top of page
  • Writer's picturePoetry Earthlings

The Love Story that Lives: Poetry

Updated: Aug 22, 2022

The Galilean and The Magdalene

by Rosa Goodridge and Michael Nanfito

The Galilean ~

I was a broken friend

with a fraying capacity

to care for my cadre

of ragged alliances —

My time spent tracing

arid and empty spaces had

scraped resolve from the

bottom of my boots and

my breath came heavy and

my hot blood hardened and

I learned to live alone,

left to make my way among

remembered metaphors

and errant allegories,

mouthing my allegiance

to an aging image

of an old hope . . .

(the nature of the World eluded me . . . )

You came to me when

I was hollowed and shaking,

the remnants of my honor

hanging about me

like the gleanings

of a graceless ragpicker.

And my stride —

once brazen and bold —

had embraced

the studied rhythm

of a syncopated shuffle.

You came calling

and sat, no words

(just a smile), while your

eyes told our tale and your

smile sang our lullabies and

you breathed my life back to me . . .

(the crush of time scrapes memory bare . . .)

We met in the midst

of purposeful accident,

an aggregate of incidents

curated by Universal intent —

meant to meet (again)

at just that moment

when we, each of us,

paired since birth,

stood in need

of that gifted opportunity

to recall our union.

You with your violet eyes and

glistening wit,

misted with fragrances

of sandalwood and rose,

as we sat, remembering

our future together . . .

(the world fell away in cascading shades . . .)

The Magdalene ~

Something holy has burrowed it’s way out of my bones,

a sacrifice

you perform upon my skin,

this blood is home to all truth

a pulsed racing thing

fiery red manna from heaven,

the holding of all things unkempt

and each breath

a magnitude of life,

(why then can we not drink from it?)

Let me take the chalice

and pour honey into the cracks within your heart,

did you travel far to find me,

lift a veil to seek the tortures

you have brought to my feet,

stay and know that I am the elixir of all truths

the child bride

and the prostitute hauled from hells door,

I am your ruination, your discovery and

the dance from which

all life springs

(why then can we not perform it?)

There are places within me


arms yet to wrap my tired limbs

and a love so fierce

it aches out of each pore


do not speak to me in poetry,

but plunge head first into

gaping wounds

I have carved myself

and rest until it is your heart slows

and your breath

that which grows from eternal life

sinks once more into my starved lungs.

The Galilean

The woven years

of a threadbare wanderer –

dyed in saffron and scarlet

and scented with the fragrance

of templed incense –

these were days that

clothed me in the promise

of that fabled Annunciation –

Ten thousand gods and no god at all.

A way of life, and

an aggregate of unending lives –

I travelled far to tempt the tales

that hail from the East and,

having apprenticed myself

to all their rituals, realized,

with crystalline surety that

we are our own God.

(the future lies bound to our becoming . . .)

And so

we architect

our Sacristy each day and

there, beyond the bounds

of ritualized lives,

we consummate unsanctioned acts

as we establish God’s kingdom

in the nexus of our coupling.

Bare bodies and naked souls,

we are a culmination

of divine assignation,

sacred unto ourselves and

completed – the one by the other –

in that flushed moment

of profane inception

as we lounge among the vestments

of our emergent Order.

(the flood of dreams remembered fills our sacred space . . .)

Remember me to myself then –

as you devour me and

embrace my essence –

whisper then of

the manner (the majesty)

of all we have enacted

under the gifted skies and

warming winds of a new Dawn.

Envelope me

in your glistening dreams, Love.

Accept my mysteries and

offer me the wealth of all your ways –

hard earned and accounted for

at the hands of lesser men.

Move with me

to the rhythm of our sacred spaces,

our undulations of desire.

(blood, red and pulsing, warms our play . . .)

We sustain, within ourselves,

the will and the way

of all that is sacred.

Anoint me then (once more),

with oil blessed by your hand,

with widening lips pressed and

your murmuring breath. Ruin me

with the chaos of your passion and

the truth that you administer

(I am a mere man, in need of unction . . .)

Drape your veil across my eyes and

blind me, leaving me to trust in the taste of you –

touch me Love, and

bring me to fruition with

all the spirit that you possess.

Our red blood beckons and

our breaths embrace.

(I have bound myself to you . . .​​)

The Magdalene ~

You must recall rose hued

skies where clouds

tinged pink by an emerging sun

lay caught about us,

and before the day grew high

and the light burned

a branding on our arms

you would watch I know

as I,

tempered by shadows gathered to me

reeds already withered,

and carrying full to the brim

pitchers of water

would drench the vines

and let parched roots drink heavily,

and all the time

you knew,

that I watched too.

Now, in reverence,

because your holiness stirs me,

I am found, again

and nothing since has riven my soul

like this.

Do I know of your tired eyes and gentle hands,

your skin burnished

and salted from the air?

Dare I find a way into your soul

and bring with me

a sacred untethered path,

steps which lead

to words inscribed,

a sanctuary blessed beneath me

which holds my bruised heart?

I have no knowing of these things,

for love has eluded my journey

and my wanton spirit

has wandered far.

Do not ask how it is I know you beloved

for only god knows

and hears

our call to righteousness.

Warriors have followed me,

torn their questions

from dry throats

and I a beggar in these lands

moved on beyond the whispers

of the driest sands

to seek

and fall at the feet of mastery

a god I have recalled

the death of all which lives in the fruit of cursed and desolate humanity

to find you here,

and once again I watch

and hear the murmurings of your soul.


the skies open and light descends

around you

and I with all my worldly knowing

cannot be one to taste

your love

to feel the purpose

of anointing your body

unless it is with the undressing and anointing of my own.

The Galilean ~

We will follow our spirit then,

and sacrifice our past to a future well-dreamt.

We are willful and wild and our hearts swell

with each undulation of this unmediated desire.

Open yourself to me and I will offer my all to you.

Envelope me again as I am grace and

you are fire and we are surging

in just the manner we are meant to.

I plunge my want and you take me deep,

back arched and eyes wide,

and we remember

why we surge from eon to eon, and

how we two will birth the future

from our shared passion,

entwined as we are,

and illuminated with auric intensity –

we are all that matters in this moment.

(there is no admonition for us here . . .)

The Magdalene ~

And I have known that to drink

from the well of your soul

has brought me

here again,

a seer from dark to light

a daughter of the moon journeyed from the stars.

We are here beloved

but do not belong,

travellers who have drunk passion

as wine

borne witness to the fruits of bliss

and seen life delivered through death.

Is it madness to love like this,

to tame the seas

and bring torches from the fires


untamed consume us?

Rest your weariness,

for who am I if I cannot hold a sanctuary for your demise

who cannot breach the walls

of prisons held against your flesh and blood?

So travel with me,

lose your hands in the fabric of me

and understand that god

dwells inside the arc of my heart.

I am she,

the one whose flames alight for you,

the rose set to bleed for you

from the crown I place upon your head,

this god is a man of peace,

a eulogy to those who search within

a momentary softness

melted into one,

a union of holy wildness,

j'attends mon dieu,

je l'attends dans mon cœur

Each breath

within me caught and hallowed

a gift from your mouth to mine,

an ending which has stolen from the world

the beginning of all time.

About the poets:

Rosa is a poetess from the U.K. as yet only publishing on Instagram with her first book planned for early next year. She has been writing for many years and was previously a teacher of Creative Arts in the U.K.

Michael lives in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States. He writes poetry and prose (fiction and nonfiction) and his most recent book is “Rotten Fruit in an Unkempt Garden: a Memoir in Poetry and Prose.”

Post: Blog2_Post
bottom of page