A Field Guide to Angels

A Field Guide to Angels now available from Everdale Publishing

Angel Book

I am pleased to announce my latest chapbook, A Field Guide to Angels, is here!

These poems are close to my heart – just so proud of this slim volume of 21 poems, some new, some old, some re-worked but all about those angels around us.

And I am so happy to share them with you.

The Field Guide to Angels is available at lulu.com where you can also find my other chapbooks, Penelope to Her Husband and Festival of Lessons and Carols http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/kge

I hope you will enjoy my new book and I hope you know how much I appreciate your continued support of my work.

May angels surround you always,

Kathleen Gresham Everett

blackberry winter

berries blackberries blur close up

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Dull morning light bereft of warmth
fills in the corners
between spring
and blackberry winter.

The blooms, white against cold green leaves,
bramble along the rocky path,
armored with thorns
and protected by poison ivy
just finding its vigor.

Shivering anticipations of hot summer days
purpled with jeweled fruit
left by the chortling robins
and cobblers fresh from the oven.

except to say

Its a warm day in early May and
the small dog and I are sitting in the garden
occasionally pulling a weed or two.

I will get to the violets, whom
I love,
and the vinca, which I do not.
And pull them both out with a vengeance
They each have a calling for world domination,
violets sweetly, and I will tolerate,
But vinca, aggressive and vining,
too willing to smother and cover
everything in its path,
I will not.

I have decided to live in the garden
to stay in the green and growing world
with her loamy soil and deep shadow
under the redbud and maple trees.

The maples have formed their winged
seed helicopters, those we loved as children
tossing them as high as my brothers and I
could throw. Do you remember?

There is nothing here to nourish your body
just your spirit
and soul,

But we have springs and wells
of sweet water, soil sufficient for crops,
if asked nicely,
and the ridge is quiet with stars.

I don’t know why I am telling you this.

Except to say
if the final trumpet sounds
and you can find your way,
there will be room for you here.
Just bring some matches,
your grandmother’s quilt
and a favorite book.

It will be enough.

blessed be

Redbud

blessed be the hours of early morning
when the light seeps slowly across the water

blessed be that light
that fills the windows full open to the morning
breeze and the scent of resurrected green

blessed be that breeze
which scatters the blown petals
of dogwood and redbud trees
carpeting the garden path with bright confetti

blessed be those feet
whose boots track spent pink petals
across the just swept kitchen floor

blessed be that love
that fills this kitchen with heavens color
and sacred morning light

blessed be

striking a match

May morning

is it just the way things are
that anything
transcendent
requires something

dark before

dawn opens over the night’s ridge, golden, glorious,
as birdsong swells with color and light
lilting across dancing water

her death required my small death
a burying of things held
oh so tightly
it was hard to peel my fingers back
to release them

I lean against the dark stone
and wait for the angel
to strike a match

remember

brush canvas close up colors

Photo by 祝 鹤槐 on Pexels.com

the ambiguity of stain
a scarlet thread finds its way
onto a bleached white linen
marring its perfection

maunday, a mandate, a command
over dinner
eat this, drink this

I remember the little saltless pillows of cracker
and the fascination of tiny cups of grape juice
take this and remember
Do This in Remembrance of Me
carved in the wooden altar
where the men in somber suits
brought the bright silver trays
to rest

red wine
on white linen
I reach for your glass

ask

flame

I watch the flames
consume the historic cathedral
and wander thru the sanctuaries
of all those churches in my past,
the color of the walls, the velvet cushions,
worn wooden pews,
the cross or crucifix or
baptism pool behind the Madonna blue curtain.

Jesus walked into the room
and in his fury, turned the tables.

He cursed the fig tree til it withered,
fruitless.

Its fruitless.

The spire falls, its cross held high till
consumed in destruction and purifying flame.

He foresaw the destruction of the temple,
David’s temple, Soloman’s temple,
the jewel of the faith.

A reckoning is coming in this Holy Week
Good Friday looms in the shadow
I don’t know what any of this means.

I just ask for mercy

I just ask for faith

I just ask