Angel Unaware

Angel Unaware is a collection of persona poems which explore the rich heritage of Judeo-Christian tradition from a Christian world view. Written from the perspective of an angel sent to "observe" humanity and from the view points of various characters from the Bible and contemporary life, the poems take various forms and structures in their exploration of the human condition.

The Observing Angel Witnesses a Sudden Change

I

On temporal assignment from heaven's regal place
and atmosphere, I found the surroundings here
at first to be quite pleasant. I perched beside
a river with four mouths; its babbling sound
reminded me of home, stilled and soothed my mood.
Watching those two was easy--they didn't do much;
mostly they walked in the garden or merged into one.
So I ignored them, preferring to watch the animals.
Enthralled by the song of wrens in luscious trees
I missed the one event that changed my lot--
or their lot, really--mine by occupation. Ranks
above me, two cherubim stood guard beside
the garden's gate--and we--outside! barred
from feasting on the fragrant tree of life, whose scent
was peaches, pears, and apples all in bloom.

II

The humans were always talking about their sin
(which word itself means nothing I understand),
and how an offering of blood covers it.
I took a knife to my own skin one time
and found no fluid there, much less the red
liquid I see when lambs are slain. I'm like
the turnips and squash that Cain offered to God.
(I know because I sliced them when he left,
angry that God refused them, demanded blood.)
I'll give you blood, I heard Cain think. I observed
him watch Abel's fluid drain like sap
onto the well-plowed ground; then he planted him.
Was he trying to grow him back, or cover the deed?
Like those from Eden he was banished, but marked for life.

A Consuming Fire

I only saw him
Fire, once, when Satan sought a
higher throne. He was

usually Water,
refreshing, or Tree with fruit.
But when he had to

put down enemies,
he could be the hottest Fire,
the sharpest Sword. As

symbol of himself,
he put that flaming sword, there,
in the hands of two

cherubim guarding
Eden's gate. A consuming
fire, Moses called him

to let the people
know they'd better take the law
seriously. I think

they thought of fire as
something they could control, like
their ovens for bread,

the stoves where they boiled
soup, the fires where they roasted
the Passover lamb.

The Angel Ponders the Furniture for the Big Tent

6. Altar of Burnt Offering
Standing in the doorway of the tent, the altar--
acacia wood overlaid with brass--receives
the best of flocks or herds or birds, cakes
without leaven, and oil and grain; it exudes
the sweet-smelling scent of heaven. No leaven
or honey they offer thereon, but only first fruits,
thanksgiving and praise, offerings of peace
(as food for priests).
Outside the camp, burn
the sin sacrifices, repeatedly made for trespass
and sin, more than two thousand animals, year
after year, more than the minimum, day after day,
hundreds of gallons of blood poured out, sprinkled
with hyssop, dipped and smeared--continual blood shed.

Alas! How simple if only one lamb could suffice!

Confession of a Soldier in the Court

My wife's a Jewess and
I know the Jews believe
a hand on the head can transfer sin:
the blood guilt pulses
past the fingertips,
does not return to the heart
but flows invisibly out the extended hand
to rest upon the perfect sacrifice
slain to bear that weight and more.

The thorn crown in my hands
seemed liquid, thick as blood.
My commander ordered it
for this man's coronation.
I pressed it hard, in strict obedience,
until the blood flowed. I rested
my hand there a moment;
I felt a weight fall
from my fingers upon him.
White as death were my hands
when I withdrew them,
stuffed them in the folds of my robe
to hide them from view. Strangely
they were cleaner than they've ever been,
even with that man's blood upon them.

Confession of a woman looking back to childhood in Selma, Alabama

I never knew why
(being only a child)
the rock was hurled

or why I screamed.
(What taught me to fear
a shattered window, a stone

on the living room floor?)
We should have stayed
in Detroit, mamma said,

instead of coming south to help
our people register to vote.
I felt the ice in mamma's words.

From my room I could see light
like a bonfire dancing in the yard,
I ran out to see. Get down, daddy said.

Stay away from the window. On my knees
I watched. He picked up that rock,
spoke a blessing and a curse on its surface,

hurled it back out through what was left
of the pane, which fell in shards
like icicles to the ground.

Then daddy stood tall.
Don't go, mamma pled
when the voices called him out.

I've got to, he said, and kissed
her on the mouth. I never saw
my daddy after that,

except in every cross I see:
that frightful stone, that flaming wood,
his shadow on the wall.

Angel meditation after hearing a 21st century Enoch-style sermon

How fast the sand sifts
down the funnel of ages
when the grains are few.

There isn't much left
to do; what remains is this:
seek him while you can,

while he may be found,
before the door is shut and
no more can come in.

But who is the door?
To whence must the people come?
No one tells angels

anything. I can't
understand the words. I know
I'll go home someday.

There's no reason why
I can't. I only observed
these creatures--I'm not

one of them. I'm glad
of that, yet wish to look in-
to redemption's face

to see just what it
is, this thing called salvation,
this idea--grace.