Ghost Of Michelangelo

She looked upon her shaking palm
There were three more tubes of oil
The old toolbox had fallen down
Had been on a shaky table

And she prayed that one more time
With some help she would get it done
Then an angel took her fingers
Helped her choose the deep blue one

It was Michael of the Angels
He could see where she came from
It was Michael of the Angels
That would stop her on the run

Now her hands became so steady
As she pushed the blue to white
And the canvas showed an angel
It was Michael all that night

Of the Sistine Chapel ceiling
She could see the colors there
When full brush of all three paints
Found their way to canvas bare

It was Michael of the Angels
He would see it all get done
It was Michael of the Angels
That would stop her on the run

She awoke on that fine morning
To a bright and shining light
In that nighttime came a dawning
Angelic joy, his tender might

On her canvas had appeared
The image of her smile
It was the colors in her palm
Her rainbow all the while

It was Michael of the Angels
He would see it all get done
It was Michael of the Angels
That would stop her on the run

About This Poem

Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back

Editing Stage: Editing - draft

About the Author

Region, Country: USA the bay state, United Kingdom, Australia, South Africa, Nigeria, Canada, Europe, USA

Favorite Poets: Dylon, George Harrison, Leonard Cohen, Jess, Rett, Black Mountain Gang

This user supports Neopoet so it can be free to all

Comments

Geezer

2 years 4 months ago

A vision...

a dream or...?
I like the ethereal qualities of this one. My favorite color is blue, and all its shades and variations. I can see a portrait of an angel, with a Mona Lisa smile. ~ Nice work! ~ Geez.
.

Seren

2 years 4 months ago

Dearest Mark

You have reminisced what was, yes, but in such a beautiful way. You know my one dream is to visit Italy and all its beautiful relics, the paintings, the sculptures, everything, I see Patty in a haloed light, sitting at an Easel with her fingers gently holding the brush creating a work of art, I see the paint gently flowing and forming into the angel Michael with a beautiful sky blue, the sky blue in the outback is something else that's what I can see and I see all this from your wonder filled poem. Life is frigging cruel it takes away the things we love the best as we age.

The flow is good, and the language is spot on, I truly see nothing I would change right now but I will return I am slightly affected by this one and all I can see is her at her easel.

So maybe that's is all I should do? is see her at her very best.

I love this poem Mark I love how you're celebrating your love even though its painful. Its our hearts that get bigger to hold the pain and the joy, or maybe its the soul. I don't know but I seem to hold a lot of both, and I don't know how I haven't exploded.

Deep respect and love Jayne to you both send my best to Pat. (((hugs)))