because your eyes have seen me

The curve of your laughter
draped around my heart,
dancing and sweet the halo
of time resting and safe,
so safe that I no longer
remember all that I know;
your eyes see me in the day
dancing with the falling leaves

At night you are my halo ring
the moon among the dews upon
the soul of time, a night cradle
and safe because your eyes see me
I become the wind in the reeds,
the fragance of the bees’ honeys

Your Mithra wings covering
the world in light
extending over the sky,
the sea and all skies and seas
because your eyes have seen
me I become the source of all
colors, and fragrances hatched
in brooding aurorae nestled in
the straws of the stars, and now
I know how each day depends
on innocence, the whole world
depends on our pure eyes and
all of our blood flowing
into the seeing of this world

© Ionwhite


Rob’s dream is so intense that I shivered upon reading


I dreamed I went back in search of four bass guitars I once owned that were my favorites. All but one were black, the other red. I was moving north on River Road, with Grocery Outlet on my left, searching for and recovering lost instruments and lost time. N—— from church was in the dream. It’s interesting how people we underestimate in daily life appear in our dreams, as fresh and vibrant as if holy and heroic. River Road itself appeared green with life and sunshine. The scene at the intersection of that and Silver Lane was nimbused or haloed with spiritual energy, like the circle around the full moon, except more like the sun’s corona. There was a glowing aura about everything, all green and yellow like a sunlit lawn in the summer. And there was I, trying to recollect the pieces of my broken life, when maybe the…

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the mother of lost souls

Dead wings, dead wings, to fall
is to be reborn out of bright
solitude and dropped into the sea
The memory of the earth is a weight
of waves and islands; in my blood and
in my bones, the weight of my
incarnations is stronger than my will
to be unique, it breaks me, destroys me
reminding me always of my place.

I am the mother of lost souls and
prisoner to my faults, my beauty and
to my will; transparently walled, my
cells of life delivered by innocent death
spoiled by joy before the open grave
of the earth, the sea and the air and
so docile, docile like a stone, an angel
or a even a star; to fall is to be reborn
drawn into the deepest of deaths
into birth and to life, it is all the same
sleep, a unique grace which bends the
paths of heaven to the curve of the earth;
Even my highest desire is subservient
to the peace of love which governs
storms, wars and the birth of wings


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Since we are already on our way
…traipsing to the shadowlands
marching to the rising flames,
our feet crumbling the gravel;

Since we have set off to fight,
our hearts coaxing The Light
to fill our baskets full of words
carrying the nudity of our souls;
awakening just before daybreak’s
sweet blue hour, we write our
testaments, storing them with
greatest care, these are memories
not of accomplishment but of
our broken promises, our wounded hearts


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Bride to Your Light

In my vision, I saw Nature again, my Lord
I saw Nature at her beginning singing her
song opening up my ears with the sounds
of branches, waters, breezes and bees
And Life everywhere springing from this
brown and green, lush and harsh earth

Nature, I know her eternal trap:
Strong by beauty, humble by silence, She
waits for us to start again and again in
our immense obeying to Your universal goal.

Your indiscernible Love makes a furtive call
“I am Here” and suddenly I’m rounded
by the swarming scent of sweet boxwood and .
everything swells and cracks with a slight noise,
Resin in the sun; The wind, at the top of the trees,
All Nature is of Himself, You, the God, myself the
slight Bride to Your Light, Your hands steady on my
shoulders, this healthy and chaste passion,
My body and soul, a nest to carry the living
Among this whirlwind of seeds and swarms,
Nature need not allow charnel, straying evil
Yet You, great King, add the mixture of acrid
acid lustings among the spring leaven;
the desire for a more divine love
than human delusion can repair


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Our primitive hours.

Who could decipher this silent night?
her numbered stars brilliant and secret
the monotonous sweetness, her unique color
the vast, absolute borderless hieroglyphical
glow of her, an eternal and mystical monument,

Peaceful night always caught between air and death.
Peaceful night, energy torrents of light flowing
over rocks emanating her cold and sad perfumes
of existence and, us, in our cellared earth, parting
pale and grave, souls of days and their spirits

Our primitive hours serving as distant reminders
to our worried desires so defiant in daylight;
In the day we are pensive even solemn, but it’s
grave and glorious night where the scented spaces
swirl around us, and I want to trace my name
on your white stele and meditate upon you
inside the frozen heart of night.


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Freyja’s tear

The purple channels flowing down
edges of dreams, these frozen hours
captured behind the nocturnal lens.

You, stalking among the river lacings’
drowning in torpor, inside the
forest’s dampling and engorged

This blood that flows from sacrificial nights,
these, the edges of dreams, these frozen hours
lived behind the lightened lens of God’s eye.

There, the trancing of the empyrean river,
in the forest of wetting memories’ filling
ethers of the heavens, we would still
feel the excited fluttering beneath our eyelids

This dream had to end.
Don’t think I didn’t know
about the tears


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Cassandra Complex

It’s me, Cassandra.
And here is my city covered in embers.
And here is my staff, my prophet’s ribbons.
And here is my head full of uncertainty.

That’s right, I triumph.
The fire of my reason licks the sky.
Only the prophets that no one believes
Enjoy such shows;
Only those who got it wrong
So that everything happens as quickly
As if they hadn’t existed.

I remember now, distinctly those
who before me, stopped listening.
Their laughs choking.
Minds unraveling.
Children running towards their mothers.
I didn’t even know their names.
And this my song written on the sands
No one bothered to sing it

I was right.
But then, nothing comes of it.
And here is my blouse charred by fire.
And here is my prophetess hardware.
And here is my stony face.
A face that didn’t know it could be beautiful.


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