Lovely winged words
I'm no angel and this ain't heaven;
every human endeavor
beginning in this rough patch,
ocean's edge of ignorance
where nothing grows; soon swept away
to what surely looks like dissolution and calamity.
These poems of ignorance
between tides scratched into the surface
repeat the message, all I have to say
to my potential overhead rescuer: HELP!
Angels, perhaps, have their choice
of lovely winged words, singing
God's praises; floating about heaven
but I'm no angel and this ain't heaven.
O child of God, even your impudent, raucous cries,
the angels say, reach God's ears as tunes of humility.