host of questions

Harvey S. Mozolak

ranks of angels?

so said to be
is it necessary that an alarmingly great
lieutenant lead
the Bethlehem shepherd’s field choir
and that an arch-general Gabriel
startle the virgin girl with the Word embellied
or for fiery ones’ seraphimic-suck to heal
serpent slurp from the wounds of Israel’s poisoned
do cherubim only have the correct-sized pinions
to cover the covenant box with full holiness and awe?

or are their ranks such
so that they may stand on each other shoulders
to witness the creation of all things good
and wing-in glory
hang rank on rank to plunge low enough
to peek within the straw
and marvel at the smallness of all-God
rank obeying rank ray the Easter sun
for the sergeants of the sacred
to dismiss the Roman guard in fear
and supply the weeping women
with death-breaking news to share

ranks like commander saint Michael’s army
guarding the Garden closed and barred
its forever-flowers’ faces
shut throughout the long night of sin
until accompanied by trumpets
silver shouting commands of this world’s guardians
the band of messengers call
for flesh to join all spirits at bright parade
for rest and joy
and the end of all bent and twisted questions
these unseen exclamations awaiting
surrounding God
ange!s
ranks rejoining the embodied

shortening string

Harvey S. Mozolak

alone on a knoll
a large lick of leaves
from a lollipop of a tree
by the wind of the wide-mouth sky
summer sweetness disappearing
in honey-yellows, oranges
cherries and chocolate flecks
candy-wrapper leftovers
turning around the world
of a yo-yo sleeping sun
palmed by the fisting clouds

brushing the bush branches

Harvey S. Mozolak

the feeling is detested the shivering walk through unseen hanging spider webs thin entanglements clinging pasting their shuddering on face hair and hands that frantically wipe away at a foul cling fighting all attempts at removal is the brush of pinions felt passing through angel wings whose grace and glory burnish with God’s holy cleansing the edges of a contentment hidden but trusted trailing blood-rusted nails among jagged splinters and soiled grave linens?

closet Clive

H.S. Mozolak

I have this apology
for C.S. Lewis
this robe worn

shabby
in the early dawn hours and evening
in my house is reminiscent
of Jack’s smoke-infused dressing gown
seen in one of his few popular photos
disheveled
paunchy with pipe
perhaps slippers unseen
crumbs from an open tin of biscuits
on its sleeves
amid a Kilns’ reading room of open books
tomes with solid bindings
thoughts of the timeless
dog-eared pages reread and translated
mine color and pattern similar
a mere way
mostly to cover the draft
lounging in front of the telly
sipping sweetened banali-tea

inside wait

Harvey S. Mozolak

inside
to the hook behind the door
and the robe
that has been too warm to wear
its folds becoming creases
suffocating several August flies
that fall to the floor unnoticed
now makes the air bearable
the wait begins
in the snaps of a fireplace
and the assuring hum of the furnace register
under blankets and coats with scarfs
the wait for the outdoor life
where skin was enough cover
and trees were wrapped with warm sweet fruit

autumnal doorstep

Harvey S. Mozolak

the days have become crisp
even small rain no longer refreshing
but shivering sharp and unhinging
driving flesh and bone
to jacket deeper
and wall against the coming
time of unwelcome
among barren stalks
that were once trees gifted with shade
which winked the light
and branches in the open
bright with blossoms
the draining green will mock
this fear in a small margin
that will not allow hope
to gather long
for coating shadows grow and reach beyond
the closing door

rood questions

Harvey S. Mozolak

to crucify anew
is the cross
an antique
timber petrified by death?
several old wood slats
held by red rusty nails
collected to display
some dismay of the standard
the current and expected
an amulet for admirers of his courage
and hope for the helpless
or is it an ugly thing?
a course curse of the perfect
the love without return
that can yet be used
as our tool for destruction
of heaven among us
and an instrument
with which to affix
our own foul fruit
to the tree in an exhibition
of our power and pride
once we pinned God down
continue the count
in time seconds hours
days years ages
less than eternity
viewed through this historic frame

the posting

Harvey S. Mozolak

said where it could be read
with several tongues
In Nameless Regal Innocence
at the crossroads
beyond the urban wall
outside the secure and gated
by soldier sentinels
like some sworded seraphim
strangely forbidding good’s reentry into earth

there an attempt is made
to fasten God down
after lashings with iron hammered
pins in hot-driven hate
how far will this love go?
here lepers cannot touch him
the cries of mourners
lost amid coarse laughter and curses
those who limp or stumble blind
will not find it easy
to climb close to this place
the smiling children will not be brought
for blessing nor harlots rise to face
his storied forgiveness
the poor will find his wealth
hemorrhages away easily
the gravity is all to the grave
thus a posted warning
a written condemnation
of holiness much too close to flesh
yet if it is not only the hands of Romans
who lift him to the prongs of punishment
but God who elevates
the stationing sentence of the Word
said in dark congealing red
how far can his wounding go?
revealing this a posting on a stripped tree
the only shade there is