Saturday, April 16, 2016

In The Studio Of The Departing Aviator

[to the soul of the marveling artist, sculptor vanished to
realms of gold, Michael Rolando Richards]

ephemera of wings, and a gold paint spilt
the cardboard outlines conforming to a blueprint
wrinkled on tissue purpled with

the outlines of...
what? a dream come true? a tar blurred view
an adjustable happenstance seen through

a something wept for years, and not yet done,
oh tears of tar
the half flown years in dun; spun

into a pearl edged stream of night
and dawn too heavy to bear the weight

this is flight, hallowed the angels
this is time
and chimed your brethren, out of sight

and this crossed flight crossed purposed
now to be

abandoned due to circumstance so
thunderstruck, too suddenly askew?
the black clouds roiling on the horizon

the gold swallowed whole, the gold swallow. swallow
where are you we call from the manifest
having no names when the smoke clears

debris of starlight everywhere, Archangel o Michael
new fallen, tears in flames; o morning dew burned up

the glass heavens
and our grief.that this is brief, too brief

till Light itself cried Michael!
take flight.

mary angela douglas april 16, 2016