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

© Ionwhite

even men’s dreams

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.


as I rise up to fall

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


Goethe’s Feather

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!!


Victorious Here: Amen

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”


song for my King

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


Saint Elizabeth working for the poor, circa 1920 by Marianne Stokes :: The  Collection :: Art Gallery NSW

face to face

I was walking the road to destiny
I walked towards a flood of love
I was walking the path of healing;
I met my love as he waited in the
morning mist, Edelweiss bouquet
in hand, petals drying beneath the sun

I was walking the high road to him
the Angelus ringing out from the chapel
bell tower below, I was walking with
a light step, feverish dreams reaching
inside my aching heart as I walk
I am the rolling hull, I am the wild
oat in his field the perfect product
of his cultivating, I am a furtive joy
and a smile, my soul breaks through
all darkness, even the darkness of
his love’s great light, I am pale
sunset of sighs and hard memories,

I am his misty future and vain
repentance, his painful sunrise of
glorious love, of worry, of weariness
begging for leniency

He is an outlaw, his word is my beatitude,
inside his love I keep vigil, I am the high
beacon of shattered strength, I am his oar to
shore, I am sulky of his disdainful
desires, yet my kisses carry the bite
of utter submission, I am the ancient
rock, the spirit of reincarnated ancestors
I am the eyes of the life beyond, I am
faithful to his most absolute demand


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First time, first god

Forgetting that time ends
in all things, and even new
beginnings become stagnant,
she wished to see for the first
time the oceans inside his
eyes stop for a moment
in her waters..

there are virgins who must always
be near their god, and who when
crossing each of his thresholds,
make a wish instead of penance;

as love can come full season, she
lights candles to keep dead watch
over her wandering god and overcome
with emotion, she throws open the door
peering out to the distance, a new
god coming in on tonight’s storm
she guesses and hopes, lifting up her
arms, palms open to catch the
sunset songbird singing over every
wound on this earth.