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Here it is ...
My reconciliation statement begins with a question (or three):
Am I the locus of the problem?
Am I xenophobic?
A supremacist, perhaps?

Definitely not either of those but ...
Am I complicit?
What did I elicit?

Here I am all wrapped up in my trauma bonds
hoping someone will help me to see.
Maybe I am attracted to wounding.
What do I have to do? How am I gonna be?

My pain receptor's cry out:
Feed me!!!
And this is where my attachments are
and this is when my attachments are

But now I've found some nurturing
and something new is blooming
triggered: guard up
un-triggered: guard down

I am working through my oppressors and
reacquainting myself with allies

It was an invisible war
and it is no more because
my ceremony of innocence
is drowned.
This was written post Emotionally Focused Therapy training in Haines Junction, YT over the ****** Moon, November 2023.
In bitter ink
I dip my feather.
My hands carve out
A weathered letter.
I hold the page
Steady, it hovers
Grazing the flame.
Your name getting hotter,
Til it crumbles to ashes -
Catching fire at my altar.

▪︎ mica light ▪︎
CarolineSD Jun 2021
There is such thing as a healing round.
I won’t explain in detail as
A person does not speak of
Sacred things,
As if to assign form to what is
Better left
Shifting through the wind
Like the breath of God.

Better left to those whose
Ancestors passed down the songs
That shall not be sung in winter.

But I will speak of the
Splitting of my skin
At a feather’s edge
Bone whistle call,
Walls dissolved
And all the grief came pouring out.

Bent over, arms clutched across my Chest, sobbing now,
Tears wet the earth.

I finally allow in
The presence of my mother’s death

And a broader mourning
That I cannot define.

There is such thing as a healing round.

I am walking now
Footsteps quiet on the cathedral floor,
Faces in stained glass
Watching from lofty spires of marble and slick, gray stone.
Do their eyes follow my small, hesistant form?

I do not frequent churches and prefer to come alone

To enter a silence
In which all of the suffering
That this world
Has ever borne
Hangs heavy
Suspended in the resonance of
Great, imposing halls,
Vast oceans of sorrow, and here too,
Something that carries and lifts;

Perhaps, the love of God.

Heal us and forgive us
In our blindness
Take my hand and show me,
Again, the sunlit road
Where we can be found.

There is such thing as holy ground.

The water knows
Rushing between the rocks,
Between the wild, greening cliffs
Where gently a little Robin flits
And perches on the tangled brush
Beside the shore.

You belong here, she sings,
You belong
You belong

And there is such thing as holy ground

Always within it beauty
And a great sadness looming

And how is it that so few can trace the outlines of its form
Beneath the skin,
But you can
You can
You can?
Clive Blake May 2021
We are here today to celebrate the love
You so obviously share,
A love you wish to formalise
And publicly declare.

A couple truly meant for each other,
A couple truly meant to be,
A couple whose friends and family,
We are very proud to be.

We hope your happiness continues,
That you have much more in store,
We hope the memories made today
Will stay with you - forever more.
A poem suitable for reading at a wedding ceremony.
maria Jan 2021
I didn't really know her
but I met her.
I saw her through his eyes
and she was beautiful
She was shy
but strong
a fighter
an angel
She wasn't defeated
She's still here
She is a mum
She will always be here
They just needed a mum in the sky
Deticated to an angel, a fighter of cancer, a mum whose son I truly love, a woman I saw a few times but truly admired
rest in peace

written on January 08, 2020
© ,Maria
Aleiana Zelin Jul 2020
“Love isn’t always magic,
sometimes it’s just
Or it’s black and blue
where it hurts
the most.”

– Andrea Gibson

Love isn’t easy,
but it is familiar.
It is memory.
It is rehearsal, target practice,
skipping stones.
It is knowing you cannot hide
in anonymity when love always


You can wear no veil,
no shroud, no cloak that will
fool me.
I will know you by your gait,
by the silence of songbirds
that have come to expect your nightingale melody,
by the parting of the sea
as you rise from its depths.


You cannot even hide
behind clouds.
I will know you
when lightning strikes too close
to home. I will know you
when the sun comes scorching,
leaving angry marks of Cain on my sin.
I will know you when the sun
doesn’t come at all.
There is no heavenly body that can keep you from me.


You are known
to me even when I do not face you.
I will know you at the playground
when you don’t know how
to tell me you like me
without pulling on my pigtails.
I will know you on your rooftop
when our triangular wishes
are carried off by blinking airplanes.
You are known to me
even when you cannot face
the pain you’ve left me with.


I speak in your voice
before I even realize the words are yours.
Forgive me, again and again,
for singing in a language
you and I torched
after its creation.
I know you because no one else
dares speak to me in tongues.
No one else prophesies salvation
in a thousand speeches
before the tower comes crumbling down.
I will know you when you are silent.
I will know you when you are crashing thunder.
I will know you when you are civilization falling.


Love isn’t easy,
no, but it is you.
Love is knowing.
It is unraveling, undoing.
Mapping out your dreams
and learning rescue remedy.
Love is you even when I least understand.
It is holding funerals for who you were,
baptisms for who you can be.
Love is ceremony.
It is breaking bread, saying grace.
“The one verse you can trust.”
Swallowing covenant.

2:17 AM
A Jung Lim Mar 2020
In the darkness and calmness
I pull my awaken body up
to turn on the first light.

And it starts.

The first signal twinkles
like fireflies
around a gray branch of a floated sea tree.

Now turning to the opposite side

I let the second light on
a glass lamp light with piled Himalayan sea salt
like morning sunlight through translucent clouds.

Still calm
but my space has arisen
with notes of some sea
and some forest by light.

In my secret space
I call my own morning
celebrating another day opening.
Craig Dee Nov 2019
Born Clarendon Square, 1875

11th year, father and hero dies

Mother's moniker, The Great Beast

Carries proud 'til rest in peace

Scripture's words so clearly lies

One off the wrist and women's thighs

Such morals never suit The Beast

On original sin, so does he feast

Red light women, gonorrhoea

Inhale and hold, but have no fear

Bow to none beneath the sky

Affliction, addiction, getting high

Poetry, prose, philosophy, chess

Science, literature, quite the quest

Majestic Monch without a guide

Dispel the darkness deep inside?

A new Sunrise, The Golden Dawn

To most, The Beast is but a thorn

From all the hate, he does defend

"I shall endure until to the end"

A crashing bore, The Golden Dawn

Such petty games, reject them all

Traverse the world and left in awe

In India, sombre spirits soar

The Savage Mountain scrapes the sky

Never scaled yet still must try

Brash bravery, they do not lack

No savage spoils, men beaten back

Convenience ties Beast and Rose

Affection hankers hard to show

Rosa Mundi and Love Songs

One lake of molten joy, one pond

In Egypt, Prince invokes the Gods

Great Horus comes, the Equinox

Aiwass speaks, so Beast does score

A new Aeon, Book Of The Law

On Nepal's peak, his peers they die

Attempt descent beneath dark skies

For such a loss bears all the blame

To climbing clique, ne'er the same

With Godhead now is unionised

As hashish opens the Third Eye

Meagre means and thus provides

Tankerville's peace is bonafide

A∴ A∴ heart, see how it glows

Tree Of Life they seek to grow

A flower's bloom begins to fade

Whilst sadly withers in the shade

The Beast now pens The Book Of Lies

His Scarlet Woman within resides

And for *** Magic does devise

"Contra Naturam", come inside

World War One, it rakes the Earth

While Wilhelm is as Jesus birth

Did The Beast truly betray

A country that had held his sway?

Thelema Abbey, hear its call

Lewd libertine within these walls

Loveday discovers only death

Benito brings its final breath

To man, a prophet is declared

Thelema's message, for to spread

Magnum opus, now complete

Of France, fair punishment is mete?

High on Hell's Mouth, his heart it breaks

But both black ink and leap are fake

War once again now rakes the Earth

Will Blackshirts bond Thelema's church?

War service scorned by N.I.D.

The face behind the Victory V?

Olla: Sixty Years of Song

A final book, the last swan song

Hasting's last battle is now lost

The Great Beast feels the final frost

"A Black Mass", many tabloids cry

Cold ashes now in Hampton lie

Amoral man, your heart did sing

Black ballads of the blackest dreams

Listen and there's still the screams

Of Thelema's ghosts, it seems

Copyright © Craig Detheridge.

2015 - 2017.
This piece is based on the life of the infamous Aleister Crowley.
Born to a Christian family in 1875, he rejected their teachings and those of the bible, becoming a ceremonial magician and founder of The Church Of Thelema. Crowley was a prolific writer on many subjects such as philosophy, politics, and culture as well as Thelema. He was also a published poet and playwright and was an accomplished mountaineer.

Crowley was once described by tabloids of his time as "The Wickedest Man In The World".

It took me several weeks to complete this piece due to the research I carried out on Crowley. There are lines within the piece of which the meaning is not immediately obvious.
This piece has previously featured elsewhere on the net including my own site at
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