On the Wings of Seraphim

O Lord, I proclaim Thee, Mountain of Man.

O Lord, I sing Thee, on the Wings of Seraphim.

O Lord, I worship Thee, King of the World.

O Lord, I beg of Thee, let my heart be Your bird.

O Lord, I cherish Thee, Deep Ocean of Might.

O Lord, I see thee, in nature’s beauteous heights.

O Lord, I cannot fathom Thee, I the supplicant poor,

I am the strange daughter begging at Saint Peter’s door.

O Lord, I am forgotten by all but You, undiscerning

to the wealthy, but rich in Your love, gold unfurling

from the Cross, I am awash in the Blood, eat the Bread

of Your Wounds. In Your hazel eyes, I see the Holy Dead –

legions of angels and ancestors: desert bones made Flesh.

Separating Chaff from Wheat, the fires of Heaven your Thresh.

O Lord, I am a wanderer, is there room by Your fireside for one as I?

O Lord, I am lost, stranded atop Golgotha where doves fear to fly.

Only the crow is my companion, picking the meat from my bones.

Is there a chance you can hear me, that to be holy is to be alone?

O Lord, when I dream, I see Hell, O Lord, when I sleep, I sleep

with the Devil. What is the measure of a bed of flies? In the deep

of Seven Demons, I still think Eden is my pasture, I pray for green.

Hail the Virgin!

Hail the Virgin! Queen hallowed and true.

Stella Maris of the sea, her eyes foaming blue.

Mary’s crown is white sable, her sword is bright.

She tramples the serpent with Heaven’s might.

In her hands a mirror, at her feet a gate.

She guards God’s reflection and Yeshua’s fate.

Come seals broken, Woman Clothed in the Sun.

She triumphs over Dragon, and eternity is won.

 

Praise Michael

Hands like manna, a breath like the last snow of spring

grass leaf eyes, the green of a praying mantis, saffron curls.

You enfold me in your arms and sunlight sparkles on my bones.

In the Shadow of the Cross

Weeping wood, burls of blood, I see an arc of ancestors,

a Jacob’s Ladder from my Jesus’ brow, back into Avram’s

bosom.  This tree without leaves will bear only gory fruit.

Water and wine, and these punctured feet I clutch, oh how

visceral the silver nails stab into Godly flesh, moldy bread.

They will say I was taken up by angels and did not putrify.

But penitent in the desert, I was a corpse, and my seven

devils taught me philosophy, arithmetic, divination, magic.

There is always a Sorceress at the heart of every story, a

prophetess, whether Daughter of Zion or Morgan Le Fay,

and at Bethany in my sister and I’s house, Martha baked,

and I listened to Gospel, and I anointed with myrrh saved

for three years, cost a fraction of the tribulation to come.

And now the angel of my better nature is suspended between

what is and what is not, and I am Eve in his skin cloth, wasted.

I will drink my fill of Him in time, but grow old and cold.

At the foot of the cross is a shadow, it says, be fruitful and

prosper.  But mine is a covenant of wicked delights, found

at epileptic fits and bipolar highs and lows, and only cool

hands of thunderclouds can ease my sorrows, in his Death

and Ressurection, there was a voice of mice within me: oh

Miriam: be bold.  Live like Gabriel’s trumpet is lowing, take

your words as swords and preach in the desert, they will

call you a whore and heretic, but my Qadesh was my goddess

once, and I Michael tell you, better to have tasted the parting

of love and buried your father, brother, and son, then to never

know the shadow of the cross.

Godly Hands

The hands that caress, chosen King
Lord of all the living things, crown
of sun, Satan undone, rings of ruby,
blood of Jordan, over Death won, gold
the creamy white on trim, Lord of men,
clutching book of holy law, words heard
in Church from the Father our God.

And the Cross Swings

Pendulum swings like a guillotine, scourged back and blood mouth

he hangs like perdition swiftly turning up roses to redemption, and

Pilate declares the Nazarene King of the Jews, and the bristle thorns

at his brow are pinpoints of stars in Vega, a swan, a dove, a dream.

Can’t you see how he hangs suspended, nails not enough to hold back

his ocean, and he walks on water, across the gap, into Hell, and he

thirsts for but only vinegar, sour wine at mouth as Joseph and the

Marys weep, Nicodemus caresses the Savior’s red toes and wishes

he were on the crucified slaughterboard instead of this sweet lamb.

Lamb turns to lion, the Sword of Damocles swiftly plunges into his

side, out comes milk and honey, out come manna and grapes, when

the Virgin clutched him to her breast, he was halfsick of the world,

just a bright eyed babe, and Christ wouldn’t latch, Christ didn’t want

milk but wonder, but she cradled him nonetheless, and her mercy

flowed and whetted his lips, that is what Mother Mary thinks: could

I but give him a bit of my marrow to stave off this pain!  La Pieta

and the Magdalene lower him from the Cross, she will hold him to

her heart one last time, as Magdalene ever weeps at his feet, Joseph

and Nicodemus wipe away the gore, and it is silent in Golgotha, and

soon, he will arise from the Tomb to doubting disciples, but the

myrrhbearers believe, and Joseph believes, and Nicodemus believes,

witness, oh witness, while the twelve have fled and dead and betrayed.

Peter and Thomas and John and James, Judas swaying in a summer breeze.

Til the field of guts, til the olive grove, turn over a new leaf, in three days

time, sweet wine, sweet bread, sweet life eternal, then the Acts, then white

Ascension.  These things are matters of the heart, and hearts are blind, only

feel.  The pendulum swings, the dragon falls, the Lion of Judah roars: “I AM

KING.” And at the End of Days, seals unleashed, red bridle, swords at mouth.

Judgment comes to those who least expect it, but Binah flows, so best trim

your wicks, virgins, and ready the chamber for the Bridegroom.  He awaits!

La Pieta

Sometimes in my nightmares, I remember Gabriel lambent
and resplendent, with calla lilies at hand and white fire
at his brow, wrapping me up in wings of infinity and kissing
my mouth with a trickster’s manna. God descended upon my
virgin womb and thus, my greatest pride and greatest sorrow
was conceived, once a babe I suckled, then a man’s corpse I
brought down from that cursed cross and rocked to death’s shore.
I am not sacred, I am not holy, I am simply a servant, oh humanity.
A vessel for the Son of God, pious and plain, I am not the kind
to tempt the Grigori, I am simple in my washing and sewing, and
when I labored in that manger, brown dirt at my brow, sweet Joseph
clutching my back as Salome midwifed sweet Yeshua into this fallen
world, I did not think of the travails to come. I did not think of
the bitterness of losing my very soul, of following blind in my
progeny’s direction after he ascended to who knew where, only that
I followed in time, up to the aether, and I would hold every child
to my breast, to drink of my milk, and soothe their wounds, all for
love.

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Ball Lightning

There is nothing in you that is not blue violet thunder,
a love like rains clefting open the Earth, your dominion
is the lightning strike and petrichor summers, sweet holy
decadence of storms fructifying and revitalizing our bodies.
We eat your blood because your blood is rain. We devour your
flesh breathing because your body is thick, misty air and not
to inhale is to choke on hurricanes. There is no question of
whether or not to breathe you in, and with a love like yours,
why, I stand cradling ball lightning, dancing with St. Elmo’s
fire, and your Holy Ghost dances like a blazing purple white
star, there is nothing beyond necessity in my devotion towards
your blood, your bones, your manna and succor of your veins.
And I am dancing in the tornado, flying through thunderheads.
I meet you where stars kiss the ocean on a stormy night, oh
Lord, lay me down on your crackling bed, make love to me like
the skies weep onto my mother mud, appear to me manifesting
pure being, the heady death of all my fears, a ship set sail
on gales, and I will die, but it will be beautiful, and I will
ascend to vast summits of ice crystal castles, in union with
you, oh my God, oh my Lamb, oh my thunder strike and lightning
whip, the heavens are but a metaphor for airy wanderlust, and
love makes the storm grow bold and prance for the meadows,
the valleys of my heart open up for your rain and holy pain,
oh Christ, do not forget me in your Passion, for I weep rivers
of gold at your feet, and my madness in the desert, hair grown
long to cover my nakedness, is but the raging sylphs themselves.
I will bottle your blood and wine then pour them over the oceans.
I will stand on cliff’s peak and proclaim your love of All.
Long-suffering Jesus, killing himself to make whole the world,
I would but a taste of your Sacrament, like rain, like grain.
I spread my legs wide to receive the Cross, I hug my breasts
and let rivers of milk flow to my cleft, a Sacred Whore who
nourishes the moon at her side, twin sun and lunar bodies,
which are just like your eyes, and Mother Nature is calling,
your Virgin birth, so fly away from my dust and ribs and clay.

I am only made wholly through your rains.

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Simon Called Peter

And you who thrice denied me, the cock crowed my glory,
and wept bitter tears of coffee grounds at your realization
that I am King of Kings, ever-faithful Simon Peter, I let you
touch the sacred holes in my hands because those are the gates
to infinity, and you are the Rock, the Sapha, of my Church, and
when you took those newborn steps out into the water, so brave to
venture out onto the raging seas to meet your Lord, you began to
sink and flail, for what man in his right mind walks on water?
You reached out a desperate hand and I lifted you up onto the
silky bower of the Stella Maris, it is because you are most human
and humble of my apostles, witness to Transfiguration and Pentecost
that I have chosen you as first Pope, you who would question with
right mind and little reliance on my word my place in the cosmos –
you are wit unbounded, and when proven my divinity and sanctity,
you fell to the desert floor weeping, knowing you would lose me,
and look at the marvels you have built for me, oh cornerstone of
the earthly Temple! A line undivided of Papal creed, some holy,
some human like Simon, some ascended and wise like Peter, some
believers as crucial to the Church as the Sapha, and when you
were crucified earth-turnt in Rome hanging suspended, my spirit
came and wiped the bitter tears and bruises and blood and dirt
from your cheek, whispered “Your purpose is done, my martyr,”
lifted you to Heaven and gave you the silver keys to the gates
of Paradise, you of clinking key and first to greet souls on
the narrow path to salvation, but in truth you open the gates
to the loving of all creeds or no creed at all, for we care not
whether Christian or Hindu or Jew or Muslim or Atheist or Pagan,
if a soul care visits the seven heavens and they are as true
of heart as you, they may enter as they will, and leave in peace.
Look at this beauteous kingdom we have built in the Afterlife,
oh Peter, the mountains of silver ice and rivers of garnets and
rough emeralds, sands on beaches of white gold, manta rays and
clownfish swimming in bright delight, sometimes we walk on water
just for fun, skimming the froth of Heaven’s aqua vitae so that
our toes are chill to the touch, wet with relief at knowing, our
creed in that small town of Galilee lived on, our life’s work has
become legend, and it is pinned on the nails through your hands
and feet the sacrifice of the martyrs, the immortality of the
Church, you doubted, you repented, you believed, oh Yael. Israel
awaits the day I walk with my sword and you with your locks. Soon,
my beloved, bosom apostle, brother amongst brothers, we rise again.