Flame at the Gate
(A poem inspired by the “DC-related witness intimidation” I was subjected to by intel persons of the Neocon-Zionist-Trump regime who—through terrorist threats—ultimately forced me to leave the USA in April 2025, although I am a lawful US citizen and a traditionalist teacher).
Wrapped in her veil of light and stars,
the girl turned on her heels
and spoke as she walked out of mesh:
“The emeralds of forests fresh,
the wild glade of my dreams,
you cannot buy with all your cash,
nor can you win on paths of flesh
the palace of my whims…
For, far from lush intent, it mars
the thieving hands beyond the pale—
for God is Father to the nymphs
who took upon His veil.”
The beauty of the light divine,
from centuries within,
has reached the steam, the trains, the might
of irons, silicones, and steels,
and bent the routes of glossy flight.
The gentleness of mighty hymn
spread blessings on fast meals
and mingled with the daily right
of gentle hearts to peace.
It was a day of sunshine bright
when the frail girl said “No”
wrapped in her veil – a modest flight,
while God beheld her in His sight
sheltered from what is foul.
But at the gate a flame arose,
protective like a wall, though thin,
from strengths of centuries within:
To guard the temple of the soul,
To keep it clean in ardor still
To keep it tall like the green hill,
Immutable in an old pose,
Unbending like a silver spine,
Brave and alive while it beholds
the beauty of the light divine.
Song of the Tribal Girl
(for the indomitable women of the Middle East)
Better than that Armani charm
Balenciaga and Dior,
I much prefer my tribal skirt
that never set frills in a store.
For never knew this desert skirt
touch by foe’s hand or any harm.
It saw wild winds that raised it high,
and heats like hot soup boiled in pots,
like summer spices burning dry,
and never was it out for trade,
for others’ sightseeing or for sale,
it never got pinned down by nail,
its light was never torn by shade.
Its bright-hues fabric never rots,
for it was spun with blessed rays
my old kins gathered from the moon,
and washed with magic dew in spoon
of silver blessed by the priests
who worship the One God in caves
wisdom and faith as only feasts…
It gathered wheat and rice and rye
from fields unseen by human eye
on wondrous rainbows of the sky.
It gathered shells from rainy slots
of sea-bathed shores after the rain
and flowing light it spreads in dance
unseen by evil eye at noon
under the blessed sun of boon
its gauzy veils causing the trance
just of palm trees of God’s domain.
My many-layered thing of old —
now green, now yellow, red and bold,
adorned with dots like skin of fawn
that shine like many coins of gold —
is ever new with freshest dawn,
for sacred charms in all its frills,
like holy beads in hermit’s fist,
have powers that can stir new thrills.
An evil eye would turn and twist
and into goodness will unfold
unable to harm evermore
(as tales of such lore have been told).
Under the sliver of new moon,
Most divine light has touched a dune,
The light embraced a humble tent,
A golden prayer seemed to melt
on hands that weaved, on a sweet tune,
In furtive glow without alert,
A woman sitting on a pelt,
Embroidering a shape, a rune:
My great-great-great-grandmother’s skirt.
My tribal skirt is ancient-made.
It kept away the modern beasts.
It carries charms of ancient lore,
it runs like rivers in my fists,
it smells of freshest fields of past,
its shining powers always more…
Better than that Armani fast,
Balenciaga and Dior.
It dies with me my tribal skirt
It lives with me, always unhurt.
(2024)
Beaming light
Waves of abundant joy I grasp
from memories like serenades,
from depths of time on ocean’s cusp,
emerging merrymaking boats
of laughter crystalline or rasp…
Times of a past with tents and goats,
with sand mirage and cooling palms,
veils on coal braids in golden clasp…
Times of the Truth in sacred glades.
All memories like serenades….
God shone His Light on moonlit waves,
loud children’s merrymaking shone
to spook the clouds of every morn’…
Candles were bright on walkers’ roads,
The light of warmth, the light that calms….
And brighter times never have been
than days of tents and goats and glades
of shepherds who knew not of sin.
I see beyond this dark machine
that holds our clockwork in its arms.
God shines His light on quiet waves,
today as yesterday unseen,
for everyone who light still craves.
I have no fear of the Asp
of darkness, of the Serpent’s grin….
The times of joy living within
my heart, my inner soul’s last gasp
are times of God’s protective beam.
(2024)
