More beautiful than the winds Who by their silky back-and-forth Weave hope into destiny; And never has the hope launched Any man’s wager as high as the vital illusion Who rides his flight on the wings of the vulture.
If death can fly for the sake of stealing, is there anything that life, for the sake of dying, could not do?
From the palace of empty mirrors From the darker rooms’ enclosed spaces Empty of light, empty of songs From the city without trees, it’s Emptiness and joyless celebrations I scream
From the country of my race where the Ruler wearing jeweless crown mounts his throne his heart requiring the blood of bombs and targets, From my country’s nuclear streets’ ice cold swamps swarming smelling like death I scream
From a place nearby where there are found in mounds, skulls of humans, the nails driven deep From the place where the blood flows From the opened arteries of babies and children, running red and purplish hued slip slide over pavements of avenues and alleys I scream
From frozen silhouettes of men hanging skewed limbs swinging from makeshift gallows, From the frightening silent whoosh of the bomb, From the dark windowless tomb shelters without light or air I scream
From this place over there where for all my lifetime coffined freedom becomes a corpse riding on the shoulders of sorcerers while witches sing songs of madness; From the wounded throats of mothers; From the constricted throats of men strangled by demons of oppression I scream with the stars glittering across endless radioactive skies I scream
From the soft soil of death burst and here we are lovers thrown into harvest jostled inside azure skies celebrating the beauty of the world, a limbic stasis threatened and dissolved disarmed and drunk here we are crazy islands beneath imperfect hot suns sparkling in defeat, glittering in relentless seeking grabbing kissing, barehanded loving to our despairing, invoking the royal ‘We’, here we are lying on shorelines beneath the hot, hot sun on veined pebbles the sandy scrabbled dust of stars, invested and crumbled, still claiming the joy of being mortal
War the snake lying still stretched across ending time a Borealis warming it’s shimmering body; gliding under the sun, even here where it’s passing makes whispers and waves within the shoring sheaves, Here was my home, beneath glinting glaciers’ white frowning
War song the hornet the hidden and roaring devouring cicada, a trembling echo crossing reefs over verdant icy valleys, My breath stopped and breathing the heave of Earth at her last command becoming the mystery the peace, the desire, the dream, the sin and the oblivion, the tragedy, the wound, the healing, the scar and sigh, a caress of memory, the joy, the faith, the cross to bear the insolence of living the light soul of silence
Eloquence is not enough as moonlight slips over an eyelid
Neither the eyes, nor the mouth of the anonymous poet releasing a thousand years of pain, pain that flies away on a single wing, the hearts of poems light up poor blood stars as the the arms of poems juggle lyrics’ movement toward Grace
thoughts as butterfly words flutter to release a thousand nails before the swarm flies to crash to secure the poem to the walls of ambivalent anguish, floating along frivolous ribboned strings of words, butterflies burst as bombs, singeing the single winged poet in her sleep
Who do you think will be next? The cry of millions rising to the stars rising from the bloodied dirt
Sun in mourning moving away from soldiers’ dropped helmets, no one to be spared, pushed out by the anger of burning steel forests
The sun in mourning dragging down with it’s shadow the men’s faces blackened by the soot of their dreams, the dreams that insinuate, stimulating nights restless sleeping into days, as absurd as a candle burning on top of Mt. Kilimanjaro everything is evocation and invocation, even men’s dreams perhaps even, Salvation.
Sorceress in mourning, in the lonely lair, I sleep where the owl stays. At the edge of oblivion where mosses grow, the lush jasmine wears a lunar look
Stealthily, I walk an obscure route, a road where no one tells the truth where no one dares to protest… war has taken over the big house, ashes of my world once designated for the threshold, are spilled over the floor falling where craters formed and I hid behind the door, hands over mouth the moon cried out to me: rise, scatter
Putting away the mirror of life, I peer into the deep hollows of a night so blown as the sadness of all death seeps up from broken concrete and earth seeping through my fingertips, invading me
And I turn to the holy,indefinable war this is where the world lives in deepened tombs, the cities now sad streets deserted and dangerous
I want to bathe in rain and throw myself upon the ashes of smoking ruins, the world, distant memories dreams of childhood, short joys of life and sweet hopes drawn, quartered upon the alter of unholy great reset,
dress me in dark clothing I will wear widow weeds in mourning for life stolen gone like a cloud after sunset I live now in a land where the trivial succeeds the sublime at every moment
let the Infinite fury of hell unroll before me like a hymn I sing to myself at Mass as this eternal war’s substance permeates silent resistance and I am completely helpless
From the deep breast of sleep to rolling eyes of sighs There is a room in Berlin from which songs’ sing forth sounds of flowers opening wide for passing onerous hues of blues, like a feather falling that will once again float tomorrow, a hurricane of color found in springtime dancing on the head of heaven, for heaven’s made of feathers that tickle our ears when we sleep, deep and silent in our berlin room, our soft breaths drip with destiny, this our future from the oldest jewel of creation; while down below in Sion, women carefully pat powder on their hair softly humming as beautiful eyes open before their mirrors, as even Goethe on his deathbed cried out, ‘mehr licht! mehr licht!’, More light, more Light!!
Do not look for our life in life It’s nowhere to be found Here we will only speak to absence
Do not look for our nation in the flag of country, Here there is nothing but streets of ashes, grafitti and incense
Do not look for love in those you love, Here there is shocking parody found in the laughter of clowns
Here, the lies of truth are given to be lost disguised as futility, be grateful they are not strong enough to claim us Here where we Who live as children inside our world’s final War Here, we are God’s graceful, dancing angels, Here, our flowered smiles of the grave are forever inscribed on our lips, for Here we bear the frost of eternal innocence left on battlefields, our blood shed for these precious lies of truth so that Here in our silence we will enlighten our Race which will seize those of us whose poems leap from out of quagmire fields, Here, rest in peace the final words breathed between earth and Here, the skies bloom off the trail of tears left upon imposed paths of necessary violence, so that Here, We may become salvation’s madness, deaf and blind, our nations’ Wars are the containers for all living water drained by such thirst, so that Here, the Glory of our War will drench us all with a one word poem: “Amen”
I am blond and he is handsome May the kingdom of heaven be our gift; Before he hailed me, my heart was broken and loved by the Prince who died on the cross for me;
Inside this White cloister and under this patient space of ivory arches where my novitiate’s hours are spent here is where I weave my happiness I say my prayers without sorrow
Under this closed sky of early winter. I sleep a sleep that is attentive only to God. Inside this alabaster cloister I am a peace-filled and hopeless nun traveling with God by desire, waiting for angels to draw another chaste evening
I am blond and he is handsome I dream of his whispers, greedy and hear his soft humming against my flesh Blue, dark, transparent, I am caught inside the depths of greedy whispers, and soon someday he will be beside me, over me, inside me his longing has no end, his mouth speaks lover’s words, he has no time for prayers or begging;
He will open a scar in me, a stigmata I will be filled and full of miracles blasting through the sharded skies of his love, falling into the living water of his kiss, I cry out for caresses that satisfy every longing and blinding joy