Sleeping Under Fallen Wood Of The Sacred... Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

Breathing was shallow
the earwigs were sucking
the death out of pinewood remains-
Who goes there?

Sweet voices, soprano...
a visitation of Angels?
synchronicity ripely stunning;
yet a dark, cynical halo circling like crows
o'er dead harvest fields,
Who goes there?

'WE DO', said they...have you no eyes?


Thunder exuding resounding clamor
Tearing thru' acres of land
jaggedly, angrily orange, and blinding
as lightening swept o'er the blackwood,


and, voices stilled, and thus as such-
did the flames on the well scorched sod;
peculiar presentation for Angels of The Christ
perhaps esoteric as Vatican II
to the Traditionalists from the time of John XXIII.

And, not used to standing while breathing
near holy soil, with warm epitaphs\, ;
grabbing their ash charred throats,
as the Eyes of a Crucifix
spill unsalted tears
over arched grey stone and lilacs,
violet and grey serve the sleeping with essence,
and ethereal beauty...almost sacred.

A lone voice, interrupts,
commanding the Angels
to return at once'
No one is safe here, be gone, come home
No peace nor sleep for the Fallen wings
while the Risen watches o'er them
with Wisdom and Cross wood...so Sacred.



FjR-MMXV