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.


…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..