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  Jun 3 irinia
Of all the places
she sought to hide
She only found one
safe place inside
in dancing images
where the poetry
irinia Apr 20
When we are
Overwhelmed by fear
And the God at our core
Has left

We become
The shoes waiting
In the chest
Of a
Paralyzed woman.

by Riri Sylvia Manor,
English by Ioana Ieronim
from Poetry and Science
An Anthology of Comtemporary Authors from Romania
irinia Jan 23
The mourning is
about it never being
the way I needed
it to be.

My life itself a
disturbance of mourning

Stands in my life. Before me. The
dead girl under the bed
her skin transparent as mine

disappears. I come out
and there is no mother. Sometimes
she appears and there is no telling what
attracts her warmth. Approaches and departs.
Becomes desire,
the loot of her mourning.

Empty womb pillow. I am not
enrapt. Its’ tufts flap my fringe.
Behind me, at my sides
stands mourning.

I have only to be busy with your burial.
Sharpening flint to a pillar
pile to a mound
and turn from it.

It is gone
And I am.

By Noa Vardi, M. D.
irinia Jan 23
Every year
the lilies
are so perfect
I can hardly believe

their lapped light crowding
the black,
mid-summer ponds.
Nobody could count all of them -

the muskrats swimming
among the pads and the grasses
can reach out
their muscular arms and touch

only so many, they are that
rife and wild.
But what in this world
is perfect?

I bend closer and see
how this one is clearly lopsided -
and that one wears an orange blight -
and this one is a glossy cheek

half nibbled away -
and that one is a slumped purse
full of its own
unstoppable decay.

Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled -
to cast aside the weight of facts
and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing -
that the light is everything - that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading.  And I do.
irinia Jan 23
There is no space wider than that of grief
there is no universe like that which bleeds.

from Extravagaria
irinia Nov 2020
The way the trees empty themselves of leaves,
let drop their ponderous fruit,
the way the turtle abandons the sun-warmed log,
the way even the late-blooming aster
succumbs to the power of frost -

this is not a new story.
Still, on this morning, the hollowness
of the season startles, filling
the rooms of your house, filling the world
with impossible light, improbable hope.

And so, what else can you do
but let yourself be broken
and emptied? What else is there
but waiting in the autumn sun?

Carolyn Locke, from Poetry of Presence An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems
emptiness, hope, autumn, change, waiting
  May 2020 irinia
Jim Morrison
Eternal consciousness
in the Void
(makes trial & jail seem almost

a Kiss in the Storm

(Madman at the wheel
gun at the neck
space populous & arching

A barn
a cabin attic

Your own face
in the mirrored window

fear of restroom’s
Tragic cold

I’m freezing


white wings of

grey velvet deer

The Canyon

The car a craft
in wretched

Sudden movements

& your past
to warm you
in Spiritless

The Lonely HWY
Cold hiker

Afraid of Wolves
& his own

The Wolf,
who lives under the rock
has invited me
to drink of his cool
Not to splash or bathe
But leave the sun
& know the dead desert
& the cold men
who play there.

a ha
Come on, now
luring the Traveller
Mighty Voyager
Curious, into its dark womb
The graves grinning
Indians of night
The eyes of night
Westward luring
into the brothel, into the blood bath
into the Dream
The dark Dream of conquest
& Voyage
into night, Westward into Night
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