Trias I

Theos 

Sing, patient angels,
Whose beauty is our terror
While this earth still turns.

Into the Oneness woven,
Light in light ethereal

Give praise to glory,
Your tongue-root-tendrils humming
The soft burning song.

Hiddenness beyond all sight
Your soft thrum in the ether;

The weeping of time
Which trickles from the vesper
And makes mortals mere,

Confounds our place, our knowledge,
Of our fear makes nothingness.

Beyond the vastness
Where the glorious throne awaits—
From the womb of it—

Proceeds the Being-ness of
Every least beloved thing.

Every mote and speck,
Each gentle spirit spinning
Soon forgotten worlds;

Sweet sacred geometry
That glides down to these swift planes

On waves of fair light,
Within the architecture
Of your webs that stretch

From latch up to the shutter
Of the window on the barn.


Chrisma 

Our heads will bow to
Willow in the sun’s fair light
While this earth reaches

For soil on our musty tongues,
The spring to pierce our low plains.

Lay these long cloaks down
To dance among the lumbering
Beasts, the foaling mares,

Moaning softly, hosannas
Praising, though our breath comes quick,

Whispered in prayer, rough
Incantations over hands
Sticky with leaven.

As our long arms sway, blessing,
Near the river’s restless shelf,

They scatter a word
On wind-song, the sweet promised
Root, our bread and kin-

Ship rising from the tumble
Pregnant with a covenant.

Vessels made of clay
That seethe and ferment, stretch and
Overflow with us

Who groan in fleshly tangle
Of poetry, the plucked string,

On the threshing floor
While lovers kiss or tickle
In straw and pale light,

And riotous reflection
of moon in our wooden cup.


Pneuma

Your wind-borne dancing
Sows the lambing fields with grass,
Our tears with soft praise,

The river, or the delta,
Its muck that formed this flesh-ness.

By swoon of labor
Spread the seed, that fertile speck
Of stars longer gone.

These lips now taste your sweetness
While the wind twists through our hair.

From dawn fields seeping—
Mists and wheat and tears, distilled,
To fill these cupped hands

With prayers spread on musky bread
And drink to conspire with night. 

Kissing the flower
Deep into your deepest self,
The world, trembling, sighs

As saplings listen, waiting,
Fill themselves with longing breath.

Nectar of blossoms
Soaks into the ancient bones,
Whose roots reach deeply

Seeking flesh that remembers
The sacred hymns of these trees.

Above—the swarm-dance,
Their songs spent in sweetly praise
Of heaven’s bright queen

Proclaim the Mother’s calling
To curry the sweetest comb.

© 2017 Karekin M Yarian