Wingless Angels

As the wind passes over the sea
we’re born on a flood of salt water
carried by the spirit.
We find ourselves and are lost,
lose ourselves and are found,
this mystery our brother,
the dark night our sister.
Coming alive, the dawn
announces a glory
trembling our hearts,
filling our lungs,
delighted in our
coming and going
like wingless angels.
We are shooting stars,
comets far from home,
blazing with our tail
of tears and joy.





















Reading of “Wingless Angels” with music by Gillian Welch and David Rawlings



11 Responses to “Wingless Angels”

  1. Maggie Causey says:

    Just glorious, Don. Thank you.

  2. Don…this one hits me right where I live…thank you, beloved one!

  3. Tom Figel says:

    Don, this is thoughtful and uplifting, another Sunday gift from you. I don’t know whether you intended it or not, but “born” could be “borne”, too. Very nice.

  4. Eric Dunn says:

    So sensual. I can see/feel it all! Thanks!

  5. Lloyd Meeker says:

    Tropical storm Isaias just passed us by yesterday, and the wind/salt water images have special meaning for me today. I’m increasingly content to blaze onward with my tail of tears and joy, not needing guarantees of outcome.

  6. Maria Frid says:

    Delighting in our coming and goings, of course………….so beautifully put, Don!

  7. Kaia True says:

    Wind passing over the sea… Like the contractions of birthing something new. Love reading this as a newborn. Delicious and lovely. Sweet gratitude to you Don.. be well! 🙂

  8. Jack Lavelle - spelling cop says:

    I think you want “borne” sted of “born”

  9. Veronica Lim says:

    Wonderful photo to accompany this poem, Don. Thank you.

  10. Smells like the Spirit of Life! 🙂

    Thank you, Don.

    All the Best to and through you, always!

  11. David Barnes says:

    Don, as I read this I notice that there is a pervasive joy woven through each poem, showing forth even when referencing sorrowful energies and events, and there are long comet tails of ecstasy trailing light and star dust threads from poem to poem to poem, becoming a seamless fusion — individual poems written down on whole parchment from which the sound of silence rises in tones and overtones, wingless yet aflight.

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