god poems

Modern angels

Angels smoking cigarettes off of balconies. They write proverbs on bathroom walls and sing hymns in the aisles of grocery stores.

Angels still filled with fury from before. They hold a grudge. They carry a knife. Their words are sharp and hurt worse than any blade ever could.

Angels with soft voices and hard eyes. Angels trying to fit in. They’re trying to erase the pain

Angels with wrists covered in runes, angels trying to speak in the tongues that used to come so naturally but this mouth just can’t form the words.

Angels you meet on the street. They touch your shoulder and you’re struck with lightning.

Angels filled with ideas. Their mind is buzzing. Covered in paint and chalk, you know they’re miles ahead of you.

Angels on their front porches, drinking sweet tea with a goddess. It’s nothing like ambrosia, but it’s close enough.

Angels with bloody noses and a smile. Angels who’re confused by this life. It’s not so black and white anymore.

Angels who speak with their fists and are close to none. Their Father has left them in the dust. No one can help them.

Angels holding their partners close while dancing. This life won’t last forever, so they wanna hold her tight while they can.

10

But I guess I was never much of a writer (insp.)

Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too well pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we have dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us Lord, when
With the abundance of things we possess
We have lost our thirst for the waters of life,
We have ceased to dream of eternity
And in our efforts to build a new earth,
We have allowed our vision
Of the new heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wider seas
Where storms will show your mastery,
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.

We ask you to push back
The horizons of our hopes;
And to push into the future
In strength, courage, hope, and love.

—  Sir Francis Drake
We were talking about poetry,
one winter afternoon,
the sky the same hue as your eyes,
but with the darkness of mine.
You told me, “All poetry is about
sex, God, or death.”
I teased you,
“How could you forget about love?”


You’ve entranced
and transfixed me, my love.
You’re all my poetry
ever talks about.
So let me attempt to learn
from the masters,
I’ll try my hand
at the other topics
that consumed them.


But how can I write about sex
and not write about you?
In my head
there is a map
of your body
and a winding path
that my lips and hands
long to follow.
Your body is a fire
and I’m desperate to burn.


But how can I write about God
and not write about you?
I touch your hand like
I’m turning the pages of a holy book,
but I love you with the fierceness
of a sinner turned devout,
I love you like you’re my last chance
at paradise.
I love you because we know the ugliest
parts of each other,
but we still choose forgiveness
every single day.
Your love is the bookmark I forgot
about from the chapter in my
childhood when I believed
without reservations.
You are the miracle who taught the
atheist to have faith.


But how can I write about death
and not write about you?
If death had come for me
before my lips had brushed yours,
I would have surely walked the earth
as a ghost, unable to move on
because if I have a purpose, a calling,
it must be to love you with
every fragile cell
of my mortal body.
And someday you will die,
and I do not know if I
will still be around to see it,
but of this I am certain:
the earth
will rumble
and rupture
and crack itself open
in its grief,
and the seas will wish
they could drown themselves,
and maybe the sun
will even blow herself out
because how could she
bear to shine
if you were not around to see it?

—  everything comes back to you // L.H