Long The virgin Poems
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It was an island of piety
out of place in Port Adelaide’s
working class sea of pubs.
Off the main road,
St Mary’s was a refuge
for the Catholic faithful
and a few wino’s
pretending a prayer
for an hour of sheltered warmth.
Three masses on a Sunday
drew a dwindling crowd.
My grandmother,
dressed in her best
with the mandatory hat,
went to the 10.30.
It was a mass
for the elderly and the young
hung over
after a late night binge.
I cut my teeth there
on the grim chew
of its doctrine.
Back then latin rattled through
its wheezy lungs.
Old, dark, paint peeled,
it always seemed a breath away
from its last.
Creaking pews, polished
to a shine by a century
of sliding bums, would advertise
when you were late.
Stained glass windows
filtered sunlight
through a panorama of pain.
I was baptized by that wash
of joyless light.
Almost gone, St Mary’s
was resuscitated by Italians
keen to cage a stake.
Their statue of the Virgin Mary
poked a Mediterranean finger
into the collective Anglo eye.
Jewelry dripped, imposing
and ornate, she affronted
local tastes.
Statues were for background,
guardians of peripheral regions
placed to arrest
a wandering eye
and bring it back to God.
This Italian Virgin Mary
stood like a crowned colossus.
The old bishop’s ghost,
they say,
still wanders the church
shackled to his guilt.
Mary McKillop hovers
in his tormented head.
She's gone to God and sits
a newly minted saint.
The church grows smaller.
Lodged like a barnacle
on Port Adelaide’s rusted hull
it still hangs on.
The Italian Virgin Mary
now seems at home
and looks down
on rows of vacant pews.
Outside - shoppers pass in haste
to serve more fickle gods.
GOOD AFTERNOON
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.
BOYS AND GIRLS
FROM AROUND THE WORLD
AND ACROSS THE UNIVERSE.
WELCOME... TO THE WORLD
OF TRANSHUMANISM.
AND WELCOME TO THE
INTELLECTUAL BEHAVIOR
MODIFICATION ARENA.
GUARANTEED TO ALTER
YOUR CRITICAL THINKING.
I AM YOUR HOST...
THE DAPPER RING MASTER...
BRINGING YOU JOY AND THE...
UNDERSTANDING OF PROJECT:
ASTER.
ASTER, NAMED AFTER THE
GREEK WORD FOR "STAR"
THE MEANING OF ASTER..
IS WISDOM , LOVE
GREEK ORIGIN ASTRAEA
MEANS OF THE STARS, HEAVENS.
GREEK MYTHOLOGY ASTRAEA
IS THE VIRGIN GODDESS OF
JUSTICE, INNOCENCE, PURITY
AND PRECISION.
THE STORY GOES.
ONE NIGHT ASTRAEA WAS SO
UPSET BY HOW FEW STARS
THERE WERE IN THE NIGHT
SKY, THAT SHE BEGAN TO CRY.
AS SHE WEPT, HER TEARS FELL
TO THE GROUND AND TURNED
INTO STAR SHAPED
ASTER FLOWERS.
SIT BACK AND RELAX
IN OUR SCIENTIFICALLY
DESIGNED AND ENGINEERED
NEURAL NETWORK COMPUSEAT.
PUT YOUR FEET UP.
ATTACH YOUR HEADSET.
AND PREPARE YOURSELF
FOR YOUR INFUSION OF
PROJECT: ASTER. A TECHNOLOGY
OF SUPERHUMAN CAPACITY.
GET READY TO GO BEYOND...
THE OUTER LIMITS OF REALITY.
BEYOND... THE UNIVERSE...
OF IMAGINATION. BEYOND TIME...
AND UNDERSTANDING...
YOU ARE NOW RECEIVING
EXTRATERRESTRIAL AND
INTRATERRESTRIAL
LIFE FREQUENCIES
INTO YOUR TERRESTRIAL BEING.
IN A FEW MINUTES
YOU WIIL EXPERIENCE
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE ALIVE.
TO BE FILLED WITH LIFE...
BEYOND HUMAN OR ALIEN CAPACITY.
YOU WILL RAPIDLY BEGIN
TO UNDERSTAND ELEVATED
CONSCIOUSNESS...
AND EXCEED... EVERY LEVEL
KNOWN TO MANKIND
NEVER AGAIN WILL YOU
SEE, SMELL, TASTE, TOUCH OR
FEEL... LIFE... THE SAME AS
YOU DO TODAY.
AFTER TODAY YOU...
WILL NEVER BE THE SAME.
MANKIND... WILL NEVER...
BE... THE SAME.
EMBRACE THIS MOMENT
IN TIME... FORE THERE IS...
NO TURNING BACK NOW.
THE TIME HAS COME.
THAT MOMENT HAS PAST.
YOU ARE ABOUT TO EXPERIENCE
PROJECT: ASTER TECHNOLOGY.
THE UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE...
THE UNIVERSAL FREQUENCY...
OF WISDOM AND LOVE.
Michael E. Harris
12122021
Drifting beyond the lightest cloud.
Pastel clowns in postmortem rain parade.
Cascading in the cold moon dust
to shed this latest mascaraed.
Wounded memories hang loosely from the mind.
Autumn berries quivering three quarters past their prime.
When did "mediocre" pock the virgin tree?
When untruth told us, painting by numbers...
was our first gilded masterpiece?
Then entered our very first critique.
When honesty stated our works weren't their cup of tea.
Like evening frost clinging upon a tender leaf.
A devastating reality.
They should have stated the slate-cold truth.
As soon as we could understand
that our masterpieces really weren't worth a damn.
I take an unhurriedly walk
through the virgin forest
with paths fully covered with brittle leaves,
its trees emit mournful laments
to protest its anguishing fate until spring arrives
and transforms their dullness
into a liveliness loved by a novelist;
and walking farther, I spot a red-tailed hawk
that built his nest amid the branches of a willow...
should he return late, the cry for hunger will grow!
Nothing thrilling is found in a barren forest
when its beauty faded without the song of the larks
when they frequented the fields of a bountiful harvest,
I sit by the small lake without the floating ducks,
they shivered into the cold water and departed at early sunset,
leaving the drama on the poet's perplexed face;
his narrative would have seemed real and deserving of praise...
had he not embellished it with an unconvincing verse!
I take a long stroll
in a forest with a nakedness that frightens,
there are no intriguing discoveries;
those urban noises aren't too distant from the ears,
the minds, and the thoughts of the observers;
isn't tranquility and pensiveness that call
all for solitude and the dreary images they extoll?
Shouldn't they depress even if they are as realistic
as the life of a derelict
clothed with cheap garments, but has a noble spirit?
Because in the lonely bed the virgin trembles, spurring the wind to wake from her sleep before the gates of heaven close, before we fade to ashes — and there is nothing that we do not know the true meaning of - Silivester Kiik (2026).
***
The time has come
the sleepy stars
on the shoulders of the old hut
invite us—go
don't turn away.
Behind—the shadow of anger
tears our footsteps
filling the air with footsteps and dust.
The time has come
the stars never acknowledge
fidelity is theirs
because the flowers
in the bride's courtyard
— realize it
don't prophesy
let us go.
For on the lonely bed
— the virgin trembles
drives the wind
awakens from her sleep
before the gates of heaven close
before we fade to ashes
— and there is nothing
that we don't truly know the meaning of.
Atambua, March 11, 2024
***
Note:
I have turned this poem into a song. However, the song is in Indonesian. You can watch it on my YouTube channel Silivester Kiik.
At noon on the path,
no footprints ever explain
why the bucket's mouth
is stuffed to the rim with dust,
while the rope swings loose below.
In daylight's brief glint,
silver coins lie, unwetted—
the sun holds them still,
threading gold on waterline
until darkness pockets them.
The watchman is gone,
his coat waits upon the hook,
the latch still holds fast—
perhaps the wind borrowed hands,
or the hinges may recall.
The well pool is stained
with a stranger's face
looking back at us—
its pale mouth opens to ours;
we blame the moon's ownership.
All night, worries knot
the rope into little fists—
at dawn each hand grabs
a firm hold, with warm bare palms,
to haul buckets in our sleep.
We brought a blue jar
the potter promised would last—
moss grew over it,
greening the virgin new ribs,
until they forgot they came.
Water leaked from pool,
entered windows, lifted bed—
still, no cup was filled,
the current bore each vessel
over the surface below.
The rope line ended
three hand spans short from the dark—
To increase its span
we added sleeves, legs and hair,
but we can't tie the right knots.
Someone had fitted a lid
over the well top
with a bright polished mirror—
we can't see our reflection
to spring the wellness within.
Night loosens one star
from the well mouth left ajar—
the planets draw back,
defying gravity's pull,
the buckets rise weightless, dry.
We lower a bell
into the well before dawn—
startled it rings, dings,
but the sounds bash the wet walls
to never ripple within.
At the lowest stone
a woman's hair slowly drifts
over, careful hands—
closing the lid without sound
her mouth lies underwater.
As the well deepens
farther into its shadow
thirst gives its answer—
not in water, not in voice—
but with the churn of windlass.
I was poised to take a picture of a ladybug when she turned around and said,
“Do you mind!
It’s impolite to take a picture of a lady from behind!”
“I hope you know…” she reprimanded me for behavior she deemed shady…
“That although you may think of me only as a bug…I…am also a lady.”
No, I’m not insane…I wasn’t under the influence of any drink or drug…
but that morning I sat down and had a conversation with a bug.
I learned how ladybugs got their name…and here I’m pretty sure she was putting on airs…when she told me they were sent by the Virgin Mary as an answer to European farmers prayers.
“They called us ‘Beetles of Our Lady.” She said proudly…then with a disgruntled shrug…added, “over the years our names have been shortened to the more demeaning ladybug.”
She said as an aid to farmers across the world we beetles were dispersed…and to remember when it comes to our name…”you always say lady first”.
She said ladies are poised and graceful and confident…well-mannered, well-spoken…well dressed…she said a lady is always willing to help those in need and always tries to do her best.
She said every lady is beautiful…something she wished more people knew…
she said if you can’t find the beauty in the lady…the problem lies with you.
She said, “Because of the name we’ve been given…one belief I must curtail…for all this time we’ve spent together…you've been talking to a male”.
“So how can I tell a male and female ladybug apart.” I asked as he sat comfortably on his plant…
He smiled…a sly and knowing smile then answered simply…”you can’t!”
Again I was amazed at nature….how there are lessons around every turn…
at how much a ladybug can teach us…how much we humans have yet to learn
He was generous with his time…
he was wise and accepting and kind…
and as we said goodbye I promised never again
to take his (or her) picture from behind.
Brighter than a fall bonfire but with the chill of ice,
the winter sun haloes a gray and barren woodland;
throbbing, almost hesitant, with a florescent pulse,
brazen in its unrelenting descent, it clings to the horizon.
How it hurt my eyes.
Thin skinned, the lids tinge orange, the white of sol’s merging.
Trunks, boughs, branches, twigs, welt the dusk,
rouging the line between, blooding the virgin night.
Pricked, the brain pulses in tune, unable to look away.
How it hurt my mind.
Splayed fingers do not block the sharpened spears of screaming light.
The winter sun, indexed, and palmed, scratches the face of I.
Within a dakened room beneath a pall, behind hides blue veins,
near comatose, I sigh, the light, the light, until shades and stars arrive.
How life and death both hurt.
First Published in Dual Coast Magazine Issue 1 2014
On the twenty-first of September, 2025,
I, Helios, god of the Sun,
entered the Sixth House
and found Virgo waiting—
the Virgin, radiant,
her light softer than dawn.
Her beauty was not flesh alone,
but the balm of the wounded soul,
a healer of what is broken.
I said, “Let us celebrate,
for the eclipse belongs to us.”
Virgo smiled, yet whispered,
“What if Luna, your wife, finds us?”
And I replied, “Fear not—
she will only pass by in silence.
For tonight, I dwell in your house.”
I gazed into her eyes
and kissed her with the fire of the Sun.
Yet as my flame longed to consume her,
she wept and said,
“I am a Virgin—
I can only unite in the intercourse of souls.”
And so it was:
in that sacred eclipse,
I entered not her body but her spirit,
and I was made whole for the first time.
Refinement, purity, and sorrow
were written upon my light.
But the shadow moved,
Luna returned to her throne,
and Virgo faded back into silence.
Since then I burn in the sky,
forever longing for the Virgin
who healed me once,
yet can never be mine.
From the breast of Mother Hera
pours forth the sacred lily fair;
symbol of chastity, purity
and womb of mothers everywhere.
White is the Lily of the Virgin
from whose loins a child was born;
innocence gives strength to faithful
hope to hordes downtrodden, forlorn.
Tiger-Lily of Buddha’s compassion
aggression and sorrows it doth ease;
enlightenment it gifts the spirit
emerging, lifts us to peace.
Playful is the yellow lily
singing song of merriment;
in the garden of the goddess
lay freedom from the elements.
Upper Egypt knew the Lily
Ishtar’s gift of fertility;
in Greece borne from milk of Hera
beautiful Venus the lily be.
3-17-2021
ALL YOURS (Mar 19) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand