Goodnight, Sir Thomas
Dear Sir Thomas:
Angels
never fly
too far away.
Cherubs
are
pious messengers
cloaked in
ribbed-serpentine
streamers;
bathing
themselves
in a bemused
shower
of rainbow-lit
banderoles.
Stifled
in an unseen
internal silence -
a clandestine court
of guardians;
our private angels,
unassumingly,
fold their
winged extremities
and gloriously
chant messianic
chorales without an
operatic note
perceived.
No gestures.
Nothing mumbled.
The chosen few...
we know better.
Dear Sir Thomas:
Weren't we
uproarious then?
Biting our lips
and neurotically
watching re-runs
of Laugh-In;
it reassembled
our gamed hurt.
It provided us
with focus,
but now - I'm
acting as a
disguised charlatan,
borrowing
strength
from the cinders
of a simple
nature like yours
(to camoflauge )
my own
internal
disfiguration.
As for the
brokenhearted -
they silently
weep.
Dear Sir Thomas:
Our heads are
turned towards
your smiling face.
Remind us not
about an
unspoken unwanting
or a silent forgetting -
yet submerge us in
the rememberance of
continued happiness.
The grins you
spread upon our brows -
were instantaneous
and infectious.
Your wonder.
Your magic -
irrigates our
veins like a
remembered
shuffle
of a
whispered
solitaire for
two.
Happiness -
you reminded us
not to forget about -
the enjoyable
outcome of an
upturned frown.
For it is our time -
it is
our moment...
to grasp
a minute
in our hands,
within a second,
and
ponder it's memory
for an eternity.
We all trip
upon stupidity.
We all shoot
and
stumble upon
the benign.
Dear Sir Thomas:
An anonymous
angel
spilled my soul
into tomorrow's
chalice
drowning me
in your
splendid
miraculous dreams.
For that
special invitation -
I wipe away my
prayer-filled tears
and thank you -
as you now romp
within an angelic entourage
of embraced
enchantment.
Goodnight, Sir Thomas.
In memory of a dear poet and friend - Thomas Bell
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