In simple conversations with others, I mute myself unintentionally…

…and it feels involuntary because I’m the type that wants to spill my heart’s contents. I just feel like when I’m around the majority of the people in my life, they have shown me what they really care or don’t care about through rejection, belittlement, invalidation, and sardonic attitudes assaulting what is not just important to me, but also accurate. So like many sensitives, I choose silence while my eyes tear up and my heart aches and my stomach churns and my mind screams. 

This became a painful habit of my people pleasing persona. The consequence was volcanic, but luckily for me the pen could channel the magma within and somehow transcend from being raw and unruly to becoming divine and sculpted. It was the first poem I wrote about how much I loved Spring in 5th grade where I realized I was being listened to. It was my first song about friendship where I realized I was being heard. So my poetic career plodded on while traversing through goth culture, my parent’s divorce, going to college early, losing toxic friends and becoming the toxic friend. 

I didn’t pick up the pen as much when depression won me over, but I’d reach for it in desperate times to avoid carving into my skin, since that too was belittled, invalidated, mocked, and only a few times led friends to beg me to never go too far. 

I’ve teased death a time or two, but our relationship is so much more fulfilling now that my poetic purpose has been embraced by my artistic and fragmented soul. That volcanic energy would cool sometimes and seal the broken parts me rearranged by new philosophies and mysticism that called the pen to my hand again, reminding me, especially when I’m erupting, that poetry is permission to simply be. 

Kris Leliel


photo of woman carrying a cardboard

No Justice, No Peace – [News/Website Update]

The page that was once “Stand Up – BLM/LGBTQ+” is now No Justice, No Peace, which provides resources, volunteer/donation opportunities, and more regarding the institutional and system prejudices being perpetuated in the USA. The page has been updated to include the Stop Asian Hate movement. I will soon be adding sources regarding how you can […]

photo of woman holding crown

Dark Royalty Core? Yes Please! – [Video]

I found it today while studying chess. The titles of every video are perfect. Enjoy. I mean, “dark royalty core” is the vibe I never knew I needed.

I had not thought of violets late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.
The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made,—
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.
And now—unwittingly, you’ve made me dream
Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.

© Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson – Source: Poetry Foundation

Alone in the library room, even when others
Are there in the room, alone, except for themselves:
There is the illusion of peace; the air in the room
Is stilled; there are reading lights on the tables,
Looking as if they’re reading, looking as if
They’re studying the text, and understanding,

Shedding light on what the words are saying;
But under their steady imbecile gaze the page
Is blank, patiently waiting not to be blank.

The page is blank until the mind that reads
Crosses the black river, seeking the Queen
Of the Underworld, Persephone, where she sits

By the side of the one who brought her there from Enna,
Hades the mute, the deaf, king of the dead letter;
She is clothed in the beautiful garment of our thousand

Misunderstandings of the sacred text.

© David Ferry – Source: Poem Hunter

Someone standing at the mouth had
the idea to enter. To go further

than light or language could
go. As they followed
the idea, light and language followed

like two wolves—panting, hearing themselves
panting. A shapeless scent
in the damp air …

Keep going, the idea said.

Someone kept going. Deeper and deeper, they saw
others had been there. Others had left

objects that couldn’t have found their way
there alone. Ocher-stained shells. Bird bones. Grounded
hematite. On the walls,

as if stepping into history, someone saw
their purpose: cows. Bulls. Bison. Deer. Horses—
some pregnant, some slaughtered.

The wild-
life seemed wild and alive, moving

when someone moved, casting their shadows
on the shadows stretching
in every direction. Keep going,

the idea said again. Go …

Someone continued. They followed the idea so far inside that
outside was another idea.

© Paul Tran – Source: Poetry Foundation

Gothic Style Throne Room by Concept Artist Joey Leung on ArtStation

How quickly our thrones become cages

from a single stroke of misery.

Convinced our legacies past

are erased by hidden difficulty.

Dismay destructs our strengths

lighting fire at our feet;

weakness become more transparent

than the thinnest silk sheets.

Don’t forget your prudence

in hours of adversity.

Unlock your cage and venture

to rebuild and ground your dignity.

“Oft have I thrilled at deeds of high emprise, / And yearned to venture into realms unknown,”

Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson – “To Madame Curie”

A powerful force from history greeted me today through The Paris Review: Alice Dunbar-Nelson.

I came across this article by Joanna Scutts while looking for magazines that accepted poetry. I was pulled in by “Feminize Your Canon” with a “Yes. I love this. Feminize My Canon!” before clicking the link. It started out to be very engaging and soon violent. Then revival and raw power burst through in the unpublished, discredited, and haunting prejudice, both racial and gendered, throughout Alice’s life. What makes this remarkable to me was as I read on I saw myself and I saw the protagonist of the novel series I’ve been working on for years now. The similarities between all three of us brought a vivacity to what seemed almost fated to me, but honestly, the story of Alice Dunbar-Nelson can summon the courage of any light-skinned African American woman lacking a sense of belongingness and fights for it daily. When you fight for belongingness and acceptance, really you’re on the path of self-trust and self-respect; dignity is the name of the game and it’s hard to play, but the arts can be the greatest weapon drawn if it fits firmly in your hands and helps you declare your uniqueness with boldness and honor.

I don’t know how else to describe Alice Dunbar-Nelson, other than what I’ve said, what I’ve been further inspired to do, which is create forever, and to just add that she was a remarkable soul, who knew she deserved better and made sure she got it. To the article writer Joanna Scutts, thank you. To the scholars and writers who revitalized Alice’s life and life’s work, thank you. I value your efforts highly and I’m grateful you didn’t censor the relationships she had with men and women amongst her achievements as a political activist who “in her energy and appetite for life’s pleasures, from the literary to the human to the natural, Alice Dunbar-Nelson celebrated beauty and freedom to the end of her life,” (Scutts 2020). That’s the dream, right there.


More Artist Recognition & History Study

Why These Native Americans Observe A National Day of Mourning Every Thanksgiving

The Power and History of Samhain

Embracing Your Weird and Respecting Your Art – The Creative Introvert Podcast


Slavic Witchcraft ft. Natasha Helvin [Research/Video]

Doing some research on Russian and Slavic witchcraft led me to this wonderful and informative podcast by Magick and Mediums. Just wanted to share and hope you enjoy. Also, I’m currently reading Natasha Helvin’s two books Slavic Witchcraft and Russian Black Magic.

I think I just want to drown in poetry for my next creative project. I don’t know about you, dear readers, but November has been transformative for me. I’ve been chaotic and melancholy with mild intervals of maturity due to retrospective divination sessions and meditations. And my Thanksgiving was…I suppose 60% okay. I observe the National Day of Mourning protest of the Native American tribes each year out of respect for the history behind this day.

Please donate to the Navajo and Hopi COVID19 Relief Fund.

I took time to read some Native American literature too. Wendy Rose’s powerful words got to me.

And with that poem and her statement about how poetry helped her, I was reminded I’ve why I’ve been writing poetry since the 5th grade. My heart is stirring many things right now, mostly because of old and new pains. Poetry is the best medicine for me right now.

Also, thank you to those who have reacted, shared, and commented on my excerpt of “Lightning Strike”. I’m sincerely grateful for your support.

Be well.


Stream my cover of “Love’s A Burden”


Just Checking In – [Just Me]

First, I just want to say I’m really grateful for all the visitors I get on blog, who I’m noticing are mostly occult and metaphysics enthusiasts! I’m glad my posts have caught your attention and I hope they were helpful. Second, there have been a lot of website changes. I’m trying to polish the platform […]

Website Changes

Why must WordPress be so…the way it is? *sigh* Well, made some site changes. More to come… KL

Poetry Is Permission – Just Me

In simple conversations with others, I mute myself unintentionally… …and it feels involuntary because I’m the type that wants to spill my heart’s contents. I just feel like when I’m around the majority of the people in my life, they have shown me what they really care or don’t care about through rejection, belittlement, invalidation, […]

You don’t know this about me,

you flirting, busy bee,

but I’m hurt by the ghost you’ve become.

Haunted for years by shallowness,

not that you are, but I’m so distressed

by the ephemeral fading you’ve done

in my life as a picture, out as a memory.

Back in again, posing so charmingly,

far from my lips, a spectral self-dismissed.

Perhaps your tease is punishing me

for ruining the first date so ignorantly.

No apology could summon that could’ve been kiss.

I’m aching, but not complaining.

Your beauty constant is reigning.

So haunt and prove you don’t need me.

My reflections affirm the needed solitude

before loving with a confident attitude,

and the attentiveness you deserve, busy bee.

So ghost shamelessly, dear.

You deserve the best.

I’m sorry you met me

at my pitiful worst.


More Poetry

Prose of the High Priestess

Blind With My Flesh – Judicium

Distanced

Confidence


Sonnet by Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson (Artist Recognition)

I had not thought of violets late,The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feetIn wistful April days, when lovers mateAnd wander through the fields in raptures sweet.The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;And garish lights, and mincing little fopsAnd cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.So far from […]

In the Reading Room by David Ferry (Artist Recognition)

Alone in the library room, even when othersAre there in the room, alone, except for themselves:There is the illusion of peace; the air in the roomIs stilled; there are reading lights on the tables,Looking as if they’re reading, looking as ifThey’re studying the text, and understanding, Shedding light on what the words are saying;But under […]

The Cave by Paul Tran – (Artist Recognition)

Someone standing at the mouth hadthe idea to enter. To go further than light or language couldgo. As they followedthe idea, light and language followed like two wolves—panting, hearing themselvespanting. A shapeless scentin the damp air … Keep going, the idea said. Someone kept going. Deeper and deeper, they sawothers had been there. Others had left […]

In hours and increments

I realize your distance

is no longer sentenced

to a timezone away.

For hours I search,

recalling your flirts

fading in the spurt

of my grief and dismay.

Wherever you are, Angel,

I’ll wait again,

for hours upon hours

upon hours still.

In these hours upon hours,

I’m longing.

Sour at myself

for losing

you

in a second…

…then not noticing

for hours.

Forgive me.