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Mary V. Kirov


Duncan, BC, CA

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A Long Time Ago


Mary V. Kirov

In manner mortal,
she trespassed
the forgotten homestead.

A shattered partition
of pale broken oak
slid under her palm.
Trapped between
indigence of spirit
and the plenty
of pretense,
the ravaged portal
tolerated no force.

A gentle twist
of the brass handle
insured a silent entry
as her pulsing auricle
balanced alembic.

The irony cursed abode
leaped to meet her
in soft focus.
The dust filled elegance
freeze framed
her head waves
of talking pictures.

Old memories
wrapped her stare,
as the lusterless light
ripped dust fingers
through cobweb threads
of tantalizing stars.

A tear wepted down
to taste a sob
caught back profound
in her throat
disguised as a cough.

Too frightened
to not feel
thought dead.

Too tired
to erase
the mood.

She allowed
the telling images
to pass by
in drifts
of languid revery.
as her patient perusal
steadfastly filled
the empty echo chambers
of her langsyne
it brought the truth to bear.

Desert Man


Mary V. Kirov

Sand white,
sand blown,
dune softened.

A snow camel rests
upon gnarled knees.
A blue coated man
wearing a moonlight scarf
leans gracefully over
to check the saddle,
before mounting,
before escaping
into the desert
below the setting sun.
Fading like a mirage
leaving his identity,
a mystery preserved
hidden in the dry wind.

Sand white,
sand blown,
dune softened.



Mary V. Kirov

So strangely touching,
all he ever wanted
was to live.

When he lay dying,
he didn't understand.

There's no such thing as death!

What a wonderful surprise
waits for him
on the other side.

Hallowed Man


Mary V. Kirov

Hallowed man,
cry not.

Your unswerving heart
shall endure.

Your patience
has proved real
tested true
and strong.

Hallowed man
cry not.

Although some fall
by the wayside
you will not be one.

The abdignation
in your tread
holds you safe.

Hallowed man,
cry not.

You do not walk alone!



Mary V. Kirov


Island of Mercy


Mary V. Kirov

hot and cool
are the winds,
the heating
and the aqua sea.

So sweet,
the hush
of ancient voices
flowing through
sapphire blue;
dried beige
and blown free
by the brush
of time.

Moon Cry Not


Mary V. Kirov

lovely moon,
you are not on your own
for you catch all
in your full stare.
The hearts of love
will always hold you, dear.

For in the night
of darkness,
you are truly fair;
witness the simple spring
and the birch grove
illumined with
the dreams you wove.

O, reflection
of sol's fire flying tears,
you flow tender to the sight;
making spells
of water weavings
while lovers take
their homeward leavings.

Come out now,
night guide
of high flight!
Linger your sparkling webs
upon the bough
and test your shimmering
on window glass.

Let every falling ray
rest upon a lover's eye
and fill the blackness
with love's pure rush.

Moon, cry not.
You are not alone.
Love rests with you.



Mary V. Kirov

One star lit night
heaven dropped a radiance
acrossed the azure heights;
countless pinpoints
of vaste lights.

Shimmered down dots
without shadows
speck the umbrella
of night shade.

The darkened land
is covered below
in a hush of black.

The moon in hiding
lies under
the end
of the world.

It breathes
no cool warmth
to silver plate
the romantic's heart.

The inspiring emptiness
full of grandeur
blazes the watchers;

Roadway Hardship


Mary V. Kirov

The cumulus nimbus, rampant and grey have gathered close.
The dirt roadway is muddy tonight and under climatic attack.

A multitude of glass pools are cracked apart by shadow knives.
The wheel rutted traces have been washed violently away.

Shoulder flowers tightly clamped, droop all sad, damp and heavy.
Their petals shut pale against the cold downpour's raging tears.

The owl speaks just a little to relieve his hunger's desperation.
The mystical forest is caught in the eye of a sudden, scented storm.

All is quiet only the creaking of whipped boughs can be heard.
Till out of the darkened sky, a low moan grows wilder and wilder.

A ripping front crashes in the pursuit of the longing clement sound.
Lightening breaks the umber as thunder black splits the silence.

This driving gale pushes us into the woodland's jealous embrace.
It drowns the security of our whistles in a gulped swallow.

Shallow streams run cris-cross acrossed our wet, sunken tracks.
Blown liquid greets us in ripples spat out by the grueling tempest.

Triumphant starry splashes kiss us wet with relentless precision.
Our clothing hangs tragically down around us in dank and sullen folds.

Our red hands are grasped tight in defiance against the searing cold.
We are pushed back to front in our struggles to move forward home.

We are weighed deep by the roadway mire which has coated our shoes.
Its senseless sucking insists on accompanying us to our journey's end.

All the while,
stripping us of all pride of strength
and leaving us humbled before ourselves.



Mary V. Kirov

Dogmatic taboos
emotional involution
a punishment
for the lack
of inquiry
a vagueness
of courage
to face
the dawning point.

Without intent;
life gives birth
to dust.

Through The Firmament


Mary V. Kirov

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
shapeless sculptures of prime-evil myth
litter the clay pits.

Twisted shapes
tasting of dry vitality
rest in fragile fragments
unable to survive
the husbandmanís shears.

Again and again
the earth drenched wheel
spins life and gives birth
only to cascade
under the downfallen
to join the forgotten.

Strange sea creatures
beached without water
dress as land dwellers.

Scaled monstrosities
caught paralyzed in lava
are tarred black amber
by the brush of fate.

Wearing coats
of emanating heat
they are driven
to extinction.

The raw green land
sparks the light
of ignitionís fruit
and the power to create
brings man forth
crawling to his feet
amidst temperate inconsistency
and tropical luxury.

Adamís arms
stretch up in ecstasy
while trying to grasp
the invisible compulsions
sweeping his visionís limits
while splitting his intellectís atoms
passing him one grade up
leaving the liquid womb.

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
man in two parts
nestled warm in caverns of stone.

Those refuges of granite
protect the union
till into the autumn
a baby drops wailing
beneath a female squat.

Pink and cream coated,
it is pressed
to nectarís globe.

Feel the silent sucking
easing hungerís edge
into the molten solder
of loveís indigenous bond.

Robes of cured pelage
chafe the huddled
into a genus.

A trine leashed conjointly
pursuing its stability.

A solitary sapient
scents the venetic land
to nurture
to swaddle
the precious dualism
of his heartís love.

They are waiting
in the undergrowth
dependent on his cunning
for the red dripping prey
which they consume
in daily repasts.

Berries, nuts and seeds;
the waiting duosí chore
supplements the hunted.

Each day ushers in peril
and the exigency
to be cognizant
of every essence.

Flint sparking fire
bakes their solitude
beneath a primitive ceiling.

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
caressing with ice,
the river embraced
lagoon of envy
drives the pivotal point
to its target.

Water sharing is required
when thirst drives all
even the prudent traveller.

Man to man;
ancient convocations
tempered by the diplomacy
of a parleyed sign language
and the longing for kindred
dispels the distrust
and curbs the loins
of animosityís passion.

Hands rest in peace
while weapons sleep hungry
till the night attacks
joining all in mutual ambition
cementing friend with foe.

Tribal glory earns a future
all are one and one is all
chant the chieftainís dreams.

The hord meanders heeding
the hunterís quest
while kneading
the gathererís harrow
through the savage landscape
ferreting seasonal game
to silt up their bellies.

Those rapine reapers of chaos
trace migrationís passage
leaving trails of crimson sweat.

Parents issue progeny
to bring forth continuity
a palpable protection
for down the line.

An arduous future,
an amalgamation of toils
preserve the germination
of potential humanity while
staggering along a dream line
to a timeless eternity.

Racing along without vision;
mouth drooling the stomachís need.

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
an alpestrine valley,
serenely dignified
is dressed abundantly
in edible nutrition.

The tarn full,
the stream bountiful
cracks the meadowland
with tear dropped flowers.

The sunlight paints
a settling place
for the bone weary
and the foot tired.

A dream to cradle
the wayward escapee.

Running blind
from the open plain
of discontented gypsies
down he falls
to rest.

Rooted deep
he becomes
the stationary holder
of hearth and soil.

He builds
a simple place
of golden grain
waving wonderfully
in the blown air.

This welcomer
of travellers
gathers friends and family
to live in the thatched abodes
that cluster safely
behind stout wooden walls
backed against
a bare shoreline.

Childrenís laughter
rings the balustrades
while animals and poultry mix
in glorious splendour
with the dance of commerce.

The portals stand open
to bartered shells
while bronze jewellery glimmers.

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
crafted axes threaten and
exchanges of colour
steep the crisp days
till the winter lull
and snow
blocks in saturninty
sedating salesman and buyer
alike to their need.

Quiet industry stirs
the whirling energy
of vestigial consumerism
while patience
activates inspiration
and cold time produces
practical art for sale
in the spring renewal
of trading tenacity.

Empires grow and fall.

Wealth saturates the souls
and greed slavers the bowl of morning.

Power burns desire for ownership.

Golden eyes flutter down
as slavery luxuriates in sand.

Dragged screaming, texture weaves
the murdered number upon number.

The mountain roars fire.

Change rips
through the sky in greens and pain.

The tribes seek heaven on earth;
round and round,
circling, cycling.

No end!

No future seen!

Hot dry summers traversed.

Cold dry winters endured.

Hand to mouth, a
never ending thirst and hunger.

Passions salted with Revelationís Prophecy
drive the Navigator
to a mild and honeyed land
waiting in time
for the chosen
to open up its future.
Trumpets roar and cymbals crash.

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
they caress knowingly.

Eagles fly banners
which grace the azure skyline.

Mirrored regal reflections
drown the lakeís surface.

The colonnades are congested
by lounging praetorians
with glory ripe in their eyes.

Damsels never in distress
wave handkerchiefs sedately.

Bored in silk
the purple trimmed robed
stand on high ground
with their olive wreathed brows
surrounded in isolation
looking down
at the Crucified One.

The masses held
in futile chains to be broken
by another time.

Walled off city states
withstand assault
from outside all borders.

Internal life bustles while
war drains the market and
peace starves the ego.

Inconsistency leads to cycles
of political expediency.

Cloaked in loyalty
and the lure of fame
young men are dragged to death.

While old farmers live on
under the masterís whim.

Taxation hinders growth
while blindness of justice
gives no solution
to the cruelties of the whip
or starvationís clock.

Sorrow opens the book
satiated in revenge.

Roman walls wall in release and change.

The dance for gold
strips even the holy
as they barricade in.

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
fanning with vigour
the reeling desert dunes
sweeping out the horizon.

The blistering heat grinds the flesh
of the buried girl children
who scream in suffocation
entombed as condemned useless relics
of barbaric infidelity.

The blazing sun scorches deep
the deadened tribal bones
as opalescent caravans stagger
amidst minute particles of crystal
to predetermined stops;
verdant umbilications found
deep in the rainless burn.

Pulverous oasis,
fresh serene sanctuaries
for victims drowning in cloying dust
open their breasts.

Trade depots team
with crowded curios
and buyers trapped
in the sellerís maw gather.

Whipped flesh sobs for freedom
while crying dry tears.

Through out the expansive grit
only one tongue is sung.

The vast spaces bind all into one.

The childbirth of nationhood labours forth
encrusted in Revelations Glory.

Out of ignorant savagery
the heart of the Friend of God
breathes the Renaissance
into Moorish Cordova.

Kingship anchors a trust
till the chrysalis of democracy
comes to vote its views
and share in the lionís feast.

Amity and hostility
exchange hand signals.

The changing civic appetites
dress in subterfuge
while costumed warriors
strut the fandango
preserving national pride
and sovereign borders.

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
firm and gentle
brooding in caliginosity
is the peerless pearl.

Empowered by majesty,
the limitless recesses
reflect its nimbus.

Held in gravityís grip
pressed deep in its history;
the denizens residing there
struggle towards maturity
like an infant
labouring to be born
fully aware.

All races one
cannot be denied
only feared by the ignorant
eaters of superstition.

Barters of cupidity and autocracy
shudder before The Word
of the coming of the Kingdom.

The genetic pool bubbles
in unending ripples
of creative variety.

The delicacy,
the vigour
and the acumen
stun the multitudes
leaving them speechless
in their timidity and oestrus.

The Voice of Revelation cries out
from the stillness
bringing forth awe and
persecution from jail to jail.

Bitter envy shoots the bullets.

Uncrushed the Rose rises
through dark clouds of divine sorrow
in the arms of the celestial guardians.

The zephyr flowing passes the torch
from palm to heart
as solís planetary off spring
waits with bated hush.

For the Gate
has opened
and the Immortal Mirror
shows the Most Great Peace.

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
into the dark retching pit
of suffering injustice
the Maid of Heaven
descends unafraid
passing glory
to the lips of the Sleeper.

The chains of brutality
cut ragged groves
as he shoulders
the task of Physician
the Healer of the blind
and the deaf.

The Saviour of the dead,
the Voice of the dumb
steps valiantly forth
into the sun shade
of derisions, scorn
and disbelief.

His tender patience
slaughters the wolves
with words dripping
in the reality
of unconditional humility.

As they draw near for blood
those voracious ones turn
into satiated lambs of love.

Jealousy and greed
feed the power of the state
running wild with fear.

Its only recourse
house arrest,
and solitary confinement.

Godís Words flow on printed page;
equality of man and woman,
harmony of religion and science,
abolishment of prejudice and
there is only one God.

There is only one God!

Man has multiplied Him:

All are one and one is all.

The lamps are different.

The light is one!

The Comforter has come
with the new heaven
and the new earth.

It is judgement day
and here stands
the Prince of Peace.

His Compassion,
His Humility and
His Kindness
melt the heart
at first glance.

Kings fall down and
clergy splinters
before the wisdom and logic
of His untarnished rubies.

The holy mount blossoms
coloured by the spring
of His return.

Through the firmament came the hands of the Artisan;
the nightingale of Carmel sings O Zion,
God is nigh.

Our Lord has come.