowhead’s evolving history
In hand, here, now, embodies mystery.
Beth Houston has taught writing at ten universities and colleges in California and Florida. She has published a couple hundred poems in dozens of literary journals. She edits the Extreme formal poetry anthologies. www.bethhouston.com
Beth, your two poems were on subjects I love and beautifully written. I have a whole book of poems about angels and have published a couple of them on SCP. When I was young, my grandfather often took me hunting for arrowheads in South Dakota. Your poem musing about angels with spare time was creative and enchanting. Your arrowhead poem had a unique history behind it and made me wonder if you remembered a time on what I assume was the Ohio River.