Guardian

As readers of my poems over the years are well aware, I believe in angels. I believe they whisper in our dreams and our musings, gently nudging us toward the path less traveled, for down the easy road lie shadows and troubles. Attuned to the sudden and awful needs of the human heart, our guardian angels watch and whisper and weep, as their gentle ministrations often have little or no effect against the power of our darkest emotions.

It comforts me to believe that guidance and might, though blocked from my sight, hover a mere heartbeat away, to hold me up on my darkest day. Some have brushed it off as wishful thinking, or simple stories told when I was a child. Rational minds and mysteries are not good neighbors, for upon each meeting battle must ensue. And yet, the mysteries persist, and it is within this grand persistence that my belief makes its home.

It is here that wonder and whispers relate the grim and joyless tales of guardians torn by the rending of human lives in the name of religion, ideology, or greed. I have pondered what depths of grief are possible for beings whose joy can soar beyond the stars...

Mick

Guardian

He soared freely over a snowy field,
His hair a living torch of golden thread;
Powerful, so even the sun must yield,
Yet, dimmed because upon his heart was dread --
An apprehension felt quick as a wink,
And from afar he'd sensed much was amiss,
For human souls were balanced on the brink,
The razor edge of the deepest abyss.
A man with sacrifice upon his mind,
Would end his life to steal more precious souls.
The guardian whispered words peaceful and kind,
But could not sway the martyr from his goals.
As bomber and his victims swiftly died,
The angel bowed his golden head and cried.

Mick McKellar
January 2010