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A Piece of Clothing Made of Golden Thread

I am the woman from his closet – 

a piece of clothing that he wears

sporadically, inside the house,

just because it is there, 

and then drops at the bottom

of a laundry basket,

forgetting it exists.

I told him to throw me away,

but he didn’t have the heart

to make that decision. 

He chose instead to wait for the morning

that would come with soft rays of light

as he opens his eyes and smiles in peace

without missing anything at all – 

the insignificant piece of clothing

that broke down on its own.

So, I drew enough courage one day

and gently placed myself 

in the recycle bin . . .

The Golden Scepter

Oh, Serpent King, the king of all snakes,

I hunted for you in all the corners of the universe.

I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to ask,

or what I tried to understand,

but while looking for you, 

on the perilous path of finding the truth,

I finally grasped – 

in all that I don’t know,

it was not your wisdom I sought. 

On the stairs from the end of the road, 

toward the Serpent King’s golden throne,

contorted in pain – 

the pain of surrendering 

the need to hold on tight

to the human condition

imprinted deep in the psyche by societal norms – 

I started to shed the skin I had outgrown,

and threw it in the all-consuming fire

of not knowing what was to come next. 

And the Serpent King, the king of all snakes,

as tall as a thousand snakes put together,

dressed in regal insignia,

holding a regal serpent orb on one hand

and, on the other, a serpent-shaped scepter,

looked deep into my eyes, 

as deep as the darkness of all darkness,

and cleared the way for me to pass freely

into the bright unknown . . .

The Golden Möbius Strip

She chose to live

not in reality, nor in illusion,

but rather in the veil itself,

where both interlace

in a river of their own,

bleeding together

to co-create one’s world.

She sees illusion for what it is – 

a cloud that dissipates as it rains,

and reality for what is not – 

a cloud that forms from hopes and dreams. 

She feels both at once, just the same – 

the dreams as they rain,

and the opening of the blue sky

as the clouds pass by 

from infinity to infinity 

of realities and illusions

she could possibly inhabit

at any given moment.

She picked love 

from all the feelings she could have,

to represent and respond to

her reality and imaginary realm,

while they flow intertwined

from infinity to infinity,

carrying on her essence.

A Golden Sign

Nothing was and everything was – 

the sun setting in bright colors,

the darkness stretching out,

further and further,

the stars popping up, one by one,

the silence of the lake,

and the frog chorus,

keeping an account of night’s descent. 

She was drifting on her back

with her face turned to the sky. 

And then there it rose, 

first just a glimmer obscured by grey,

turning brighter and brighter,

before revealing parts of her

between dispersing clouds

that looked like running wolves.

She came out in full, 

in an orange tint – 

the sturgeon moon –

as naked as she was.

While watching the moon, 

watching her floating on the waves

of steel waters, 

she asked the sky for a sign, 

real or imaginary,

a sign that would give her a hint

of what is to come next

after she steps into the unknown portal of life. 

Nothing appeared and yet, everything did – 

it was her in the light of the moon,

who finally showed up for herself,

rewriting her own story

as an Icarus who found his own way to fly. 

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.   

Sacred Attention

I crawl, commando style, through the grass to spend some quiet time with frog. 

The first time I strode towards the pond, I had heard the large splash of a frightened frog fleeing my inattention. I learned to approach with care. To allow my eyes to gradually distinguish the large green frog from the background. 

Frog was the stillest being I have ever experienced. Stiller than a tree whose branches dance. Stiller than a lake in the early morning. Frog sat unblinking. It’s ability to breathe through skin meant its body was entirely unmoving. 

“Something can be made sacred by the attention we grant it,” naturalist Lyanda Lynn Haupt reminds us.

Inspired, I carried this possibility into meditation. My body stilled. So still, so heavy, so content. My thoughts continued, but as if at a greater distance from the frog-like stillness of sitting. 

Frog isn’t without the capacity to move, of course. A frog can shoot out its tongue, capture an insect, and pull it back into its mouth five times faster than the human eye can blink. 

Perhaps I missed it, my blink so very slow.  

What sacred invitation do you feel?

Anne Gorsuch writes short invitations to internal and relational practice informed by her meditation practice and work as an intuitional coach. She shares occasional brief reflections like this one with subscribers via https://www.annegorsuch.com/. 

Nα σε ρίξεις!*

Slick and taut as a serpent or a bowstring

you vibrate beside me, thirty feet above

the blue eyes of the water.

           Come on, Mom! Spray-blasted

concrete, velvet, hot beneath

our feet. I am bound to it. So 

you push me. And still,

I would have stayed, holding my 

chipped pedicure and the deep, 

slow ache in my left shin. (The heart,

it knows exactly where it needs

to be).

           You erupt, triumphant, on

the bright face of the sea.

                                 When I finally

throw myself off of the pier, of course

it’s your name that I scream.

*Throw yourself!

Logistics

How you know. How you know and risk

everything. Small strong hands square in the middle

of my low back when I am making Scylla and Charybdis of how, exactly,

they moved the harbor for those long low grey destroyers from this side of the bay

to that one, four kilometers away. You know 

                                  that you need nobody to leave the ground with you. Nobody

to hold your hand nor inhabit Angel Gabriel. Again and again, you throw

yourself into it, eight times your height. And you are not surprised

when it receives you as if you have always been

a sailor. Lithe, strong, and in love with the undulation,

the depth, the salt.

Mara Inglezakis Owens dropped out of school ten years ago; she works in IT and lives in the

suburbs. She enjoys gardening, aviation, writing much, and publishing little.

I am so thankful we are here together.

You are my mother,

and I will never have a greater love 

than I have had for you and Dad.

I love you -- and the love I have

for you and Dad is bigger 

and shines brighter than the 

biggest stars in the universe.

Continue to paint and create and live the life

you never got to live. It's never too late.

Never too late. It is never too late

to be who you might have been. This is

your artist era. Embrace it. Here's

to the next 20 years of life.

You will make it. Reflect

on what a wondrous,

amazing life you have. God

has been with you all along

and will always be with you

during your darkest moments. 

While Dad is no longer here trust me when I say

he is watching over you now. He is rooting

for you to live and succeed. He wants you

to win at this game called life. 

He wants you to take care of yourself

and keep being the zany, lively, lovely,

beautiful youthful woman

he fell in love with.

Be heartened and encouraged.

Never give up.

Love always.

Rose Kerr is a writer and filmmaker based in New York City,. 

Alive Together

If our inner worlds 

are guided by the smell

of bitter green Yarrow 

broken stems of field mustard

even if we can’t name them

the smells lead us to the stone tablets

in the Babylonian library

smells of desert        dirt and rocks    and depth

the clean      sharp smell of ocean

as you watch a glacier calve

and turn its vivid blue belly 

topside up     into sun 

the flashfloods in Texas 

smell of rot and    wet wood

cadaver dogs are doing the work

only they can do

the smell of lilacs 

create an inner calm

my mother only partly understands

though she knows 

they were in bloom

for those ten days

she and her mother

shared being alive together

Work of Dying

everyone wants more time

at least the living do

the dying might be

ready to go

you were

you could see the end

of loneliness

the pain in your hip

that made the walker

necessary

the shots in your eyes

for the macular

and now the diagnosis

of Alzheimer’s 

so of course you said NO

to the surgery 

there was a change in you

was it relief to change your focus

from living to dying

and like all your projects

you gave yourself completely

to the work of dying

you bantered with each of us

but there was no fear

and it surprised me having seen fear

so often in you 

I missed so much of that last day

dealing with Nick and it was unfair

to lose time I would never get back

I did not want to feel anger

on your last day

I wanted to soak up your goodness

as you moved beyond us 

out of reach

Joy in the Room

I closed my eyes and heard

those thin raspy breathes

that barely lifted your chest

and sounded like a bag of rocks

it was just a second that I looked down

I missed the moment when you left

the quiet got bigger until the room

was a silence so immense

it held all the work of death

and though I did not see your spirit

leave your body

I felt the room change 

the accomplishment of it

the pain leaving saying

it is enough

leave behind the heavy life

and your body of light

moved into rest

and whether dad came to get you

or Grandma Edith or

the mother you had never met

there was joy in the room

Here

how much time 

was your only question

you faced death straight on

we talked about death for days

after the funeral

do we return to soil

are we pure energy

or do we become stardust

are we rearticulated

to move to the next level

does it matter to the one leaving

or only those that stay

I want to believe you meet your mother 

that you fell into dad’s arms and wept with joy 

that you were dressed in white robes of light

that you heard your name said

by God himself and answered

I am here

Maureen Clark’s This Insatiable August was released by Signature Books and received Best Poetry Book of 2024 from the Association for Mormon Letters (AML). Her memoir "Falling into Bountiful: Confessions of a Once Upon a Time Mormon" is forthcoming by Hypatia Press. “A Country Without You” is forthcoming by By Common Consent (BCC) Press in 2028. 

Therapeutic Breakthrough

Let your therapist know

You turned away from God.

Only then can she properly diagnose

The loneliness, despair and alienation

That are gripping your heart.

Every morning, God awakens you

With sweet breath while pouring light

Throughout your room.

Have you ever asked 

What is the Source of this breath and light?

Recognizing the splendor of God,

Infinite Consciousness, Intelligence and Bliss,

Opens a pathway, creates a breakthrough

Into God’s loving vibration,

Drawing out the joy and ecstasy

Always pulsating in your soul.

Appointment with the Divine  

I call to you Master, my Beloved,

Casting my voice across the plains

Of grass, sea and sky,

In search of You

My elusive Lord.

I have wandered this world

Countless times,

Devoured by underbrush

That tore at my feet,

Until, at last,

Too weary to stoke the embers

Of my forlorn soul,

I died.

But I am back again,

Tearing through the forest,

Moving closer and closer

To my appointment with You.

Oh Master! My Beloved!

The embers are fading again.

Come now,

Breathe into me.

Set me ablaze!

Spirit Dance

Listening for the music 

Playing in my heart,

I drop to the ground

And pray to hear deeply.

I was deaf for many years,

Unable to hear Spirit’s song 

Ringing within me.

Now, Spirit plucks the lute---

A melody just for me.

I dance ecstatically,

Savoring the warm nectar

Coursing through my veins.

For years, I felt alone

While Spirit wept softly

With each breath I took.

How can I explain distancing

From the One who always knew 

I could dance?

A New Day

Morning stirs.

Birds descend onto the dewy grass.

The sky opens wide,

Drawing my heart into the breath of dawn.

God permeates the morning light,

So I listen deeply 

To each breath

The universe takes.

I am fully awake.

Still.

Soft.

Aware that my heart

Longs to be seen

By the Divine Friend.

David Block is a poet and retired nonprofit executive director whose work explores themes of mysticism, spirituality, and the human search for divine connection. His recent poems draw from contemplative practice and devotion, seeking to illuminate the presence of God’s love in everyday life. 

For the Nearly Awakened

Author’s Note

This was composed in a moment of emotional recognition after reading James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.  Portrait captures a soul in chrysalis. Its words leap from the page like embers, striking the tinder of those who have wavered on the edge of the abyss.  I have known them. I know them yet. And I was once one of them.

What follows is addressed not only to the protagonist of Portrait, but to all those who came close to awakening—who stood at the veil, breath trembling, yet turned back. So I leave this not only as a word of mourning, but also as an offering: that what began in exile may yet be redeemed.

For the Nearly Awakened

You have I known, you have I loved,
Preserved in amber, gift from above.
Together we travelled, pilgrims of fate,
Caught by the same chain, hour too late.

Through empty halls a question resounds,
Of whited sepulchers and burial shrouds.
Were you but dust, dispersed upon the sky,
Or in verdant pasture, repose on your eyes?

Your presence, cast now in lime,
Heady vapor, nostalgia’s sweet wine.
Memory of you, call never shrill,
Mournful reminder of all unfulfilled.

Carrying the weight of what could have been,
Love’s banquets and cradles, for you, absent friend.
Did we fail when you were to be sifted,
With truth unspoken—these stones could be lifted?

Questions asked with broken voice,
Of a different route, a different choice.
But friend, I am now free,
Chain broken by something unseen.

So guide these humble, calloused hands,

For the lost, to be found again.

O, cruel veil, Janus face of all,
That hides in despair, dawn’s clarion call.
O, nearly awakened, adrift in the storm,
Find this silent altar to love cruciform.

The sacrifice, brittle lines of resin and blood,
Glowing bronze-veined and hastily spun.
Pointing to that in which all is summed—
Behold: something new this way comes.

In the Marigolds

Author’s Note

In the Marigolds traces a lyrical arc of longing and mystery, holding the space between searching and surrender. While each stanza ends in unresolved ache, the search loops around itself—and the title whispers a quiet answer: she has passed, whether into memory, symbol, or sacred presence.

In the Marigolds

Weary and wayward, on narrow path I implore—
Where has she gone, she whom I so adore?

I.
In a walled garden she hides—
Murmurs stir the dusty leaves,
Seances hum beneath the eaves
Twilight falls with muffled cries.
Where has she gone, she whom I so adore?

II.
A sunken cloud retains her trace—
A shy presence taunting my dreams,
Wreathed in skeins of ambrosial steam
Wistful mists yet hide the face.
Where has she gone, she whom I so adore?

III.
Under deepest pitch I lay—
Moon illumes midnight’s pale rose,
Light softly shimmers o’er the cloves
My star falls from the blanketed sky.
Where has she gone, she whom I so adore?

IV.
As memory fades and grows old—
Her breath returns through dozing leas,
Floating in summer’s jasmine breeze
Carrying love scented in marigolds.
Where has she gone?

Ambergris

Author’s Note

Ambergris traces the ache of desire—at once alluring and corrosive. Named for the rare, fragrant substance extracted from whales at high cost and made famous in Moby-Dick, the poem moves through seduction, disintegration, and the mystery of presence-in-absence. It’s what lingers when sweetness fades.

Ambergris

Life’s cheap thrills—
To use.
To be used.
Plastic swirling in oil-slicked pools.

Hidden fingers tighten—
Its softest stroke,
Hid ’neath a cloak
Of acrid smoke.

From your tongue flies
Honeyed words.
O, how they allure,
Sticking with sweet-stained velour.

Trembling at the gate,
Echoes ring ’round.
Desire restlessly rebounds
Before running aground.

Sometimes we pretend.
Sometimes we believe.
Sometimes I’m enough.
Sometimes it’s nothing.
Sometimes it’s ended
or maybe just begun?
Sometimes I’m undone—
I don’t want you to leave
Though you’re already here.

Chadwick Rowland is a Catholic writer and attorney based in Washington, D.C. A recent convert, he writes at the intersection of longing, memory, and grace. His poetry is shaped by pilgrimage, silence, and surrender.