"arcana" poems
Bright child of the Tarot, a new age awaits you –
but not through the mazes you’re wandering in.
Your gypsy desire and clairvoyant excursions
are setting your beautiful brain all a-spin.
The dog at the precipice barks out a warning:
the FOOL, the MAGICIAN and PRIESTESS are wrong
Pay no heed to their signs and the omens around you –
let faith be your shield when the DEVIL seems strong.
JUSTICE, as blind as the HERMIT is *****
has seen that our TOWER is stricken and doomed.
The SUN, MOON and STARS in their orbits bear witness
as LOVERS in ******* to DEATH are consumed…
Egypt can’t help you – the CHARIOT‘s stalled
While the TEMPERANCE angel was mixing the drinks.
The EMPRESS (a tedious feminist) preaches
an upside down future, the HANGED MAN thinks…
Though the WHEEL almost crushes you turning this way
And the staff of correction has battered you hard
I am sure you will make it, if only you pray
to the sovereign elector who holds every card
for a ray of redemption to light up your way.
Let the major arcana now bow and acknowledge
as JUDGMENT is sounded and shatters the sky
that righteous and just is the blessed Redeemer
who loves every lunatic card-addled dreamer
like you and like me. Therefore hear as I cry
that the WORLD in its fulness can’t harbor His love –
nor the heavens within nor without nor above…
May the HIEROPHANT‘s dynasty wither away
and the EMPEROR‘s scepter be broken to shards
as the breath of God’s Spirit comes into our world
to reveal the true STRENGTH of your house made of cards.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
We sat on the carpet in the bedroom
and I pulled between us that family heirloom,
a sea chest belonging, at one point, to some
grandfather or another, and we began
an apparently curtailed version
of the usual routine.
I wondered if that meant dire things
for my fate; as if all the events of my life
would be half as eventful, or if
there would be half as many of them, God forbid.
I can’t recall a particular atmosphere,
except that it was dim, and I guess
the old sea chest contributed
a bit of worn charm. And that same afternoon
I did burn some incense, but it could barely be smelled.
She asked, occasionally, for my involvement.
Tap one of these. Lay your hand on that.
And, uniquely in my life, I got the semblance
of controlling my destiny.
Soon enough, a picture began to form.
The five of cups: miserliness, a bearded man dressed royally,
alone atop a treasure trove, his children and former lovers
elsewhere, in loving penury, without a thought
for dear old stingy dad. The two of swords: some duality
out of the past, a war - always - between reason and love, and
how much I cherished them both. An awkward young man
who loved casually, without forethought and almost
without reason, and the brain he was far too proud of having
to use responsibly.
Finally, we reach the one in the center, and once again
I am required to invest some of myself in this card.
I hold my hand on it and am asked to imagine what it might be.
It is the Hermit. Her favorite, she explains.
He means a journey, alone. How alone, exactly?
Under normal circumstances, alone is a metaphor.
One can be alone in spirit, being not understood.
But you and I have been having arguments, and so
the implication is not lost on me.
How alone? And what journey? And to what end?
I imagine them, these arcana,
major and minor. They are collected
around a coffee table, for their weekly tea.
The Hermit holds up a pair of worn sandals
and a volume of sad amateur poetry -
the price of certain journeys -
the Lovers, their backs turned to one another,
produce a pitiful summary of a joint bank account.
The High Priestess takes from her tea cabinet
a samovar full of old dried blood, and pressed flowers
(lilies and lovers’ thistles)
and they all laugh and laugh and laugh
because they are not mortal, like us.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volve
Ogni creata cosa,
In te, morte, si posa
Nostra ignuda natura;
Lieta no, ma sicura
Dall'antico dolor. Profonda notte
Nella confusa mente
Il pensier grave oscura;
Alla speme, al desio, l'arido spirto
Lena mancar si sente:
Così d'affanno e di temenza è sciolto,
E l'età vote e lente
Senza tedio consuma.
Vivemmo: e qual di paurosa larva,
E di sudato sogno,
A lattante fanciullo erra nell'alma
Confusa ricordanza:
Tal memoria n'avanza
Del viver nostro: ma da tema è lunge
Il rimembrar. Che fummo?
Che fu quel punto acerbo
Che di vita ebbe nome?
Cosa arcana e stupenda
Oggi è la vita al pensier nostro, e tale
Qual dè vivi al pensiero
L'ignota morte appar. Come da morte
Vivendo rifuggia, così rifugge
Dalla fiamma vitale
Nostra ignuda natura;
Lieta no ma sicura,
Però ch'esser beato
Nega ai mortali e nega à morti il fato.
1.1k
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I drove a chariot for Egypt’s dead gods,
obeyed decrees of an angry Pharaoh.
Vision widens where hope seems to narrow
as coral crusts the rims and axle-rods.
Submerged upon the sands my army’s host;
Erythrean currents their secrets keep.
The waters gave way, drowned me in the deep
while God led you forth toward your promised coast.
There was no choice for me, the charioteer.
A tyrant sent me forth to hunt you down;
pursuing you, I thought your end was near.
In the descent, I lost my star and crown.
My lord was false, while yours continues strong…
I rise from depths to further you along.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
Stillness set in.
There are no more waves,
only bird bath ripples.
I drink to me and my light.
To me and my night.
I opened my veins and set you free
and you turned into a lake.
There’s a boat where a couple sleeps.
They dream as one and
hope in two and
give color a pulse.
It breathes with a small mouth:
Open. Close. Open.
It wants a drink from my cup.
But for now, my cup is empty.
Something stretched and rubbed its eyes,
awake in a new light.
There are waves in the bird bath.
I drink to me and my night.
To me and my right.
I opened my veins and set everything free
and it turned into an ocean.
There’s a boat where
a couple sees and speaks.
They see as one and
search in two and
give color a pulse.
It breathes in, small mouth stretched wide:
Close. Open. Close.
It had a drink from my cup and it knows all.
For now, my cup will never be empty.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:06 PM UTC
The air I breathe is heavy, the sound of rain is sweet
Fire falls from the heavens, painting the earth in ashy sleet
The city below is a pyre, a bustling arcana of flesh eating heat
The clouds are monoliths, titans of obsidian ore
Solid and implacable, as the winds gather the storm
The earth is breathing heavy, its cracked lungs give way
Fire leaps from the ruins, of our dying planet's decay
Paradise is rising, the ocean bares its teeth
The dead below are writhing, twisting in shallow graves
Their rotting flesh is smiling, hungry for the souls it saves
Salvation marches forward, it rides on four pairs of four
Babylon walks the desert, searching for its *****
A world immersed in madness, by insanity is swallowed whole
For humanity to be saved, its body must be parted from its soul
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
When the sun’s rays fade
And darkness shade
Covers the stars
Shuts out the light
And here I am
Shaking with fright
As the demons inside me wake
Haunting me their hands take
Away
Pieces of hope
Pieces of happiness
Pieces of my soul
Leaving me anxious and awake
Trembling with fear I shake
As I watch shadows
Silhouettes of my biggest nightmares
Slither their way across walls
Looming over me
Laughing at me
Mocking me
As my soul quakes
My heart aches
Tears pour down
Empty into lakes
Puddles of sorrow
Pull me down
Watch me drown
As they beckon to me
Call out to me
Beg me
What choice do I have
So I follow
Take a spin
With the monsters
Let them decide my fate
After all
I don’t want to be late
For the last date
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Six
A college was collecting different
Things to give to help an orphanage.
A bou who studied wanted to help.
He gave a book to four kids close to his age.
Seven
The four of them were locked up
Together in a little pitiful room.
They couldn't do much about it,
So they have got along soon.
Eight
So here they are together
Sitting with the book.
Aoi, Sky, Moony and Skull.
Who would dare open treasured book.
Nine
Aoi was always almost sad.
Sky couldn't really walk.
Moony was a genius gone mad.
And Skull without a need won't talk.
Ten
They opened the book together.
Four strange and cute kids.
They have got in their imagination.
The four unknown origins' seeds.
Jack
And book was about
A genius Poet who was very ill.
And a cruel count. To have
Power was his only will
Queen
And so they've reading.
They saw through the night.
And when they were still reading,
They've got caught by sunlight.
King
And in the end the Poet
Got held captive for life.
No longer he could right,
Yet his ideas were alive.
Ace
But one was never gone
His comrades thought hard.
And Sky started righting poetry:
The Poet found home in his heart.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 6:25 AM UTC
in the back seat of a car
the headphones in the higher volume, the sound spreads
in the back seat of a car
with it's secrets veiled by it's mouth
only when it's useful
it is had with attention
but in indifference times
disappears in the darkness
passing the crossroad
a master and it's disciples
the mists surrounds it
and make it invisible
the bell rings
the sparrow sings
the cigarette burns
the blade cuts
with it's friends
it walks
but the loneliness
surrounds it
into the night
a cry of pleasure fills it
a nervous laugh
followed by the kiss of love
a punch that makes it bleed
the Patriot gives it
it's clothes in the street
and freedom around the corner
the wind whisper
the owl sings
the candles on
the moon shines
in the woods appears
smiling, hysterical, naked
dancing in endless spirals
with it's invisible beings around
in a black and white world, ruled
a being with colored eyes
breaking boundaries and walls
the arcana 0 incorporates
in the back seat of a car
the headphones in the higher volume, the sound spreads
imagining the perfect perfection
in a place of pain and prejudice
the pen between it's fingers dance
a silent music
the poem of it's pale owner
the paper reveals secretly
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC
(II)
Why does Thanatos sit amongst minor deities?
Surely a fitting position resides in the Major Arcana
surrounding the plains of human existence and its domain?
If our curiosity surpassed Death's grasp, could we elude it's supposed never-ending advancement? If we live without rapture, no interception of an ultimate being to determine our placement in far-away dimensions and our intentions are not constructed before the antenatal of our existence and answer the last question by breaking the 2nd law
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
I am Emperor. I am Death.
All ye who challenge my reign over kingdom and kin
know not the true consequence of thy sins.
In flesh, I come bearing bountiful wealth and crown;
alas, in decay, I may claim nothing as my own.
Upon white steed I ride, demanding thy reverence,
for no mortal plea may earn my benevolence.
My castle is made of shattered coffins and bone.
The lives I take are etched upon my throne.
I am balance, bringer of law and order supreme,
yet my presence is sought only in screams.
"Our true end hath come!" my countrymen thunder,
"God, please save us! Death shall tear us asunder!"
Wherefore doth thou cry for a holy savior?
Wherefore doth I warrant such behavior?
I was thy maker, thy just and wise king,
I asked for no riches or engraved rings.
I am Emperor, I am Death, and in the very end,
the only true kingdom is made of dead men.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
every time I write vividly
can’t end days
yearn for epiphany
malice their succession
I don’t learn more of
p o l i t i c s
m e n in shoes
w a r
f a m i l y
m a n n e r s
r o t t e n
y o u t h
afraid of being water
water that decomposes every day
printed with i-service entropy
if craic makes my soul modern
I’ll wait for apocalypse
wild devours my ashes
each of my tea motes fight
heave my tongue like embers
humpty already fallen
all the king’s economists
still drafting recovery plans—
asks to go to Nyos
for silent rain
on a government grant.
all the king’s economists
can’t put him together again.
enlightening activist futility
writing in a singed library
at my diluted right edge
I fear those who tower over me
what if my decade has passed
making a schedule each day
to be better or to matter
I suffer from anemia
my tea is too sour
gambling them
to pay for meaning—
who taught me to write
and forgot to proofread
when they ask my destiny
I say: transcendence of arcana
would restless lurching
take me to God or Satan
I need to ask someone modern
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 6:21 AM UTC
My dear one,
May you walk new paths optimistically when you are the Fool.
May you create your universe when you draw the Magician.
May you trust your intuition when you draw the High Priestess.
May you be grounded in family when you draw the Empress.
May you lead with authority when you draw the Emperor.
May you listen and learn when you draw the Hierophant.
May you open your heart to love when you draw the Lovers.
May you speed towards success when you draw the Chariot.
May you see the power you contain when you draw Strength.
May you sit back and reflect when you draw the Hermit.
May you recognize your karmic cycles when you draw the Wheel.
May you balance truth with wisdom when you draw Justice.
May you surrender yourself when you draw the Hanged Man.
May you transition smoothly when you draw Death and Rebirth.
May you balance your energies when you draw Temperance.
May you face your inner demons when you draw the Devil.
May you see the truth clearly when you draw the Tower.
May you wish for a better tomorrow when you draw the Star.
May you see into the depths of yourself when you draw the Moon.
May you ignite with joy and inspiration when you draw the Sun.
May you truly know your motivations when you draw Judgement.
May you be spiritually reborn when you reach the World.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:47 PM UTC
My apologies for leaving this empty earlier. Last night I wrote a bit of doggerel criticizing unhappy men who obsess on weaponry. Then the news about the horrors in Lewiston, Maine was broadcast and I withdrew the lines lest the words appear to be frivolous and thus hurtful. I stand by my no-nonsense thesis, though: no one needs one of those ////ed semi-automatic testosterone compensations that fire military rounds.
And no thoughtful man or woman need tolerate for a moment any whatabouts and all the pointless arcana about assault rifles vs. civilian rifles, automatic vs. semi-automatic, magazine vs. clip, and blah, blah, blah.
I was in Viet-Nam.
I know exactly what .556 and 7.62 rounds will do to an adult or a child, and the name of the gun (yeah, I know, "shoulder-fired, gas-operated, blah, blah, and blah") doesn't change anything.
Your grandfather's old J. C. Higgins shotgun is a wonderful thing for bagging supper and eliminating predators. A shiny (they come in Barbie colors now) .556 is good only for inflicting death and suffering on our fellow pilgrims on this earth.
Oct 26, 2023
Oct 26, 2023 at 12:15 AM UTC
two slight perforations form
undulate flesh swoop torn
one warm imperceptible caress
uncivil visions of some creature arcana old
pirouette from silhouette less abysmal
than many are wont to vet
warming up to her oblique
touch adroit in crushflesh yeses
invested vessel swell
pulsed obelisk
penning her well
she recalls it
all of it
from sweet to macabre detail
entire spectrums crossed n recrossed
again and again
two slender fingers drop in
wraith simulated till bursts worm up
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
Various contentions commandeer the gossamer
threading of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it amateur
apertures
free loading and buffering to the hammer strikes
of daring digital darlings
raising stakes in the race
to the bottom
All our ever present neurons
raining clusters of chemicals into challenge videos
and lip-sync contests fray under the drip
of toxic positivity and special guests
with arcana wit and a pithy redress
to the hectic tempest control
of foreign fingers
These chance tragedies and reality puppet shows
commune and presume to know better than best
in show
about the circumstance of happenstance
when the fickle turn away
to gaze fiery into a rabbit hole
curated for those who
skew chaotic
No cogent tightrope margin tricksters
will condone the manic viral feel-good fixtures
hanging from the yellowed wind chime
keys which only lock up fever rituals
with dancing flame and ridicule
made wholly manifest from
distant voices
Suburban haze arrangements rot eternal
while withered updates wax nocturnal
failures
in feeds of fomented fragility
lost among our endless
search for an end
of searching
Planned spontaneity burns borrowed minutes
festering in the better world we prohibit
and all along the symptom was
buried with the cure
as we the ill incarnate
toiling with clicking tongues
red from cherry picked plights,
block windmills
and declare defeat
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 12:06 AM UTC
The truculent sun
escapes cloud guard
& serves us day
over green bonnet trees
that birth false fruit
where wasps crawl.
Now the roads fill
with rioting flax,
rose rays, rude rain -
there's too much life -
the world's heart is burst,
blonde-broken sobs.
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 10:09 AM UTC
My body holds in it the bones of a goddess whose worship was murdered by Time,
When fatal religion of midnight's mistresses comes alive again for tonight.
The veins of this country spread out from under me and carry the weight of our lives,
As distance between us is bridged for the evening and your years collide into mine.
Under the same Moon that looked down over you, I cross the river to the dead,
Who wander the road laid down so long ago that trees have sprung from where they tread.
You followed too readily gods dead and buried and traced in their footsteps the path.
Breathe your life into me, speak to me freely, let not my plea echo the dark,
Children of Morrigan now will we call upon as the Earth ceases to grow.
Seek now your answer and through the Arcana give justification to know.
- With my tongue asking thee, my soul commanding thee: accept my hand through the veil,
And if I am heard; spirit spare not a word and reveal then what secrets you may.
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC
emerging from the freighted dark no thought
but that the sky be clear and hands be filled
with all the needful that your warm hearts willed
when in good daylight the first words were caught
by eager listeners who had been taught
that not all prizes went to those best drilled
in the arcana of the freshly-killed
rather to ones who would account for naught
there is a victory that no one regrets
up in the hills when all the gifts are due
then hunters call and do not comprehend
the plainer meanings and the open sets
though when we have been silenced and review
our final forces we find there’s no end
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
The cleaning lady pushes her cart about
Among administrative whisperings
And teachers sneak out of in-service
For an electronic moment in the head
The cleaning lady pushes her cart about
Computers in their wireless conclave met 1
Exchange that hushed arcana passed through PEIMS 2
And sticky notes – they seem to reproduce
Youth is reduced to a computer printout
And
The cleaning lady pushes her cart about
1 cf. G. K. Chesterton’s “Elegy in a Country Churchyard”
2 The Public Education Information Management System (PEIMS) encompasses all data requested and received by TEA about public education, including student demographic and academic performance, personnel, financial, and organizational information. (https://tea.texas.gov/.../Data_Submission/PEIMS/PEIMS_-_Overview)
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC
Afternoon's eclipse
a sea of eager eyeless
reborn to the shade.
Apr 14, 2024
Apr 14, 2024 at 8:48 AM UTC
The Poets Have Been Remarkably Silent on the Subject of Firewood
(as Chesterton did not say)
“…’on back…’on back…’on back…WHOA! **** the motor.”
Leaning on the side of a pickup truck
Remembering the arcana of youth
On the farm: White Mule gloves, axe, splitting maul
Red oak, white oak, live oak, pine knot kindling
Three of us loading wood in the cloudy-cold
With practiced skill setting ranks of good oak
From the tailgate forward, settling the tires
Loading, unloading, stacking, and burning:
This winter’s firewood will warm us four times
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
¿De qué agreste balada de la verde Inglaterra,
de qué lámina persa, de qué región arcana
de las noches y días que nuestro ayer encierra,
vino la cierva blanca que soñé esta mañana?
Duraría un segundo. La vi cruzar el prado
y perderse en el oro de una tarde ilusoria,
leve criatura hecha de un poco de memoria
y de un poco de olvido, cierva de un solo lado.
Los númenes que rigen este curioso mundo
me dejaron soñarte pero no ser tu dueño;
tal vez en un recodo del porvenir profundo
te encontraré de nuevo, cierva blanca de un sueño.
Yo también soy un sueño fugitivo que dura
unos días más que el sueño del prado y la blancura.
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