Southern Legitimacy Statement: Born in Joplin, Missouri, which is only quasi-southern, Helen Losse moved to North Carolina—that’s southern legit!—at age 22, newly married to Bill. And has her life been a ride! Not a hayride or a NASCAR ride, but a ride nonetheless. She has both a childhood home and an adult home, has been an English teacher—7th Grade is my favorite,—a stay-at-home mom, a graduate student at Wake Forest University, a published poet, a poetry editor—at THIS HERE MULE and at Kentucky Review—a Catholic convert, and as an old woman, she has a truly wonderful life, despite a few health issues. Her latest book is A Flower More Enduring (available from Main Street Rag Publishing Company, Charlotte, NC). She is thankful to *Valerie MacEwan for all the years we worked together on The Dead Mule and for requesting this chapbook.
–for Bill, Troy, & Victor
Angels
The Nine Choirs of Angels – From highest to lowest according to Saint Thomas Aquinas:
Seraphim – Cherubim – Thrones
Dominions – Virtues – Powers
Principalities – Archangels – Angels
*
How great is the dignity of souls, that each person has from birth received an angel to protect it. —Saint Jerome
*
Make yourself familiar with the Angels and behold them frequently in spirit; for without being seen, they are present with you. —Saint Francis de Sales
*
Beside each believer stands an angel as protector and shepherd,… —Saint Basil the Great
*
… he commands his angels with regard to you, to guard you wherever you go. — Psalm 91:11
*
… the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone. —George Elliot
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Valerie MacEwan* for requesting this chapbook, to Anderson O’Brien, Peter Venable, and Kent Reichert for helpful critiques and revision suggestions, and to Father Richard D. Childress for prayer, encouragement, and a final edit.
Comfort Me With Angels
Contents
- Dark Woodland Retreat
- The River
- A Place for Forgiveness
- Overflow Into the Gold-plated Teacup
- Beach-dream
- Under a Pale Round Moon
- Season of Remembrance and Anticipated Joy
- For Every Lonely Joe and Jane
- Safe in His Boat
- Silhouette in Scrupulous Dialogue: A Q&A Ends in Prayer
- April 3, 2015
- Responsorial: After the Psalms of David
- Marching Toward April
- Brighter Than a Crown Jewel
- Confession: I want to Grow
- Exit of Blue
- Bright Star as a Sign
- Evidence of God’s Love
Dark Woodland Retreat
I pull into County Acres Park
just after six, lock the car, slip
keys into my hoodie’s side pocket.
The trail from parking lot A
follows the river. Tree trunks are
black against a marine blue sky.
Near the shore, autumn’s red
leaves float on water. A rippling
current dances beneath the
footbridge, sings a verse from a
lyrical ballad. Breeze unsettles. Nose
detects a fishy smell: algae. My
path turns upward, becomes more
difficult. Ferns growing beside
the trail’s edge tickle my legs. I
stumble in half-light, cut my knee
on a jagged rock. Sharp pain
pulsates from my leg. Even more
pain troubles my heart. My
thoughts: befuddled. I came here—
alone—to restore my soul.
For a while, I feel sorry for myself,
leg dripping blood, no first aid kit:
aspirin, tissues, bandages. Pain subsides,
but loneliness lingers. The sky is dark now.
My prayers feel shallow, insignificant
until I see the moon. Playing a mind
game in which Jesus is the moon, I kneel,
speak as though I were in church
before a Crucifix. The Spirit illumines
my heart. God changes me to a
flambeau in a stygian forest.
The River
Faith is to believe what you do not see. The reward of faith is to see what you believe.
–Saint Augustine of Hippo
Sun rises over the winding river
running through the dense forest,
where nomadic people once lived—
telling heroic stories, singing of
family, of tribe, of similar tribes:
distant kin, who lived downstream.
Ancient river rocks are worn
smooth, round, become sand over
time. Coarse undergrowth never
impedes history or religion. I brave
thorny brambles, gnarled vegetation
before I arrive at the sun-soaked river,
wade into sparkling, flowing water,
float downstream, where algae
slickened rocks. Suddenly, the river
turns, drops. And I drop. Down, down,
down. Into the foam—cascading flow,
the flood. I gulp, gasp, swallow water,
struggle to breathe. I am violently
hurled like a helpless leaf over colossal
falls. Gasping, gulping. Nothing but attack:
plundering water! Water, water everywhere ….
Then silence. My mind is the empty set.
I’m flailing in the shallows, trembling,
puking, sobbing: the entire world water and
snot…. I remember nothing of going ashore
or the journey home. What happened?
How did I get in my bed? In the following
months, I relive the panic over and over.
Awake or asleep, water: airless water, airless
air. Aching lungs. Panic. Nightmares
become part of my life. Will this ever end? …
Healing takes place slowly. After months,
maybe years, I am thankful to still be alive.
Then one day God reveals to me the mystery.
And this is where the story gets interesting.
I was spared. God’s hand saved me from
drowning: He has more for me—more for me
to do on earth before I join Him in heaven,
where I hope to be with Him forever. God
told me the truth: Heaven is as real as the river.
A Place for Forgiveness
After breakfast, I board a simple rowboat.
No motor, only wooden oars. My faith smolders
like the campfire, left hissing under a layer of cool
morning raindrops. Leaves wear waxy raincoats—
golden orange, cardinal red, imperial yellow.
Lily pads no longer blossom but will next year
along with other pinks of spring, that time when
flowering Dogwood crosses hang from shoreline
branches. Blossoms both cursed & blessed, (or so
legend goes).Of course, I pray before I eat lunch:
a sandwich, later an apple, red as the sky at sunset
lowering in the western sky. Soon light will disappear
around the river bend—the sun off to shine in the
opposite hemisphere.
My heart sees beyond the water birds—beyond the ducks,
geese, the occasional swan. The river shallows, smooths
stones with tiny rapids. I disembark late afternoon, and
back on shore, nature prevails: startles, alarms, fuels mystery,
teases with ambiguity. Why do tears diamond my cheek?
At the campground, I enter my cabin in darkness.
With no lantern, illumination comes only from moon
and stars. Rust-colored light radiates through doors,
windows, conceals my shadow’s blurry echo: its X-ray
ghost. I drop to my knees, close my eyes, begin with
comfortable, memorized prayers. Then remorseful:
penitential petitions. God forgives. Finally, I rest on the
fleecy blanket used as a pallet. Perhaps I dream.
Whirly birds from a shoreline maple plant themselves in
the path’s rocks and crannies. Daffodils nod. Three bullies
strut by, mocking a classmate whose lips purse as though
he expects a kiss—friendship always absent, always
imagined, always unrequited. A fifth youth, who could be
a saint and probably would be discerning priesthood (if
he acted every day like he does on Sunday), joins the
recreant rumpus. Stones fly from four pairs of hands.
Dreams do not always make sense.
I wake up hungry, yawn, stretch, look out the window.
I sing softly as I stoke the fire, cook breakfast.
Spirit rekindles my faith with on-going hope. God’s
ancient promises, guarded by velvet, angelic wings,
penetrate autumnal air. A golden rose, full-blown,
bursting with life, brightens dawn’s tender frost-carpet—
a symbol I do not fully understand.
Overflow Into the Gold-plated Teacup
Prayer isn’t a formula for worldly success,
a lucky number on a roulette wheel, or a
gumball machine: penny in, gumball out.
God doesn’t automatically give houses or
jobs to those who pray novenas. Not all who
have cancer will be spared a painful death. No.
God—always Love—wills the best for all of us,
heals our hearts, gives us what we need (not
necessarily what we want): Each person is like
an awaiting saucer into which overflow tea
falls from a gold-plated cup. The tea is grace
enough to get us to heaven, if only we ask.
Beach-dream
—in memory of Debbie Kirk
Monday evening, low tide.
Strolling the beach, wearing
yellow shorts, old tennis shoes,
I splash in foamy, bubble-bath surf—
behold the spectrum’s panoramic show,
trope of sailors: reds, pinks, and mauve
in chromatic brush strokes across darkening
sky. Predicts a fair morning? Dare I wish
for more beauty? Gulls fly in. My eyes follow
their flight. Landing, they waddle-walk, leave
bird-feet tracks in damp sand. After dark, I
sleep in a borrowed bungalow, dream…
Seraphim, Cherubim, and unmovable,
justice-loving, wheel-like Thrones—
Angels of the most powerful choirs,
the closest ones to God.
Under a Pale Round Moon
Fireflies flash in evening air.
God’s pale round moon ascends,
casting shadows full of query.
As darkness progresses, myriads of
angels glow from the place they reside:
the space between twinkling stars.
The leaves of a fallen tree branch
shroud a feral cat who mourns her
three stillborn kittens. Yet darkness
contains more of God than just
questions. His mercy and love temper
pain with what the world needs.
Season of Remembrance and Anticipated Joy
On the night of the autumn storm, violent rainfall pounds windows.
Thunder rattles panes. Lightning skitters, flashes from cloud to cloud.
By sunrise, rain stops, maple leaves flutter: a blaze of orange and
yellow land in a pile in front of the rocks, carried home from the
Blue Ridge Mountains last year. A purple mum peeks out from
fallen leaves. Cooler air helps me remember the joy of the Annual
Sweater Dance. Trick-or-treat candy bars and popcorn balls vanish
overnight, (as does left-over turkey). Geese fly south,
honking all the way through Advent, when we slow down, learn to
wait, prepare….for the glorious return of Jesus and to celebrate the
joy of that Holy Night when lowly shepherds knelt in worship, in awe—
when that special star lit the Christmas sky.
For Every Lonely Joe and Jane
—for a special poet/friend named Joe
Red sky greets the dawn,
salty air in misty confusion.
A person—walking alone on the beach—
kicks a rock or a broken shell. Sky blears to
leaden ash, thickens to texture of smoke.
Clouds roll in, darken from gleaming white
to burnt-charcoal gray. Not to be outdone,
whitecaps threaten, signal danger from the
carnivorous sea. Blue-green water adopts a
black-velvet tinge. As time passes, the day
gets darker, rainier, more overcast. True night
begins too early: at five o’clock with
ferocious thunder. The angry sea hungers
like the merciless food chain, floods further inland.
Surely peril lurks beneath churning waters,
threatens the defenseless shore. Lightening
surrounds shadowy bones of an old landmark.
The trusty lighthouse—once a bright
beacon of hope—is a hapless mountain of
fallen stone. Scientists measure ocean depths in
fathoms. Poets find no units for loneliness,
depression, darkness: complete human despair.
The man on the beach has nowhere to go,
no one to take him in, offer shelter, comfort.
He crouches in front of a deteriorating sand dune.
What is he thinking? Will he die alone in
twisting seaweed? Will he die tonight?
Who will rescue him? Or, maybe it was a woman
I saw. Hard to tell at this distance. Surely, it was a
human soul—loved by God—who huddles:
cold, wet, feeling utterly forsaken.
Safe in His Boat
Budding sunlight coaxes memory
beyond the finite. Then dawn swallows
darkness. Joy hangs in a silver cloud.
High-tide ocean floods the shore with
sea song, rapturous sound: penetration of
melodic chant. In-coming waves erase
evidence of human passion and games like
volleyball. Tidewater fills footprints with
sea life, broken shells. I don’t always hear
melody on beaches, but beauty of ocean
stops my breath, as silently as Mother Mary,
Star of the Sea, guides me to Jesus, who
keeps me safe in His Boat with His other
precious children. Spirit echoes the voice of
eternity from beginning to end: “God to
God, Light to Light,” yet poetic image,
sandcastle euphony, and symbol merely
tremble beneath God’s throne.
Silhouette in Scrupulous Dialogue: A Q&A Ends in Prayer
I spend late evening under a fire-filled sky, alone
on a second-floor deck, near a neighborhood lake west of
Atlanta. Thunder growls. Lightning enchants. A brown
dwarf star illuminates shingles on the roof next door. How
beautifully alluring, comfortably dappled, the vast universe.
So why do I tremble in moonlight, reverie startled by
dark visions, wrestle with evil: Satan’s temptation?
Half-lit murk, gargoyle-inhabited, plastic-colonized,
glow of three-eyed tuna, blood of abortion.
Guilty as Adam, guilty as Eve, I’m a sinner, it’s true.
But why entertain scruples, battle guilt in acts where no
sin abides? Why fear that which I have not done?
Distant bird calls. Clouds cover stars. Bermuda grass
whispers, sways. Life as a narrative? A puzzle? A game?
Pigeons flutter from creepy shadows. I jump, shudder…
take a deep breath, utter an “Our Father.” Is that the moon I
see glowing in God’s night-time sky? My prayer lacks a
candle. A candle guides prayer? Pray for others. Pray for
mercy. Pray for Jesus to return.
Bring a blowtorch. Never enough burning candles!
Light them all. Never too many burning candles!
Then flickering candles glow. Smoke curls upward.
Ringing bell in foggy air. Bell in church tower, ringing.
Lifted chalice. Choirs of Angels. Faith as a steadfast burn.
Hope, brighter than a burning townhouse, flaring log.
I’m worshipping my Maker, my Grace-giver: my Steadfast
Lord and God—my only source of mercy, grace, and power.
Am I falling in love with my Jesus?
April 3, 2015
I remember the Easter Vigil that
started about nine, ended after midnight.
Gathering, in the Ave Maria Courtyard at
Saint Leo’s Catholic Church before Mass
began, I felt like a nervous four-year-old
watching Deacon Bob as he prepared the
Easter Fire: coal to ignite incense.
We Candidates processed into the
Sanctuary, slid into reserved pews near the
front accompanied by our sponsors. The rest of
the pews were already full. Father Cook
incensed the altar, then Mass began…
I was Confirmed along with the others.
Then kneeling in sight of the congregation,
I received my First Holy Communion:
Jesus: Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity.
I sobbed in candle glow, Eunie, my sponsor—
whom I jokingly called my “Godmother”—
held me in her arms like Mother Mary.
From that day forward, the Church
where I first encountered the scent of
chrism oil smells like home.
Responsorial: After the Psalms of David
The Earth is full of God’s goodness; it’s true.
Goodness of the Lord fills the Earth.
I will praise the Lord morning, evening, and on my bed
at midnight, for He is the God of all goodness.
R: The Earth is full of God’s goodness. Let us praise Him.
I rejoice in the beauty of Earth, for I see
the yellow flower blossom in its time.
I praise God for the beauty in His creation.
God is both beauty and truth, the flower His creation.
R: The Earth is full of God’s goodness. Let us praise Him.
I rejoice in the beauty of heaven on Earth,
for I have fed upon the Eucharist and know it is truly Jesus:
Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity come down from heaven.
Jesus lives in me, lives forevermore. Jesus in me makes the earth good.
R. The Earth is full of God’s goodness. Let us praise Him.
I rejoice in the beauty of Earth, for I see angels
guide my prayer to heaven. God answers my prayer;
He comforts me. I will praise God forever, for His salvation
is beauty and love. Earth holds God’s goodness forever.
R:The Earth is full of God’s goodness. Let us praise Him.
Marching Toward April
—for Sue Westervelt
One spring a man innocently
pulled up a crocus from our yard.
Purple? Custard? Neglected, the other
crocus also faded, died.
Lilies of the Valley—planted to the north
of the house, transplanted from Bill’s
grandmother’s garden in Milwaukee—
and daffodils, whose blossoms once
overflowed onto the front sidewalk, have
vanished: all but the leaves have died.
.
Pungent, tar-like creosote and careless
feet of blundering cable company men
tromped, weakened, broke forsythia branches.
Thriving still are wild onions.
Wind-scattered fluff balls self-seed,
become lowly yellow dandelions
that croon like Crosby.
Situated on my desk—
as we march toward April—
is the tiny white bouquet
Sue sent me to carry her love
from Mt. Airy to Winston-Salem.
Dried florets that sing out like angels
heralding Our Lord at His birth—
whose buds remain in a clay dish
fashioned, fired by Val—cuddle by a blue
birthday candle and a vintage rosary.
Brighter Than a Crown Jewel
I. Mystery From History
Smoky sky visions.
Configurations in seafoam.
Dreamscapes, enigmas….Haunting
unremembered and recognizable forms.
Torn cucumber-colored flag
unfurls near a primitive stone hostel.
Thrift-store heirloom discovery.
Embroidered tapestry.
Flashback? Memory? Backhanded
confusion. Cat basking in sunlight by a
castle ruin. Flying buttresses. Church
with a heavy wooden door.
II. Revelation From Salvation
Notre Dame burning. Burning.
History still alive, rises in tall
orange flames. Coals among shadows—
dimly lit. Priest saves the Host.
One miniscule ember highlights
scorched marble walls, statue. Olive-
skinned, pretty girl. Purer than whipped
cream. More grace-filled than
an aria sung by Pavarotti. Mary’s
cinder-lit shoulder: Brighter than a
crown jewel. Holy Virgin standing
among soot-covered roses.
I Want to Be Holy
—for Father James
God quickened me at conception,
re-birthed me at Baptism, called me gently—
but oh! so convincingly—at my Conversion,
Confirmation in Easter’s flower-bedecked sanctuary.
I heard Him in candle flicker at Saint Leo’s,
saw air move when the priest consecrated
bread and wine. Saints and Angels filled the air,
singing, praising Jesus’s Holy Name. I meditated in
rapture as my Guardian Angel touched my shoulder,
after Communion.
Beauty and love radiated from the face of that priest
I had last seen when he was an energy-filled
youth, zipping around the minibus, distributing
bottled “Pope Water,” blessed by Pope John Paul II.
Father James’s recent eulogy at Judy’s funeral Mass,
spared nothing of Gospel Truth. Nothing!
I want to be holy—now that I am Catholic—
to seek and follow God’s will: that Gospel Truth,
not my own will, to be forgiven, purified, cleansed,
set free to understand God’s particular will for me.
I say my penance after Confession, honor the God
Who made me, grow closer to Jesus and His Holy
Mother Mary every day. I strive to bring others to
Jesus by writing poems that honor Him alone,
not just well-crafted verse that points out the obvious.
Successful or not—O God—comfort me with angels
until I live with You forever and ever.
Exit of Blue
I am tainted blue—
a deep, prideful, sinful blue—
not Alice Blue or the white-blue of the rich foremilk
the infant Jesus suckled from His Mother’s breast,
nor the sky blue of a baby boy’s blanket.
Each time I leave the Confessional—cleansed and forgiven—
I fade—as though bleached from that Prussian Blue
at the horizon between the vast ocean and unclouded sky,
Cobalt Blue, or, maybe, even Cornflower—to snowy white.
Again and again, God forgives me, reconciles me,
sets me right to abide in Jesus, become more like Him,
allow Spirit to inhabit me so fully that I beam
that heavenly blaze of glory the Angel Gabriel found
in the soul and Immaculate Heart of the Virgin Mary. I pray
to be purged clean, made holy: I pray for an exit of blue.
Bright Star as a Sign
If there’s a story, velvet silence
enhances its impact: Point of view matters.
A single flake of snow—silent on the window—
never tells the whole story. Through the window,
I see snowflakes fall; no school busses grind or
jackhammers whir today. Ground is already covered
in fallen white crystals. Then wild! as the harsh wind
blows, we huddle against winter’s fury, frozen whiteness.
Rosie, cleaning her paws, watches squirrels feast on
seed left for birds. Cozy inside, she purrs—
content on her stool—wooden feline throne.
Snowfall makes the narrative more ponderous.
Throughout Advent, angels prepare the Faithful
for God Himself to lift us into Heaven’s ethereal
moment: in Bethlehem, the desert dry, people
hoping for rain, but none fell. Then suddenly,
stepping out from evening shadows, a man trudging
the dusty road, exhausted. Beside him, his wife
straddles a donkey. She is about to give birth.
Ordered by the king to report to his forefathers’ town
to pay taxes, they shelter in a stable. Some say, a cave.
Come midnight, the woman’s labor intensifies;
She gives birth, nurses her neonate: a boy. The
Virgin hums softly. Joseph wipes her brow.
Impoverished shepherds, who herded flocks in
fields nearby, see the Bright Star as a sign that the
Child is the Lord. Angels guide them to the place
where they bow before the Holy Christ Child in an
act of worship. We hear this story—this miracle—
proclaimed over and over, year after year. Angels still
abide, as does the Eternal Word of God. At Mass we not
only hear but believe the scriptures, for choirs of angels
come down—whether we see them or not—when we eat
Christ’s Body and drink His Blood, yet… even today,
many do not believe God actually came to live among us.
Evidence of God’s Love
I blow on a dandelion gone to seed.
Pappi have feathery wings, fly like angels.
Hairy down becomes a yellow flower.
Planting itself in our neighbor’s yard,
it brings forth new life.
I snuff candles on my Advent wreath,
smoke rises: shapes twirl as they soar upward.
Prayer-carrying angels rise from extinguished
wicks: mind-drawn, mystical thought-pictures
grace me all morning.
The priest proclaims God’s Word during Mass.
Holy, worshipping angels descend, hover,
sing above the Altar. With or without a
Sanctus Bell, Spirit changes wafer and wine
into Christ’s Body and His Holy Blood.
*I cherish my friendship with Helen Losse and our precious years together collaborating on the Poetry and the Poets in this Dead Mule. She is surely a national treasure, a poet beyond verse, a life-affirming woman. Our love for each other transcends working together on a mere literary journal. She is the Poetry Editor Emeritus for our beloved Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.
