In spite of these catastrophes,
holocausts and disasters;
the adverse calamities
and endless ever afters;
despite (or because) of these,
we shelter in one Temple,
spreading over seven seas,
we're God's own chosen people.
701.
Veneration to Mary:
She Who was Chosen
Oh Mary, servant of Allah
She Who was Chosen – the Mustafia
God had chosen her to be His servant
She gave birth to & nurtured the Holy Infant
Oh Mary – the Chosen One – the Mustafia
Our honor & adoration to you, Ave Maria
Praise God for having chosen the Blessed Virgin Mary
We venerate Mama Mary, Chosen is She.
Amen.
-10/01/2019
(Dumarao)
*Veneration to Mary as “She”
The warp and the weft, repeating the beat
The weave of the ware of the fabric of life
What's looming? What's left? What pattern repeats
In this tapestry seems to be sweetness or strife
Shuttling between them's emotional whiplash
A journey in learning the middle is midrash
Extremes between seams can leave something coarse
The coin of the realm, from barter to bourse
The subtleties woven and worn of whole cloth
Become torn and tattered when the weaver is wroth
Weaving's deceiving if not done in good faith
Leaving a tale more frail than the wraith
But if the tapestry woven is living with care
Not mediocre but choosing what's apt
The tale leaves a pattern not tattered or bare
And a story that's left the reader enrapt
There's always one, maybe two, and sometimes three
But there is definitely one__
That 'One'
That daughter or son
The one that carries the indomitable light
The one willing to do the shadow work and fight the 'Good Fight'
The one that's often ridiculed,
But she or he is not afraid to enter the dark, cold vestibule
And enter they will, with that radiant light
Steadfastly they walk, shining bright
They're ten toes down when it comes to God's work
They move ahead in the face of the worst vitriol and all the hurt
There's always 'One'__
Whether daughter or son
There's always 'One'
All of Gaia's Witches are doing their best!
Please do not ever fall into any distress
Your ancestors know this is a divine test
The land spirits are not letting them rest
Black, Brown, and Indigenous are blessed
Everywhere we go we always bring zest
Disclaimer: This poem is meant to honor the people within pagan communities working hard to protect people from white supremacy and tyranny. It is my personal belief that a lot of what's been going on out there is very spiritual. When Spirit speaks, I listen.
The scorching sunlight binds me down.
Why is summer so cruel like this?
My friend left for Switzerland.
A letter arrived not long ago:
“It is stained with green meadows here.”
“No one tries to hurt me.”
“There is no such thing as rat poison.”
I should have been the one to go.
“Is my face really that hideous?”
“Oh, what a life of mine. Meow.”
Like hope seeping through the neon lights,
That man approached me.
I am a stray cat.
Yet, no mere wanderer am I.
I am a thinker,
One who deciphers the gaze of humans.
A Rolex watch on his wrist,
A calm leisure lingering in his eyes.
But I already know.
What matters more than food
Is a savior, a victim,
Who will clean up my waste.
“Meow…” My cry was a question.
Could this man truly be my butler?
Could he grant me the peace inside a box?
Could he buy me at least a single cat tower?
Or would he someday,
Fall for a girl, cheat on me,
And abandon me to leave?
I held my breath, hesitating.
Weighing you and me against each other,
At the very moment my heart pounded—
Before I knew it, I was sitting upon his lap.
It was not a chosen favor,
It was a gamble, staking my entire life.
I know it’s a shame but isn’t it clear
That I have no possibility
To change a thing in what’s going on here
Maybe others have that ability
So either they work it out fine
Or they’ve just given it up
Whatever happens I keep my line
Preferring to drink from my cup
The private life is by far the best
Invention of the Englishman
Stuck to your own, leave all the rest
To choose what is chosen for them
To hell with that new and old rubbish
My privacy sends me stuff
That I dare sometimes to publish
You’re entitled to cry or laugh..
The Chosen
People say not being the chosen one is the worst.
But what if it isn’t?
What if you’re chosen—
but for all the wrong reasons?
Yes, I was chosen,
just to be a measuring tool—
something to compare,
against unfinished things,
just to feel better about yourself.
Like a trophy,
kept in plain sight,
on a neatly managed shelf.
Only ever looked at
from a distance—
always just a glance,
never long enough to notice.
Perhaps if they had,
they would have seen the rust.
Yes, I was chosen—
as the permanent wrong choice,
the one that reminds you
of what you could have had.
Like a roll of dice—
“if only I had thrown it differently,
if only I got another number…”
If only.
I was always the what if.
I was chosen—
but only to blame,
like how you blame the corner
when you stub your toe.
Never atleast a deserving blame.
There’s a difference
between being chosen
and being wanted.
What’s the point of being chosen
if all you hear
is the echo
of the one who wasn’t?
Who is truly chosen?
And how do you even define it?
What’s the point of being chosen
if wanting never follows?
there is such freedom in chosen seclusion
you feel no need to cook or clean
satisfying the power of one
you, yourself, and no one else at all
some of us are fearless about this
no desire to share or explain this enjoyment
In the churlish church of the frozen chosen
Where they're called to be emboldened
Though mugwumps may frown
And complain of the weight of their crown
In God’s Kingdom they’re advancing as scolded
And in this is how God does promote
Through suffering and removal of mote
Through pain we are free
To use our free will as it be
Of the irenic scene we must take note
Do you hear how the strings sweetly sing?
From the harp to the autoharp’s ring
With guitar and with bass
Choir voices in place
Their music makes Heaven take wing
So let us help one another in accord
With God’s movement on this earthly chessboard
What we forfeit when we don’t pray
How we reject others who need help in this way
Help us our most precious and forgiving Lord
Stargate is a gate; it allows us to move through time and space.
Stargate is fun, it allows us to move around but in spirit form.
Like a particle moves about, it moves like a flow of oxygen.
It has no weight; it carries no luggage it just moves around quick like the sun.
It only takes its thoughts around; it carries information to the chosen place and time.
Stargate is a secret gate, only few find and only few are allowed to use.
Like the gate God told us about few find the gate of life, many get lost on the road home to heaven.
So, pray, stay on the road of love and light, remember you only take with you the things you did in this life.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
You stay right here.
I’ll be the one to leave.
Not because I want to go,
but because loving you
means sparing you the guilt
of pushing me away.
You stay right here.
I’ll go first.
So it won’t feel like
you chose a life without me—
it will feel like
I loved you enough
to step aside.
If someone must walk away,
let it be me,
the one who learned your silences,
the one who stayed
even when staying hurt.
Maybe someday,
when the world rests quiet
and your heart looks back,
you’ll remember me
not as a loss,
but as love
that knew when to loosen its hold.
If I become a memory,
let me be a warm one—
the kind that smiles softly
in the middle of lonely nights,
the kind that whispers,
I was loved. I was chosen.
Even in goodbye.
Inspired by being a Chosen One.
May I be Your Chosen One indeed
By Michelle Morris
27/11/2025
Oh, Lord, I come to You
I know I am small and trying
Thank You for Your Grace
Thank You for Your alignments
There's so much water
Water that has come to drown
Sometimes I feel there's this storm
That never wants to leave my town
You gave me a boat for safety
But I steered close to the rocks
When the Darkness barred my way
My system seemed to go into shock
But You were always the Light
You made a way where there was no way
You gave me Hope each time
Hope to try again another day
You gave me wings to fly
But I was afraid to leave the cliffs
It took so much Hope and Faith
To release the fear of my Happiness
You gave me numerous souls
To test me and to help me grow
I never would have known my Strength
If I had an easier Life to show
And as much as I'm tired of being Job
I believe my Path and my Truth
I thank You for Your Gifts
That my Light continues to shine through
Oh, Lord, I kneel to You
I am filled with Your Love and Peace
Thank You for my Angel Mission
May I be Your Chosen One indeed
© Michelle Morris, 2025
Favorites cause envy
rumors, lies and hate spread.
Nothing said or done can change minds
blind fury, savage rage brews and overflows
So vicious are the attacks that those themselves
will deny who they are and try to blend in.
Death is the only solution
to eliminate and exterminate
Breed and born to hate those Chosen.
You will die to kill them
sacrifice your children for your cause
Never peace, never acceptance, never surrender
To destroy them is to achieve Paradise
while you exist in the chains of Hell
It's emotional not rational
You think you hate them
but deep inside you understand
you only hate yourself.
Today ruined by yesterday
tomorrows never come.
Live in shadows
fear the Sun
Hate seeps into evil
Never shame
never guilt
never peace...
only death.
When the Chosen Ones are all gone
will there be anything left of you?
(softly)
There’s a silence that follows every maybe—
a kind of ghost that sits beside you
when everyone else has gone home.
I’ve seen people walk away
with my laughter still on their skin,
with my words still in their mouth—
as if I was a story
they outgrew too soon.
And it’s never the leaving that kills you,
no—
it’s the looking back.
Seeing yourself
in someone’s almost,
someone’s if only,
someone’s not quite.
They told me I was kind.
Gentle.
Understanding.
But not… enough.
Never the one they stayed for.
Never the name their heart whispered
when it had to choose.
(pauses)
So I learned—
sometimes love doesn’t end in betrayal.
It ends in absence.
In silence.
In someone forgetting
how it felt to hold you.
And maybe that’s my curse—
to be remembered softly,
but never kept.
To be missed quietly,
but never sought.
To be loved halfway,
but never all the way home.
(sighs)
But still…
I’d rather be the one who loved
and lost,
than the one who never felt
how deep it could go.
(pause)
Because even if love never chose me—
I still chose it.
Every time.
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