THREE POEMS published in THE POSTIL MAGAZINE, 2026
copyright protected
from “Tales and Poems for Light in the 21st century” by Gabriela Anderson
Flame at the Gate
(A poem inspired by the “DC-related witness intimidation” I was subjected to by intel persons of the Neocon-Zionist-Trump regime who who—through terrorist threats—ultimately forced me to leave the USA in April 2025, although I am a lawful US citizen and a traditionalist teacher).
(2023)
Wrapped in her veil of light and stars,
The girl turned on her heels
And spoke as she walked out of mesh:
“The emeralds of forests fresh,
The wild glade of my dreams,
You cannot buy with all your cash,
Nor can you win on paths of flesh
The palace of my whims…
For, far from lush intent, it mars
The thieving hands beyond the pale.
For God is Father to the nymphs
Who took upon His veil.”
The beauty of the light divine,
From centuries within,
Has reached the steam, the trains, the might
Of irons, silicones, and steels,
And bent the routes of glossy flight.
The gentleness of mighty hymn
Spread blessings on fast meals
And mingled with the daily right
Of gentle hearts to peace.
It was a day of sunshine bright
When the frail girl said “No”
Wrapped in her veil. A modest flight
While God beheld her in His sight
Sheltered from what is foul.
But at the gate a flame arose
Protective like a wall, though thin,
From strengths of centuries within,
To guard the temple of the soul,
To keep it clean in ardor still
To keep it tall like the green hill,
Immutable in an old pose,
Unbending like a silver spine,
Brave and alive while it beholds
The beauty of the light divine.
Song of the tribal girl
(2025, copyright protected )
(for the indomitable women of the Middle East)
Better than that Armani charm
Balenciaga and Dior
I much prefer my tribal skirt
that never set frills in a store.
For never was this desert skirt
touched by foe’s hand or ever hurt.
It saw wild winds that raised it high,
and heats like hot soup boiled in pots,
like summer spices burning dry,
and never was it out for trade,
for others’ sightseeing or for sale,
it never got pinned down by nail,
its light was never torn by shade.
Its bright hues fabric never rots,
for it was spun with blessed rays
my old kins gathered from the moon,
and washed with magic dew in spoon
of silver blessed by the priests
who worship the One God in caves
wisdom and faith as only feasts…
It gathered wheat and rice and rye
from fields unseen by human eye
on wondrous rainbows of the sky.
It gathered shells from rainy slots
of sea-bathed shores after the rain
and flowing light it spreads in dance
unseen by evil eye at noon
under the blessed sun of boon
its gauzy veils causing the trance
just of palm trees of God’s domain.
My many-layered thing of old,
now green, now yellow, red and bold,
adorned with dots like skin of fawn
that shine like many coins of gold,
is ever new with freshest dawn.
For sacred charms in all its frills,
like holy beads in hermit’s fist,
have powers that can stir new thrills.
An evil eye would turn and twist
and into goodness will unfold
unable to harm evermore,
as tales of such lore have been told.
Under the sliver of new moon,
most divine light has touched a dune
The light embraced a humble tent
A golden prayer seemed to melt,
On hands that weaved, on a sweet tune,
In furtive glow without alert,
a woman sitting on a pelt,
Embroidering a shape, a rune:
my great-great-great-grandmother’s skirt.
My tribal skirt is ancient-made,
it kept away the modern beasts,
it carries charms of ancient lore,
it smells of freshest fields of past,
its shining powers always more,
Better than that Armani fast,
Balenciaga and Dior.
It dies with me my tribal skirt
It lives with me, always unhurt.
Beaming light
2024
Waves of abundant joy I grasp
from memories like serenades,
from depths of time on ocean’s cusp,
emerging merrymaking boats
of laughter crystalline or rasp…
Times of a past with tents and goats,
with sand mirage and cooling palms,
veils on coal braids in golden clasp…
Times of the Truth in sacred glades.
All memories like serenades….
God shone His Light on moonlit waves,
loud children’s merrymaking shone
to spook the clouds of every morn’…
Candles were bright on walkers’ roads,
The light of warmth, the light that calms….
And brighter times never have been
than days of tents and goats and glades
of shepherds that knew not of sin.
I see beyond this dark machine
that holds our clockwork in its arms.
God shines His light on quiet waves,
today as yesterday unseen,
for everyone who light still craves.
I have no fear of the Asp
of darkness, of the Serpent’s grin….
The times of joy living within
my heart, my inner soul’s last gasp
are times of God’s protective beam.
copyright protected
Light on Dawns of Ash
(poem inspired by the prayers I learned while living at the Monastery of the Benedictine Sisters, The Basilique of Montmartre, Paris, 2025-2026)
Pray for God’s light
on dawns of ash,
as all your soul’s desire,
when clouds of terror rise to bash
your joyful new attire.
The light of God is all you need.
By wand unseen from the above
into rose gardens it turns weed
and to the softest purest love
it sacredly returns the dream;
for hearts in Faith a winning fight
it rises powers to redeem….
That’s all you need
on dawns of ash
of slavery to sorrows’ morn.’
Rise for rose gardens over lash!
In joyful new attire
wish for the bluest divine height,
wish for a new day without thorn,
on weedless fields
blessed by God’s might
you have one road — entire.
Pray for a Love that kindness yields,
for sacred dawns that see what’s right,
within the Hope, that always lies
beneath the tears in your eyes,
see the sole gift: Pray for God’s light.
[4 POEMS published in the INTERNATIONAL NOTEBOOK OF POETRY, 2000 (under the maiden name Gabriela Scorcealov)
Morning at the window
(published as “Cotroceni, morning at the window” in Origins – Romanian Roots magazine, 2000; a poem for the students who went out on December 21, 1989 against the communist dictatorship of Ceausescu; a story that some newspapers mentioned — about a girl who died during the shootings that night)
1999
Along the streets
lamps died out in a row
The trees
green twigs and leaves
smell May fresh.
In the shade of a van
a girl’s thin body is becoming a bow
in the arms of her man.
Tall gables and dust
Gardens
one, two, three —
Memories and rust
camps of dispair
The Royal Palace
Must
Be
Ours!
In the shade of a tree
a girl’s body grows flowers
in the arms of her man.
Kiwi and French pie
Pieces of exotic dreams
still lie
on stone market stalls
A beggar falls
under the hymns
of the journalist’s pen.
In the garden of whims
a girl’s body is buddying
in the arms of her man.
Our Father will pardon
(Candles: one, two, three)
The cupola covers
an innocent statement
the quick men’s debates
the air vibrates
from bullets
PPfheeee….
In the Botanic garden
the howl of a dog intonates
an old Byzantine lament.
White lamps are dead in the sky.
In the dim halls of fears
a girl’s body drops petals
like tears.
Gare Saint Lazare (published as “To my dear shrink” in Origins – Romanian Roots magazine, 2000)
1997
My recurrent dream is about
being lost in Gare Saint Lazare.
The glass roof filters the light with fantastic iridescence.
A train awaits me afar….
(a blackout)
I find myself in the crowd.
Puzzled.
And lonely…
Not knowing who I am….
confused by the odor of vapor and incense…
muzzled….
I’m walking around.
A huge gem
is shining at me through the glass roof.
A hoof
is beating the tick-tock of my thirst
and the halls I traversed
have left me with the dry taste of desire.
No one talks to me.
(But they aren’t shades!
– I am the flier
moving around imperceptibly higher,
aware of their loneliness and mine,
of the line,
of the eye pits of those who need tickets.)
I open my eyes
— always –
and rise
before finding the way.
In the night I’m drowning
the train of Santa Fe
and Tolstoy
and Monet.
I’m a stray
every morning.
SONG OF THE BRIDE
1997
And you see
The rains of June were my bridal veil,
A spray of lightening, diamonds.
The rains of June when they came with the odor of lime-tree
and moss,
a breeze and a sail,
on the ocean of loss,
raindrops burning the roof of the haunted houses
for me.
And a spray of lightening – diamonds
as my clothes…
~
How many times did you see
the wedding of ice and heat?
the rains of June through an open window?
~
How many times in one life
did your heart beat?
from the unpublished volume The Malachite River
2026, copyright protected
De ce n-am vrut sa ma despart de mine ?
De ce n-am vrut sa ma despart de mine ?
In palma de nisip a copilariei
unde valurile opace de malahit ale Dunarii
(cine a fluierat « albastra » ?…)
umezeau visurile noastre albe de copii
dand un regat de rasete pentru o inghetata
sub coplesirea de platina a lui august,
refuzand daua tic-tacuri de placere pentru un vis de departari …
In palma de nisip a adolescentei
unde valurile imbietoare de oranjada verde ale Dunarii
(cine a soptit « Lorelei » ?…)
nu imi mai saturau setea de necunoscut –
(oh, nu, nu se vedeau gemele Rinului !)
Acolo se miscau trupuri alungite de fete
impartasite cu primele licori de flori de mar,
liane peste unduitele valuri,
pierzandu-se apoi curand in puhoaiele aprige ale
cotidianului stingator de focuri si de vise,
despartindu-se lin si intepenit de focurile mocnite ale candorii.
Acolo se aruncau cu bravura de sus
trupuri zvelte de baieti,
topindu-se in valurile inselatoare
ale ispitelor stingatoare de focuri,
rupandu-se de vapaia ambitiilor.
De ce n-am vrut sa ma despart de mine –
de eu-gema-pietricica-de-rau
de lumea care se alungea, se unduia, se azvarlea
in apa fara rost, nestravezie si fara griji a toropitelor veri ?
in valurile Dunarii indiferente, vesnic tinere si apoi verzi-albite
sub gheturile revarsandu-se iar si iar in aceleasi veri amnezice ?
De ce n-am vrut sa ma despart de mine ?
trup unduind, mocnind, zvelt,
cu ambitia focului tanar
pururi umezita doar de amintiri,
niciunde fara auriu-ros-albastriu,
nicicand fumegand.
A fost vanitatea oglinzii care a decretat contra ridului si a pantecului?
Ori a fost vartejul destinului care zice-se infasoara mut-orb inotatorii ?
Poate mie
(cine a susurat « unora din noi ? »…)
Dumnezeu a daruit nu un cotidian
ci un fluviu de apa vie,
malahitul regilor antici,
inocenta copiilor in cifrul sufletului,
vapaia adolescentei vesnice sub piele
spalarea de inima a iernilor.
Un fluviu
traind ascuns in cochilia curata a trupului.
Si o liana
peste undele adanci ale vietii….