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.


…swastikas of peace

If anyone hears me, if
anyone is listening, my
tears have dried, if someone
accepts me as I am,
if there is any love left,
if our soldiers become
prayers, if the warring
trumpets fall silent, if your
tears for my king are
if there is any love left,
if a single word were enough,
if my voice carries consolation,
if my love knew how to console
if our hands entwined lift up
bearing swastikas of peace,

if death were silent
and life sacred, I would
no longer be alone…


Buddha, Space, Meteorites and Nazi Science | Descrier News

goliath’s eyes on me

We stop speaking, Our silence like
prayers on the wind swings through
the willows hanging over the trough
You know despite my silence that
the leaves are going to fall, and you
know despite my silence that I
belong to you although I’ve never
said the words, doves and twilight
your hand a Sun reaching out to
me, your Goliath’s eyes on me
mute my fear and tonight is
the night when everything
is left to prayer


IRINA VITALIEVNA KARKABI Tenderness Hand Signed Ltd Edition Art Giclee on  Canvas | eBay


Guardians of our race inner
shadows watching as around
moving within ourselves
searching the night that
returns to us holding hands,
entering the mirrors of our lands

looking for what is lost those
ancient treasures we were meant
to inherit, stolen – facing
aching eternity absent those
stairs and the halls leading
to our glorious reigning heaven

Holding hands we break bread
before eternity, seeking the
stars of our destiny, we were
born like this and hated for
our beauty, living now lost
at the height of clouds so
serene among the shadows
between heaven and hell
and we know that only our
Love exists here where
Heritage keeps us wandering

looking for treasures squandered
the treasures stolen, the memories
lost, the Light of our world;

Our ancient guardians sign
custody papers using the seven
names of God; knowing they will
soon come to claim us, we are
on the move and arriving for
having come so far; we will leave
with those who are leaving, while
chasing away those who chase us
Guardians of our race, extend
your blessings and grace over us
as we birth a new race, a new world
a new home..


…everyday life in the future

Deliverance is music and splendor
We go beyond the chaos
We open up to other innocences

Our desires live inside
inaccesible gardens where the trees
have no root, where the plants
sing of freedom and infinity fringes
the latticed flowers on the gate,
open to all pollen, bittersweet with
the flavors of distant fruits

we’ve circled one another for so long
hesitant, reticent, waiting for all
defenses to fall, the hunger in us
grows through tomorrow like a vine
strangling fear; we are for each other
no strangers to ritual; our candles
and memories are omens, our longing
becoming prayer…

we barely speak this language of love;
that improbable existence of luminous
joy is not for him, the philosopher, nor
for me, his poet, we offer to others what
we deny ourselves while dreaming
for too long, defenses one by one burning
from the center of Self reaching
for the horizon, our hearts embracing
before the suffering Light,
our hearts bathed and washed in
waters of love’s benediction; placed
along shores where the fires ravage
our fierce dreams, inaugerating that
which is not yet in us



It’s not in smoking volcanoes
Nor in the boiling blue foams
rising from the oceans
Yet in these regions is where
you and I live, here we name
the secret streets and make
elegant histories to describe
this, our indecipherable colony
of love, here we live through
nights and days under the wide
open gaze of the sun and the
moon, looking for augurs in
in the skies, searching for the
dazzling eclipse, a white crack
the thundering gash of God His
holy hologram Eye all seeing
emerging through the hollow walls
of our planet, He offers us incense
and fire with which to light up the
the scattered syllables of the
lost codes written on these stones
which I carry, each in its own
upturned palm, as I seek him who
will read these invisible stones
which are my burden; yet

despite my patience, no fiery
winged Pentecost descends
around me, just these snatches
of darkness, as I put on my
lead mask, turning my face up
to the sky; innominate meteors
fall down, robbing me of
my vision that fails just as he
locks the doors behind us.


Why We Love to Fly In Our Dreams - Atlas Obscura

Vampyre flower

You fall once again through the slit of the
night with no other weapon but open eyes and
terror against the invader. He is legion,
Relentless Legion is his name; growing
tenfold, you’re cornered inside the
ravenous cobwebs of his blind romance
Sentry Soul, you are the One closing his eyes
becoming the home of His whole universe,

Whoever opens his eyes draws to the border
to remain homeless there forever as insomnia
comes tunneling through to prove the
inconsistency of all reality;

Night after night I am punctured by
the single bullet that you shot right into to me
in the dark, and I try to recognize you when
we waken from the memory of death, you,
my perverse temptation, adorable angel attacking
my Sentry Soul, kissing my skin, your sacred face
buried in my hair, whispering conjurations to
make up for having been born..

You who speak of bribing the emissaries of my future:
at the bottom of Everything there is the Garden where
the blue flower of Novalis’ dream blooms eternal,
it is the cruelest flower, the Vampyre Flower


Myth & Moor: Stories are medicine: the folklore of healing