The King’s Angels
Mad King Ludwig painted himself frolicing with angels
on the ceiling of his swan house,
a beautiful conceit, one of his smaller ones.
I envy him his chutzpa. Mine merely follow me
around the wilderness like heavenly nannies,
saving me from myself. A full time job, truth be told.
Clearly the king’s angels had an easier time of it,
No wonder they smile and dance, while mine, at the end of the day,
droop, robes wrinkled, thinking perhaps eternity is a bit long
to be saddled with the likes of me.
About this poem
The picture came from a work trip I made to Bavaria, where I took a day to visit some of Mad King Ludwig’s palaces. This was his smallest and most modest, actually more of a hunting lodge than a palace. (We do hunting lodges a bit different here in Vermont.)
The last decade and a half have been quite the adventure. My poor guardian angels need some respite care. When I get to heaven, I am going to give them all a big big hug.