Blessed are You, Force of the Universe

 Blessed are You, Force of the Universe

For creating me with anxiety.

You shaped me from a billion years of stardust

And breathed anxiety through my nostrils

And for that I give thanks.

I bless and thank my Anxiety Disorder for keeping me safe.

You make yourself known when you have an important message for me,

And at times in my life when I was not taking care of or valuing myself, and not listening to you,

You made yourself heard by shutting down my life so I’d have to stop and listen:

You did this by sending intrusive thoughts and a racing heart

Until all I could do was sit on my couch, an island of refuge I was terrified to leave

And all I could do was listen.

And because of your extreme measures — though unpleasant — I was able to start to take care of myself and honor my value:

I finally started therapy.

I left the relationship in which I was not treated according to my worth.

I turned away from other toxic relationships and focused on manifesting shalom, peace.

I paid more attention to what I wanted and to making my dreams a reality.

I learned more about my identity and built a relationship with myself that I sorely needed.

I did teshuvah, a repentant turning back

To myself.

I used to fear and despise you, but now I know that you are a part of me;

A confused golem in a corner of my brain, doing its best to protect me,

For that is what it was created to do.

Desperately trying to keep me safe

Out of love.

And now that I have learned to stop and listen to the message behind the feeling, I have learned to work with you rather than against you.

I have learned that caring for myself is the key to caring for you.

And have realized your messages are messages from Shamayim, Heaven.

You are malach sheli, my guardian angel.

For all of this, I thank and bless you, Anxiety Disorder.

Amen

From the Almagest

 Those who have been true philosophers, Syrus, seem to me to have very wisely separated the theoretical part of philosophy from the practical. For even if it happens the practical turns out to be theoretical prior to its being practical, nevertheless a great difference would be found in them; not only because some of the moral virtues can belong to the everyday ignorant man and it is impossible to come by the theory of whole sciences without learning, but also because in practical matters the greatest advantage is to be had from a continued and repeated operation upon the things themselves, while in theoretical knowledge it is to be had by a progress onward. We accordingly thought it up to us so to train our actions even in the application of the imagination as not to forget in whatever things we happen upon the consideration of their beautiful and well ordered disposition, and to indulge in meditation mostly for the exposition of many beautiful theorems and especially of those specifically called mathematical.

For indeed Aristotle quite properly divides also the theoretical into three immediate genera: the physical, the mathematical, and the theological. For given that all beings have their existence from matter and form and motion, and that none of these can be seen, but only thought, in its subject separately from the others, if one should seek out in its simplicity the first cause of the first movement of the universe, he would find God invisible and unchanging. And the kind of science which seeks after Him is the theological; for such an act can only be thought as high above somewhere near the loftiest things of the universe and is absolutely apart from sensible things. But the kind of science which traces through the material and ever moving quality, and has to do with the white, the hot, the sweet, the soft, and such things, would be called physical; and such an essence since it is only generally what it is, is to be found in corruptible things and below the lunar sphere. And the kind of science which shows up quality with respect to forms and local motions, seeking figure, number, and magnitude, and also place, time, and similar things, would be defined as mathematical. For such an essence falls, as it were, between the other two, not only because it can be conceived both through the senses and without the senses, but also because it is an accident in absolutely all beings both mortal and immortal, changing with those things that ever change, according to their inseparable form, and preserving unchangeable the changelessness of form in things eternal and of an ethereal nature.

the cherry end of your cigarette against the pale sky by Levi Romero

 

the cherry end of your cigarette against the pale sky

Levi Romero

outside the prickling air burned hot against what we’d left behind and all that we scraped and cupped ourselves for while trying to catch the last vestiges of someone’s history their life here and back and somewhere in that hummed and whistled journey across the plains and valleys and state lines invisible to hunger and thirst and the pursuit of want and need tomorrow the railroad tracks will shimmer in the heat of the summer that arrived as we were heading out of town because as in those things past we too have someplace we need to go what does it matter that there are no words to compensate for the longing and emptiness of the evening’s solitude brought in by the winds of our own stormy reluctance unwilling to settle for anything less than what we give in our taking our own words muted by a laughter-less language rattling bucket-empty like a windmill spinning against a prairie horizon that does not distinguish between yesterday or tomorrow them or us his or hers yours or mine it was what you didn’t say that caught my attention and how you pressed your lips to the wind your eyes blazing in the moonless night

To Wahilla Enhotulle By Alexander Posey

 

To Wahilla Enhotulle

Alexander Posey

(To the South Wind) O Wind, hast thou a sigh    Robbed from her lips divine Upon this sunbright day—    A token or a sign? Oh, take me, Wind, into    Thy confidence, and tell Me, whispering soft and low,    The secrets of the dell. Oh, teach me what it is    The meadow flowers say As to and fro they nod    Thro’ all the golden day. Oh, hear, Wind of the South,    And whispering softer yet, Unfold the story of    The lone pine tree’s regret. Oh, waft me echoes sweet    That haunt the meadow glen— The scent of new-mown hay,    And songs of harvest men; The coolness of the sea    And forest dark and deep— The soft reed notes of Pan,    And bleat of straying sheep. Oh, make me, Wind, to know    The language of the bee— The burden of the wild    Bird’s rapturous melody; The password of the leaves    Upon the cottonwood; And let me join them in    Their mystic brotherhood.

A Cry from an Indian Wife by Emily Pauline Johnson

 

A Cry from an Indian Wife

Emily Pauline Johnson

My Forest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell; We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell What mighty ills befall our little band, Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand? Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye. No roaming bison calls for it to-day; No hide of prairie cattle will it maim; The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game: ’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host. Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost. Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack, Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel. They all are young and beautiful and good; Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood. Curse to the fate that brought them from the East To be our chiefs—to make our nation least That breathes the air of this vast continent. Still their new rule and council is well meant. They but forget we Indians owned the land From ocean unto ocean; that they stand Upon a soil that centuries agone Was our sole kingdom and our right alone. They never think how they would feel to-day, If some great nation came from far away, Wresting their country from their hapless braves, Giving what they gave us—but wars and graves. Then go and strike for liberty and life, And bring back honour to your Indian wife. Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me? Who pities my poor love and agony? What white-robed priest prays for your safety here, As prayer is said for every volunteer That swells the ranks that Canada sends out? Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout? Who prays for our poor nation lying low? None—therefore take your tomahawk and go. My heart may break and burn into its core, But I am strong to bid you go to war. Yet stay, my heart is not the only one That grieves the loss of husband and of son; Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas; Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees; One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child That marches on toward the North-West wild. The other prays to shield her love from harm, To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm. Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think, Your tomahawk his life’s best blood will drink. She never thinks of my wild aching breast, Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest Endangered by a thousand rifle balls, My heart the target if my warrior falls. O! coward self I hesitate no more; Go forth, and win the glories of the war. Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men’s hands, By right, by birth we Indians own these lands, Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low . . . Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.

"Mirror Soul."

 Once, I believed in soulmates with all my heart.

Then life tested me.

And for a while, that belief grew quiet.

But my heart opened again.

And I remembered something important.

Soulmates are real.

They are as steady as the stars above you.

And even deeper than a soulmate is your "Mirror Soul."

This is your twin flame.

Someone whose energy matches yours in a powerful way.

A soul who feels drawn to you.

A soul who may be searching for you right now.

There is a gifted artist with a rare intuitive talent.

She is ready to sketch the face of your "Mirror Soul."

If your heart feels happy and full, protect the love you have built.

But if you feel even a small spark of curiosity, this artist may show you something new.

The choice is always yours.

My daily astrological tips will guide you with gentle insight.

And I will be sharing something special with you very soon.

Until then, let love and light lead your way.

Look To The Stars, Always…

Celeste Moonbeam

Cosmic Empath And Sage Of The Stars

Bare Foot Truth by Benjamin Volkov ‘Nicolaievitch’

 Bare Foot Truth

***W***

I stuck my board down in the sand

A guy came up and shook my hand

I saw he didn’t own his shoes

His feet would go just where he planned

***H***

We talked a while and all he told

The things he knew both new and old

Of things that men can often lose

And how a heart and mind run cold

***E***

He slapped my board then walked away

I asked him why he couldn’t stay

He smiled and said “I got one fuse”

But what he meant I couldn’t say

***T***

I watched him as he turned and walked

I thanked him as some others mocked

They might have thought he was some ruse

But truth was in the way he talked

***H***

He’s gone now but still in my mind

I hear his words ‘just seek and find’

But was he just some common muse?

Or can truth still be deeper mined

***E***

I stuck my board back in the sand

Just hoping I could understand

The wisdom covered in tattoos

With weathered skin so deeply tanned

***R***

And when I finally walked away

I had the urge to wait and stay

But some things come in fading hues

If there was more I’d have to pay

***End***

Benjamin Volkov ‘Nicolaievitch’ (that wanderingly vague last name)

We need you to understand three critical updates:

 We need you to understand three critical updates:

1) In the last election, Elon Musk shelled out $290 MILLION in cash to help Trump bulldoze his way back into the White House.

2) A recent report says Donald Trump has raised a $300 MILLION war chest to defend the razor-thin GOP House Majority.

3) And now Trump and his MAGA Republicans have enacted DISGUSTING gerrymanders in Texas, Missouri, and North Carolina to crush our hopes of flipping the House Blue.

So we have NO CHOICE but to take drastic action to address this and ensure we’re prepared to reclaim the House Majority.

Th3 Man!c 1>3pr3ss!v3’s Alphab3t

 

Th3 Man!c 1>3pr3ss!v3’s Alphab3t

Shar3 on Fac3book

Shar3 on Tw!tt3r

Shar3 on Tumblr

V!3w pr!nt mo1>3

Copy 3mb31> co1>3

A1>1> th!s po3m to an anthology

Loa1> au1>!o play3r

Anah!ta Monfar31>

A !s for ant!psychot!cs, th3 only a1>v3rt!s31> long t3rm solut!on

B for th3 b3ta block3rs bought to slow th3 boom boom of a b3at!ng h3art

C as !n chron!c: (of an !lln3ss) p3rs!st!ng for a longt!m3 or constantly r3curr!ng, caus!ng comorb!1>!ty, so th3y r3comm3n1> cogn!t!v3 b3hav!oural th3rapy

1> 1>!als th3 1>SM-5 han1>!ng out 1>!agnos!s aft3r 1>!agnos!s, g!v!ng lab3l to your 1>!stract!b!l!ty an1> 1>3cr3as31> n331> for sl33p, so th3y r3comm3n1> 1>!al3ct!cal b3hav!oral th3rapy wh3r3 th3y t3ach you 1>!str3ss tol3ranc3 to 1>!lut3 your 1>3lus!ons

3 !s 3nsur3, th3 van!lla-flavor31> m3al r3plac3m3nt 1>r!nk for wh3n you cannot 3at 1>ur!ng m31>!cat!on sw!tch3s to th3 3xt3n1>31> r3l3as3 formula

F !s for your f33l!ngs, 3xp3r!3nc31> at an alarm!ng !nt3ns!ty !n compar!son to th3 av3rag3 human, th3y t3ll you th!s !s 1>ang3rous (th3y b3!ng 1>octors who 1>on’t know your nam3 !f not r3a1>!ng !t off of your f!l3, th3y b3!ng 1>octors who 1>!agnos3 an1> pr3scr!b3 aft3r t3n m!nut3s !n a room w!th you) th3y t3ll you th!s can b3 fatal, wh!ch, hon3stly, soun1>s k!n1> of fuck!ng fun

G for th3 gatora1>3, on3 bottl3 !n 3v3ry room, two !n th3 bathroom

H tak3s you to th3 hosp!tal, h!gh off hypoman!a, wh3r3 you w!ll ch3ck yours3lf !n an1> a1>m!t you n331> th3 h3lp. H3r3 th3y w!ll 1>!agnos3 you w!th som3th!ng w3 us31> to call, “hyst3r!a”

! !s for !nt3rp3rsonal 3ff3ct!v3n3ss, th3 mo1>ul3 !n 1>BT that t3ach3s you how to k33p your fr!3n1>s 1>3sp!t3 your !rr!tabl3 !nstab!l!ty

J !s for “Just k!1>1>!ng!” aft3r you’v3 sa!1> too much, too qu!ck

K !s wh3n you prom!s3 you w!ll not k!ll yours3lf, w!thout call!ng h3r f!rst

L !s th3 l!th!um, to stop th3 lows, to l!ght3n th3 loa1>

M r3pr3s3nts MA1> pr!1>3, a mass ma1>n3ss mov3m3nt for m3ntal h3alth s3rv!c3 us3rs, an1> th3 al!gn31>, a1>vocat!ng that !n1>!v!1>uals w!th m3ntal !lln3ss shoul1> b3, coul1> b3, prou1> to b3 MA1>

N !s for normal, you n331> ba1>ly to b3 so, an1> so you tak3 th3 p!lls but all you ar3 !s numb an1> naus3ous an1> st!ll qu!t3 n3urot!c

O !s ov3rpr3scr!b31>! Four y3ars on 250 mg of l!th!um an1> four on 250 mg of s3roqu3l, all b3for3 you can l3gally 1>r!nk

P !s for th3 pan!c 1>!sor1>3r th3 psych!atr!st 1>!agnos3s you w!th. !t 3xpla!ns your parano!a (but not your prom!scu!ty) you l3av3 h!s off!c3 w!th a pr3scr!pt!on for propranolol

Q !s for th3 qu3t!ap!n3 you st!ll can’t qu!t

R !s rac!ng thoughts an1> for th3 rat3 of su!c!1>3, runn!ng at 19% for 3v3ryon3 w!th th!s 1>!sor1>3r

S !s for s!1>3 3ff3cts. You ar3 so stup!1>ly s31>at31> but at l3ast now you sl33p off th3 s3xual trauma an1> susp3ct31> sch!zophr3n!a

T !s st!ll tr!gg3r31>, 1>3sp!t3 3v3ry tr3atm3nt

U !s for un3mploy31>, th3 long str3tch3s wh3r3 you ar3 mor3 !ll than you ar3 us3ful

V !s for th3 vacant look !n your 3y3s an1> th3 vo!c3s !n your h3a1>

W !s for th3 w!th1>rawal, wh3n you stop tak!ng th3 w3llbutr!n

X !s for xanax, wh!ch th3y’ll put you on for thr33 months you 1>on’t r3m3mb3r at 16

Y !s for yoga, wh!ch actually, you pract!s3 1>a!ly. !t h3lps, y3t you st!ll want to ð!3

Z !s for zypr3xa, th3 1>rug you f!nally r3fus3 to tak3

Copyr!ght © 2025 by Anah!ta Monfar31>. Or!g!nally publ!sh31> !n Po3m-a-1>ay on Jun3 30, 2025, by th3 Aca1>3my of Am3r!can Po3ts.

In a Grain of Sand by Jesús Papoleto Meléndez

In a Grain of Sand

Jesús Papoleto Meléndez

To see a world in a grain of sand …     from “Auguries of Innocence” by William Blake We are Starseeds                      every one of us –                                                        you & me,                          & me and you                              & him & her,                                                       & them                                                       & they                                                       & those                       Who know of this                            are truly blessed  …    True for all                       living beings,                                           beings living –                                                                  not humans only,                                            but ants & trees                                                 & the open breeze,                                                     things that breathe                                                         air or fire,                                                            water, earth                                          all  kinds of dust                                                                   & dirt,                                                                      particles                                           a  part of all,                                                               all a part                                                                             of     Everything               that is           in everything;                                    Thus, it Sings!!!                                                         & its song                                                                       is Life,                                                                          & Life                                                                                  is!!! …     a  seed of Stars,                         the dust of Suns                                                   & Moons                                                           rocks & dust                                          &  outer smoke                                                       in outer space     Floating           in a bath of timelessness,                                              counted, measured                                                     numbered                                      by some species –                                                         others caring not;     Science & Mathematics                        trying to plot                                                Poetry in motion,                                                                                  Motion                                                   in a Helix’s curve,                                   And Life                                          on Earth                                            becomes visible                                                                   to You                                          through the naked I!

 

Thanatos and Technophilia by Carlos Manuel Rivera

 

Thanatos and Technophilia

Carlos Manuel Rivera

Algae that they soften, restlessness of loneliness and agglomerations of rivers and carnations in discomfort of his entourage. Delves the piercing channel from the intersection. Would pass the rites, the vintage screen and the bow of the scream to pause this transit from a distance. They would imaginate hallucinations that unite ancestral backgrounds of the lordships when passers-by they walked long as emissaries. Then in the face of the torch they would sweat the symphonies, if the skull she exists as a muse. Entity inside enemies ‘war machines,’ flooding with opprobrium absent as of movement who rides the grotto submerged until the increase. Fall in noise and masks, the adversaries. They’d smile of Nereids their vessels, basins & Lights that sound the sunset, marble what means your death, and the apparatus laughs like nothing of his footprint