Angel Poems

Angel Poems

Given angel’s wings, where might you fly?
In what sweet heaven might you find your love?
Unwilling to be bound, where might you move,
Lost between the wonder and the why?
If you were but a flame of pure desire,
A light so lovely you could not be seen,
Near mad with yearning, yet somehow serene,
And that were all, what more might you require?

by Nicholas Gordon


To angels time is like a movie
Into which they fly,
Neither real nor unengrossing
As we live and die.

by Nicholas Gordon


To be an angel, one need not have wings.
In giving love there is an equal grace.
Nor need one seek the aura in the face,
As love unveils the beauty of all things.

by Nicholas Gordon


Angels have come to bring with them,
In thought and deed and, also, hymn
The message of God and His wisdom great
His love, His wants for all our fate.
They bring on high their protection strong
To guide us all when things go wrong
To teach us patience when none exists
To help us see what blindness missed
To help us hear what deafness hides
To help us feel what touch denies
To give us peace when fightings ’round
To fill us with love when hates abound
To encourage the feeling of a want to give
A feeling with which we all should live.
So in this season’s darkest night
Within our souls doth shine a light
To warm us with forgiveness and sharing
And with compassion and, also, caring.
All these are sent from heaven divine
For the Angels have brought them,
‘Tis God’s Design.

by Unkown


The Angels’ Wash Day Poem

When the angels do their laundry,
Up in heaven on Spring days,
They blow bubbles at each other,
And in the soapsuds play.

They must do a lot of wash,
Because their soapsuds seem to grow,
Until piled so high up in the sky,
The sun won’t even show.

I wonder what is in their wash,
For their soapsuds soon turn gray,
Then, dark and black and ominous,
And they do not go away.

The once blue sky’s now darkened,
And a chill comes in the air,
Then, a stillness settles in,
Nothing stirring, anywhere.

The angels sometimes are disturbed,
And they rub-a-dub-dub on their tubs,
Their loud and pounding sounds come down,
Creating quite a hubbub.,

Next, they empty out their laundry tubs,
You should see the water flow,
It comes down by the bucketful,
And drenches everything below.

Suddenly the tempest stops,
And the water runs in gentle streams,
Have the angels left a faucet on,
Or are they rinsing out their things?

More slowly does the water flow,
Until it finally stops,
Then, in all its heavenly glory
A brilliant sun comes out.

Next, I hear some chirping birds,
And a blue, blue sky appears,
The air so clean, it seems pristine,
And more clear, the atmosphere.

Soon, piece by piece, the angels hang,
Their laundry out to dry,
Their angel wings and robes and things,
Are flung across the sky.

Their fresh-washed laundry, pure white,
Is a dazzling sight to see,
A joy to watch it in the sky,
Drying freely in the breeze.

And in one corner of the sky,
Is an arc of many hues,
No doubt, colored items from the wash,
Set aside, but not removed.

When it’s laundry time in heaven,
And the angels roll up their wings,
We know it won’t be long at all,
Until the world is sparkling clean.

I love it when the angels wash,
I love their things hung out to dry,
I love the fresh-washed scent I get,
From their laundry in the sky.

By Virginia Ellis



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