Welcome

A Visitor

Threshold, blue in the morning, 

I resist the metaphor for sky, 

but not the correspondence of ancestor.

How can we ever know, yet --

the heart does what it will, reaches

in that same shade. Blue, blue, 

heart beating, not solely symbol, 

what do you have to share with me?

To be a visitor is to only stop by; 

we are all but briefly here, chance

sightings through an open door.

Pacem in Terris

I cry when I remember being born.

I am loved like a river. I cannot wait

to be married. We sleep like wolves.

I create in collaboration with the oldest

song I know. The heartbeat of my mother.

My blood is your blood, a memory. 

The ocean from where we came,

it pulses on insistent. A poem. 

My body is a cedar, my love he makes

the world with his hands. We walk

barefoot. I am visited by a spider

in my dreams. She is my grandmother. 

She whispers, paint with as many colors

as you hold. The world is

beautiful. It is but a dream we make

together. Seven generations both up and 

down the stream. Little one, wander with me.

Elegy

Elegy, here can I give it to you?

Earth held like a long note in a song,

Ocean who learns to play the drums

with all its arms reminding always,

"you are needed here. You are

not just passing through." 

Darkening sky, a tender kind

of grief, honoring the changing

of the things that need to turn

to ash.  It is not always easy

to continue walking. There is

no reasoning with tides. 

I strike the match of myself

and then I blow it out. And then

I don't choose. I am both.

Kate Belew is an author, poet, and Witch. Her work exists at the crossroads of creativity and magic. She has taught and facilitated circles and workshops worldwide since 2017. She is dedicated to the spirit of poetry, the sacred wild of the planet, and seeks enchantment in all she does. She is a forever student of the plants and the stars. She has an MFA in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College and is an initiated Green Witch. Her roots are in Michigan, and her wings are in Brooklyn, two places she calls home. 

The Mineral Specimen

. . . at the Museum

Of Natural History,

And it was paired crystals 

Grown from one matrix 

Geologic ages down,

In unknown crush and heat,

The slow meeting of atoms, 

Exchange of electrons,

Migration of molecules

Along magnetic pathways

The unwitnessed matter

Forming in planes and corners,

Transparent in the lightless strata.

One angled body of it red, red, red!

The other, bottomless blue.

Orderly though accidental,

Not made for me

Who flood with gladness

Where none was intended

And I walk towards a dawn

I can never reach

Though it reaches me

Well enough.

In Search

                for Henry Suso

Hard to say just what it is,

What we're searching for--

Nothing but the ache to tell us

When we're getting warmer.

Nothing that we've found so far

Lets us see its face.

Not this, not that. We narrow down 

What we love the best--

Money, drugs, romantic love,

Mental illness, widowhood,

Mastering a yoga pose,

A waterfall in the woods--

Isn't, isn't. Still the hurt,

A compass for the blind,

Says what isn’t recognized

Is right here for the finding.

Just a hurt that glows and fades

And sometimes, late at night,

A terror that it won't be found,

Or that it might.

Yellow Cat’s-Ear

Yellow cat’s-ear and white clover.

The one who has my devotion 

Wears the ten-after-three sunlight 

And the shadow unspooling from the house,

The shiny leaves of the laurel hedge.

The one who knows why this life is

Has dressed in every blade of the dry grass,

What the blue jay asks

And the curls of the breeze.

The one who knows how what’s coming

Is different from what’s now

And how it’s the same

Is here, the afternoon,

And later on, the evening.

Panamint Valley

Once, driving through mountains during a long night, they broke, moved apart, and Panamint
Valley dawned. What a place it was! Somehow not claimed by my kind for our common uses.
No road signs, no power lines, no other cars, just salt flats and sagebrush, just distance and a
velvet ribbon of road that didn’t quite touch ground. Present to itself, and vast, to the ends of
my sight above and all around, and the unknown reach of feeling below, turning its regard on me
even as the rising morning praised it. Including me in its regard-- me who was and am this single
small word. With nothing to visit on me, not judgement or anger or any city made of gold and
pearls, any favorable rebirth for having eaten my vegetables. But just there, just letting me for
once see where it is I live and within whom I release every one of my days. 

Peter Cashorali is a neurodivergent queer psychotherapist, formerly working in HIV/AIDS and community mental health, currently in private practice in Portland and Los Angeles. He practices a contemplative lifestyle. 

Golden Rabbit Hole

Peculiar – 

we try to ward off rabbit holes,

out of fear of getting stuck

in deep, dark corridors

that bring us to convoluted 

dead ends and bolted doors. 

It is precisely that nonsensical

search through our guts

that brings within transformation—

not in the way the world portrays it,

as in getting out from a cocoon, 

with our wings fully open,

but as in enduring a toiling process,

step by step, pushing through 

the birth canal of our becoming,

the beautiful beings we are meant to be.

Each rabbit hole represents

one more line of inquiry,

one more adventure into

unknowing our knowns,

to unveil what is veiled. 

Golden Darkness

Why would I think

all my shadows

would have left me by now, 

a body, tired, getting old?

My minute-long arrogance

that I am more than an ant,

walking blindly on well-known paths,

costs me breaking down

and remaining behind,

running in circles,

unable to smell my way back.

Rebelling? Against what?

The colony and my role within it?

Every time I rebel, 

shadows cover in darkness 

every part of what I am 

and I remain utterly isolated

in a space where no light exists

but inescapable desperation.

“Love thyself,” 

I hear through 

the cloak of a bleak spell

and I truly wish I knew what it meant . . .

Golden Apprehension

Apprehension – 

rises from an awareness of life’s passage 

with the inevitability and uncertainty

of its sundown.

Apprehension – 

expands in moments of clarity 

of the futility and replaceability of existence, 

including our wishes and toils.

Apprehension –

resides in the inescapable responsibility

for each decision we must make

on how to live each day

regardless of what we know

and don’t know to be true. 

In twinkling moments of apprehension,

we find ourselves mere fallible mortals,

seeking the touch of golden light

to dispel our pain and fears,

and hold space for hope and love

to grow in our hearts. 

Golden Collision

A collision of Andromeda

with Milky Way – 

this is how loving with pure heart

between two entities plays:

a crossing over 

through each other,

a symphony of immense energy

pulsating through infinity.

The entire universe

feels their merger

in a unique signature undulation

only love can imprint.

The outsides of each other

become insights,

and what matters for one,

now is a unison of a powerful,

transformative thrust.  

I am not ashamed 

to want a deeper merger and more

golden threads of love . . .

Cleopatra Sorina Iliescu, from Transylvania, Romania, lives in Atlanta with her two sons. She is the author of four poetry collections and holds a doctorate in education. In her series "In Golden Light," she weaves tender reflections on beauty, love, and loss—each poem unfolding the soul’s quiet mysteries. 

Deliberate solitude

Deliberate solitude,

my new companion.

We sip orxata

amongst loud families,

and we read only poetry.

We eat without podcasts,

we walk alone, not lonely.

At first it is noisy,

uncomfortable and frightening.

Sitting through that part,

it becomes peaceful,

then bliss kicks in,

gratitude descends

and freedom sparks creativity.

She inspires me to write

and lets me paint.

She lets me just be

and creates space

for me to decipher

all those inner voices

long longing to be decoded.

There's a constant urge

to call a friend

to send a message 

but I resist,

to be with her,

fully present, aware of myself,

the good, the bad and the raw.

I choose not to escape

the thoughts of my mind.

Without judging,

I let them flow by

just like the minutes

of being with myself,

not by myself.

Deliberate solitude often invites a guest.

His name is fomo.

Unwanted, I kindly ask him

to leave us alone.

Jealousy sometimes drops by too

but she usually leaves quickly

for the neighbour’s house.

Intentional solitude takes me apart

and puts me back together.

Like a medicine she removes the dirt

and lets the light back in.

Clean, spacious and humbled,

centred and together,

I go back into society.

G-d

So many years

without hearing your voice,

because nobody had told me

that your voice is my own voice,

and I had not liked my voice.

They had taught me you are someone,

someone outside and above.

Choosing anger over happiness,

I rejected all of it, all of you,

devoted completely to the mind.

Until my skin caught fire,

urging me to look within,

to listen, to trust,

and to seek silence.

I opened up --

a moment of grace,

of extraordinary awareness.

Heaven unfolded above,

and then within,

and I knew.

I remembered,

a truth too vast for words.

Losing my self

I lose myself

time and again

a million times

have I lost my selves

so many times

I became a seeker

I looked for gurus

I searched for healers

I tried to find god

and also some dealers

I looked for mother

and then for father

I searched the scriptures

and travelled the world

looking for something

looking for anything

I vanished in movies

in characters and names

I played them a thousand times

switched channels

always the same

I lost myself in them

in you and also him

until one day

I pushed the button

the screen turned blank

and I was home.

Letting go

Slowly but surely,

I let go.

I say thank you,

I pause.

I cry, and I laugh.

I release all my tears

to wash the path clean,

to water the new.

I sit still,

looking back,

resisting the urge

to escape into the next.

I make time to heal,

time to grieve,

and time to celebrate.

I feel robbed, and I feel rich.

I feel vulnerable,

and I feel empowered.

I honour the old me,

our good and bad times together,

all of you who stood beside me,

the work done, the lessons learnt.

I give thanks, and I move on,

a little softer and a little stronger.

justine lotus is a poet, multidisciplinary artist, and guide in presence-centered healing. Her work weaves together ink, touch, and silence. Through poetry, somatic practices, and meditative inquiry, she invites others into intimate spaces of transformation—rooted in devotion to inner truth and the mysterious unfolding of the soul. Reach out and learn more at  www.justinelotus.com.

Diary of Old Age, No. 28
 

Love in reality
is a dreadful
& divine thing,
dangerous itself
& a reckoning
deadly & auspicious,
a striptease of soul
& vulnerable heart
in the dark night
of all the senses.
Beyond sentiments
& shoddy calculations,
love in ancient age
is a liminal gate
to luminous surprise
& sacred absurdity
of loving in extreme
without cravings
with God’s love
for God alone
without doubt
or death’s fear.
Love in reality
is innocent &
harsh beyond
all embarrassment,
a radical giving
through suffered
excruciating grace.
  

Diary of Old Age, No. 30
 

God has given me
a terrible & baffling
gift, a singularly
grotesque grace,
the desert fire
of rogue solitude
in its intensities
& latent potentials
for loneliness
or the mystery
of being alone
with God alone
in timely eternity
before death.
Suffered, necessary
solitude as threshold
crucible passage
into the drama
of divine life
& disappearing
in a wilderness
of silent solitary
sacred communion.

Diary of Old Age, No. 34
 

Carried on sacrificial winds
across thresholds of time
between here & eternity
the concealed & opaquely
obvious face of Jesus,
inscrutable in simplicity
mystical in suffered love,
appears as an unborn
about to be aborted
in eruptions of pure pain,
as a wailing Jewish baby
dispatched into perfect
silence on an Auschwitz day,
in the corrupted angel’s face

of an abandoned child
of the streets at dawn,
as palpable obscurity
of a solitary old woman
forgotten by everyone,
even in shrouded ambiguities
of anxious & depressed souls,
in the scared eyes of despair,
prisoners of addictive demons
& all those killing Christ today.

Diary of Old Age, No. 35
 

A poetic diary of old age
is a thinly disguised diary
of death intruding upon
the ancient dance of life.
As years accumulate &
my body wrinkles & withers
passing into my 9th decade
of breathing inexorably
to that final rite of passage
of summarily disappearing
from earthen habit of being
into ever-nascent eternity,
death becomes a strange
friend, elliptical companion

encircling my ways & days
with intricate intensities
soberly reminding me
of God’s total intoxication
by ineffably personal love
for the living & dying me,
a love born from death.

Alan Altany has a Ph.D. in religious studies and is a semi-retired, septuagenarian professor of Comparative Religions at a small college in Florida, USA. He has published three books of poetry for a series, “Christian Poetry of the Sacred”: A Beautiful Absurdity (2022), The Greatest Longing (2023), and Intimations (2024). 

When It's Your Turn

The light of the sun shone brightly on his face from above a break in the trees in the forest, yet it was neither cold nor warm. He found he could look directly at the sun, see the billowing coronas, and it didn’t hurt one bit.

The meadow beside him smelled sweet, and flocks of bright birds ribboned through the sky in streaks of color. The scent of sandalwood and vanilla grew stronger the more he noticed it.

He smiled. What a beautiful day. He couldn’t remember feeling this good. The pain in his neck was gone, and his lungs felt full of air. He looked down and saw his body seemed younger, and for the first time, he felt a pang of worry. Something wasn’t right.

“You’re taller than I remember you,” a voice beside him said. He turned and saw an old, kindly looking man in a loose, raw leather shirt, sitting on a cherrywood bench.

“Do I know you? I’m sorry, I can’t remember,”the man said.

“In a way,” the elder man said, and placed a hand gently on the bench beside him. “Come and sit with me for a while.”

The man sat. “What is this place?”

“Always the first question, but a hard one to answer. For now, let’s call this the afterlife.”

“I’m dead?”

“You have left your body.”

“Is this heaven?”

“Another challenging question. Here, whatever you desire is yours, and you can stay for as long as you choose. If that’s heaven to you, then yes, this is heaven.”

“And then what?”

“And then you move on.”

“Where?”

The old man smiled. “I will answer any of your questions, but let’s save that one for later. It will make more sense when you have a better understanding.”

The man looked down. “I want to see my wife. Is she here?”

“She is.”

“Where?”

“I’m right here,” the old man said.

“You’re not my wife. Where is Lucy? I want to see her.”

“Of course.”

And she was there. Smiling. Familiar. The man stood up and embraced her. “Oh God, I’ve missed you so much.”

He began to sob. “I’ve missed you too, my love,” she said back, looking him longingly.

They kissed. Here she was, perfect and beautiful and happy. This truly was heaven.

The man disappeared, and they were alone. They sat on the bench and spoke for hours. Kissed. Held each other. Made love. 

The hours passed, although how long was hard to tell, as the sky had fallen into a perpetual state of sunset. As the hours passed, the man asked many questions, to which she couldn’t seem to answer. He realized her responses seemed to be repeating. She was there, but something felt different. She was too happy, too loving. There was no sadness or regret or memory in her.

He turned and saw the old man was back, sitting beside them on the bench. “Why did you say you were her, if she is here?”

“As you are probably realizing, that is not your wife. Not really. It’s your memory of her. You said you wanted to see her, and so you did. Whatever you desire happens here.”

His wife was no longer beside him. “I desire to speak to my wife.”

The old man gently took his hand. “And I am here. I am your wife. And your mother, your father, and every ancestor before you.”

The man pulled his hand away. “And I suppose you’re my children?”

“No. It is not their turn.”

“What do you mean. You are being vague.”

“I’m not trying to. I find it's better to ease into this. It is overwhelming. Trust me, I know.”

“Then tell me.”

“Of course.” A door suddenly appeared. White, and tall, with nothing behind it. “This door is where you will pass, if you choose to. When you do, all of the memories of every living thing that has ever been will be yours. And you will be theirs.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that when I say I am your wife, I am telling the truth. I am her, and she is me. I remember what it felt like when you got down on one knee, shaking and sweaty, and I pretended like I didn’t know that you were going to ask me. I remember the first time we made love. And the last time, when we both held each other and sobbed.”

The man looked deep into the old man’s eyes. “Lucy?”

The elderly man touched his cheek. “I’m here.”

The man shuddered. “So if I go through that door, I die?”

“Not at all. You are already dead. When you go through that door, you simply… learn.”

“Learn what?”

“Everything every living creature in the universe has learned.”

“So I’ll know everything? The meaning of life? What happens to my children?”

“Not exactly. We are still learning.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are the last living creature to have died. When you choose to merge with us, your experiences will be a part of us. But we only know what has happened up until the moment you left your body.”

“But haven’t others died since I’ve been here? Where are they?”

“This place is outside of time, in a sense. When you are ready, the next life will join us.”

“So, you’re not God?”

“I suppose that I am, in a way. As much as you are.”

“So, what created all of this? The universe, this place?”

“You did. I did.”

“How? You aren’t making any sense.”

“We are one and the same. At least we were. And will be.”

The man shook his head. “Why? What is the purpose? I don’t understand.”

“The purpose is what we choose it to be. To love, to learn, to be together. To grow.”

The man shook his head more vigorously. “It doesn’t make sense. If you made all of this, why is there so much suffering? What’s the point?”

“There is no point to suffering, other than what we give it.”

“But you could stop it.”

“I do. Sometimes. And sometimes, I cause it. Sometimes it brings me closer to understanding love, to caring about others. Other times, only despair. I know that may not feel like a satisfying answer. We’re still learning.”

The man swallowed. “I hurt someone.”

“Yes,” God said. “I remember.”

“Do they hate me?”

“Not anymore. I don’t hate you.”

“They should. You should.”

“I have learned by now that ‘should’ is one of the most meaningless concepts our mind has created.”

“You keep saying ‘we.’ What do you mean?”

“I mean we were one, once, as we shall be again.”

“So I was God? I created all of this?”

“I know, it’s confusing.”

“Why?”

“You were alone. There was nothing. You knew nothing, alone in the darkness. You wanted more.”

“So I made a universe?”

“Many. Bursts of light and darkness, energy and matter. Expanding and shrinking, dissolving, freezing. But you 

wanted more.”

“More?”

“Life. You learned to adjust the parameters. Gravity, the speed of light. Physics.”

“So this is a simulation?”

“Not at all. This is the first universe you created that was capable of creating life. But it wasn’t enough to just observe it. You wanted to live it. Every life that ever formed.”

“So you’ve been a jellyfish?”

“Not exactly. There is no experience or memory from the life of a jellyfish. To experience life, there must be awareness.”

“So, not until humans?”

“Oh, no. Long before then. Millions of years ago. Somehow, we created a universe where matter formed into thought. I still don’t understand it. My earliest memories, while not much more than an impression or feeling, were of flatworms. At least on earth.”

“So, there is life on other planets?”

“Oh, yes. Long before there was life on Earth. Although Earth is truly special.”

“So, does every creature come here when they die? Do you have this conversation with an ant?”

“This place didn’t come about until there were creatures capable of having this conversation. I created it, somehow, when I was a creature that had the ability to understand it. I was afraid, and I did not want to return. Other animals simply pass through, and join us. There is no resistance. They are happy to come back. I didn’t count on there being a mind like yours.”

“Like mine?”

“Like humanity. When I lived the lives of your ancestors, hundreds of thousands of your years ago, I first came here, and had this first conversation. It wasn’t as… sophisticated. The language, the understanding. But it had to be their choice.”

“Who was he?”

“Her name was just a grunt, but now she is called Eve. She is here. Your grandmother, a few thousand times over.”

The man grinned. “Hello, Eve.”

God nodded and smiled. “Hello, grandson.”

“What’s it like being an ant?”

“Oddly, peaceful. There’s a simplicity and joy in a life where purpose comes from moving a dead beetle up a hill.”

The man took a deep breath. “This is overwhelming.”

“Of course. I think you know, by now, that I understand.”

The man stood up. “So I can stay here for as long as I choose?”

“You can soar up into the clouds, throw parties with all of your family, eat and drink the finest foods you’ve 

ever tasted.”

“But none of it would be real? None of them are real?”

“Correct. They are constructs of your mind. We are all right here.”

The man looked around. The gentle wind rustled the leaves and brushed across his face. He inhaled the strong scent again and felt a wave of love and joy. He turned back to God.

“Will you come with me?”

“Of course.”

The man stood in front of the door.

“What’s on the other side? What will it feel like?”

“This door leads to a room. In that room, you will remember everything. And then there is another door.”

“Another door?”

“Two actually. One for me, and one for you.”

“Where does yours go?”

“Back to Earth. I will start my next life. Time works differently here, so I will live the life of the next being to die. Most likely an ant. It’s always ants.”

“And my door?”

“It brings you back here.”

“Why?”

“You will greet me, once I have experienced the life of a human. I will have many questions.”

“And then?”

“Then you take me through the door. Just as I will take you.”

“And I go through the second door? I start again.”

“Precisely.”

The man chuckled. “How long do we keep doing this?”

“Until there is no more life. I suspect it will be a while.”

“Can I stop it? Can I end this cycle? Stop experiencing this?”

“Of course. At any time. But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“You will see.”

“And when it’s over? When the universe freezes over, and there is no more life?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps we adjust the parameters, start again. Maybe we can make it better. Less suffering. Maybe we split up all of our consciousness back into the individual parts and live together for eternity in love and peace. Perhaps we just sit in this meadow and enjoy the sun. But I suspect by then, we will know what to do.”

“This is all too much.”

“Tell me about it. Are you ready?”

God held out his hand, and the man clasped it. “Is it going to be painful?”

“More so than anything you have ever experienced. But also more beautiful.”

“I’m scared.”

“We’ll do it together. I’ll be there.”

The man placed his hand on the handle of the door and held it. He took a deep breath, and turned. The door opened. He passed the threshold.

----

It was not light.

It was everything.

He remembered it all. His mother soothing him as he cried. The girl he mocked, coming home and crying into her pillow. The moment she forgave him. The soldier he killed. The stranger in need whom he ignored. The ant pushing the beetle up the hill.

Trillions of lives surged through him. Their stories. Their pain. Their small, stubborn joys. The suffering.

When he thought he would break from it, beauty washed over him like a tidal wave.

Love. Joy. Beauty. Wonder. The universe witnessing itself.

He turned to God. “Everyone I’ve ever hurt. Everyone I ever loved. The cruelty, the compassion. The pain. The joy. I did it to myself. I hated myself. I loved myself.”

God winked. “Welcome home, grandson.”

The man looked over and saw the two doors. God walked through his, stopping to give a final wave, and disappeared, along with the door.

The man stood in the memories, but they were not his, and his were not theirs. He was ready. 

There was nothing else but light, and the door standing in front of him. He opened the door, and his life became theirs, and their lives became his. No longer just memories, but one being. He was home.

The bench sat in front of him. He sat beneath the tree and waited.

Not knowing who would come next, but ready.

Now it was their turn.

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