Tarot in Pandemic – 28 March 2020
Sustain me today, Tarot, with
your Ace of Cups.
To raise me out of the murky depths,
she sent me a dove,
and a chalice.
She held me, as one does the wind,
Tarot in Pandemic – 01 April 2020
Wondrous Tarot, whisper me
a card as the wind.
Her rustling quieted with the
Wheel of Fortune.
With wings of angels came hope,
drifting gently toward orb—
This planet, or sun, or moon?
This life spirit, or glowing ball, or
With wings of bull came strength,
and force, and protection.
Below, ever below,
yet above, always above,
until the rustling quiets,
until the whispering quiets,
Tarot in Pandemic – 17 April 2020
Cradle me, Tarot, in your cards.
Soothe and lull.
Palliate the paroxysmal pandemic.
She came, violent as
Afflicting man and woman,
the body and the mind—
condemned to a present damnation.
The Devil is with us,
and within us,
and shaking us to our core . . .
the paroxysms persist.
Tarot in Pandemic – 25 April 2020
As if, like the flashing glow
of a lightning bug,
O luminous Tarot,
or like the glittering
iridescence of the jewel beetle,
allow me a glimpse of
Tarot obliged with the scintillation
of the Lovers.
She gave me the burning flicker
of arborescent passion.
She gave me lightning, she
gave me lava in the
She gave me incandescent glints
in the serpent’s eyes.
She gave me a speckle of
a celestial glimpse of the universe.
Tarot in Pandemic – 28 April 2020
Three point one million flecks of
a transmutation of the body.
Ashes, through purification by fire,
descend, like souls falling from
and return to the earth.
The ashes of three point one million—
to fertilize the earth and bring
an alchemical reduction of the
the calcination of the physical into
a pure, clear ash.
But what of the crown atop the tower?
It has been said:
“In the ash that remains
at the bottom of the grave,
there lies the King’s diadem.”*
*Quoted in Alexander Roob, Alchemy and Mysticism, p.180.
Tarot in Pandemic – 01 May 2020
I drip, dear Tarot, I’m a tear.
Offer a card to dry me.
Why the Moon?
Why tears of moondrop
provoking feral passions?
Lunar cries from a somber
Moon looking down
fall upon a path.
Does it lead to refuge
in the distance: the
high ground of the
Or does it lead to a
Joseph Ellison Brockway is a poet, translator, and Spanish professor. He likes to juxtapose words and signs to disrupt the language on the page and to disturb the reader’s thoughts. Many of his poems also experiment with ideas and images that explore the human psyche and existence. Joseph’s poetry has recently been published in L’Éphémère Review, Moonchild Magazine, SurVision Magazine, and Surreal Poetics. He can be found roaming the socialmediaverse at @JosephEBrockway
Photo by Saaede Doosbekheir