why do angels sit?

Harvey S. Mozolak

if you stare to the side carefully
best if you are a passenger
not the driver
and study the leafless woods
between the few left lonely pine
there even in daylight
one in the creek mostly hidden
by the curving of the road
and its metal barrier ribbon
is drinking alertly lifting
her head from time to time
and several up the hillside
in step fashion
perhaps a buck well up the ridge
closer to the housing development
but beyond where they mow
and toss the football
a house is there
with on one inside wall
a trophy head with horns
on another
a print of a Thayer angel
watch for the movement
of what could be brown trunks
and branches to betray them
they live among us like the angels
prayed for in the evening
over our children’s beds
wings in place of antlers
moving silently through our yards and streets
there even in daylight
but not a host hunted this season
in the after Christmas cold

one breath away from death

Harvey S. Mozolak

the way the wing feathers tip
determine if the ground squirrel
will live to fluff its fur
beside its burrow
unless the wind’s gust has a say 

poet-horse

Harvey S. Mozolak

words with wings that mount
to beyond above
and plow the hidden
trampled caved and creviced
Pegasus
swift of foot fleet of feather
finless yet prancing
in spring pools the hardness
of cold earth 
with lines of scent and color

in awe of ten

Harvey S. Mozolak

none with antlers
yet some quite large
eight deer eating
around two houses
three in front of each
and two on the sides
when I stop to look
at the size of this herd
they stop eating
whatever it is that is eaten
and all as one watch me
in the car
two in the front
I the driver
and my wife in the passenger seat
she sipping her coffee
and I chewing an orange-flavored mint
the west side window open
as are their sixteen wide eyes
brown spheres less in awe
of 36 mph Bluetooth heated front seats
four-wheel drive side deploying bags
more in fear awaiting direction
for all to drive

snow after sunset

Harvey S. Mozolak

it snowed last night
(the “it” less personable than divine
and even less able and plural than clouds)
but across the paper white
making of the night’s bed
while we were roofed and sleeping
it topped and smoothed all that could be seen
helped by the moon hung with a wide yawn
though not completely necessary
it seems
(again there is an “it” awake and working)
that a small creature
not the usual deer whose arc
of prints are out beyond the porch beam
walked to our door and returned again
to the white beyond indoor distinctions
asking in?
inquiring of our warmth and safety?
looking for some dropped chewable thing?
or searching for the “it”
that came even more quietly
but covering darkness with a lightness
that reveals most all the hidden
except for what
it is

one moment please

Harvey S. Mozolak

the cat was here a...
the difference between
a minute and a moment
sixty seconds that can be counted
and a space said to be short
whose time is quantified
by the phrase
“one moment please”
a monumental moment
pedestaled by impatient pause
paws that are cast larger and longer
than the real that is watched
leaps and escapes

flotsam for flesh

Harvey S. Mozolak

a speck of dust
in the sun’s shaft
slicing through the living
room glass magnified
among uncountable flecks
swirling between the fireplace
and the open window
near seven billion aboard

on a table

Harvey S. Mozolak

in a clay pot
white flowers rest above green leaves
forced in some southern sun-house
outside the snow has covered
what is left of the lawn
browns interspersed with khaki
tired of the battle with the cold
the blossoms are not nearly as intricate
as the flakes that fell
but they retain their distinction
while frost on the window designs each morning
a protest against the nature of hope

growing up as the God-man

Harvey S. Mozolak

he has left the bed
of animals
Joseph borrowed a house
from some distant kindly relatives
and he is walking now
it seems early
but somehow nothing he will do
will probably be premature
when he walks around the room
outside in the small street
and at the nearby field where Mary
takes him for air
it is like he is a wild creature
caged or un-caged
it is difficult to tell
Auden called him a tiger
Once I versed him a panther
the Book said behold a lamb
he has begun to hunt
and stalk evil where it is found
in the neighborhood and nation
like a child who cannot let a pet or beast
be still he will find the foe
and confront its tottering stand
with childlike simplify of spirit
himself the taunted prey
he the serious game in grace
this is where my Father
sent me to walk
and take a stand
in a sapling
he tells Mary he wishes today to climb
to see beyond Bethlehem
she warns him of its dangers
one hand to each low branch
he places
he has not yet strength to climb
will the pure and holy virgin
aid this early crucifixion?
are these the lion claws of Judah mounting
he the treed king of beasts?

cleaning up

Harvey S. Mozolak

after they left
the parents with their bundled boy
more pigeons returned to roost
in the rafters
and you would think
the sheep
cow and goats
would eat from the manger
but they never did
at least very well
only the grain tops which fell to the floor
the straw still radiated its gold
from the frame where he was laid
until one day the owner of the shed
pushed it aside
among the unused bins
storage sacks
and lumber leftovers
like old yesterday’s yellowing baby pictures
stored in seam-bulged cardboard boxes
in the dusty attic
and today’s discarded cards
from Christmas

outside the wind howls

Harvey S. Mozolak

the stalks left since October
like the odd pens and pencils
in a wire container on my desk
have given up their protestations
and leaned over a few breaking
in the cold front that blasted through
this afternoon
January has moved into time
with its promise
that it will make everything new
by covering over all previous mistakes
its paper white falling in flakes
blanking in blankets and drifts
the wind thinks it is part eraser
but these words are written
and will be kept indoors

sacristy preparations

Harvey S. Mozolak

light licked liquid
the ceiling smell of wax
the warmth
of new lit wicks
high ablaze
the crisp uncracked
communion host
with lines for wounding
napkined in linen
the fragrance
of fresh poured wine
awaiting