Tarot Poems: The Fool Is Full of Love. {poetry}


The Fool


The fool comes around at times
dipping her toe over cliff
running across mesa and tearing her skin on chaparral

her changeling apparel goes from slippers to heels
she stands naked in turquoise necklace
coils in shade wearing delicate dress
nervously tugs stretchy t-shirt over scaly knees

the fool scampers off as a fox
she is an owl guarding the four directions
the fool is full of love
she dances under dazzling moon with everyone

stars are born from her voice
and the sky is a shimmer dome
her silence is the mystery of caverns
where hidden forces are at work

the fool finds crescent moons in our moments
she hangs from each horn, risking
the fool is not attached

friendless, the fool brings comfort
she gives herself completely and becomes no one
the fool is sometimes hated for her fresh ways
she fishes for answers in the horizon

the fool is wise for her folly
she spreads cards out on table
she is a shelter
she has an arsenal of spells

sometimes mistrusted
she leaps an arc between two extremes
the fool stands soaked in a deluge smiling
spinning her parasol

The Worries


Does worry emerge from the wind?
It shakes our constructs and spreads our seeds.
Does worry rise from the earth?
You might stumble over roots, break yourself, get bitten, and eventually come out of the woods.
Does worry spread with the fire?
An opulent dance that eliminates what was.
Does worry bubble up in the water?
It consumes you as you plunge, blurs your vision, pushes back as you surface, and scrubs away the stain.
Air is the new thought that blows away the old
earth is what grounds you in the winds of change
fire clears passage for the new
water drops infant in your arms
My dog smells like a seashell
my heart is warmed by connections
there is a breeze between us that creates a tension
let’s swim in a pool of our reflections and emerge transformed

Star Arcana


Aquarian star goddess offers reflective pool

goblet that gathers fiery energies and gusty chimes

she is the wind change

as it wends through her raised funnel

she brings forth airy prophesy and breezy possibility

blowing sand from her tipped cup
she fashions a likeness

slim whim that yearns to swell

she is a glass door that looks back at you
hand mirror with filigree trim

ever churning turmoil that offers a way
her light will lead or leave you blind

she has antennae and a walking stick
wings and combat boots

Aquarian star goddess reflects back
your cracked logic
she offers chink through which
your ready dream stands

she lowers canopy
and folds napkin in her lap

Signal between towers



Signal between towers —
lack of level transmission

jagged measure
sudden static

defenses mount as confusion abounds
onslaught of rough truths
sensible thoughts challenged by broken notions

navigate maze of blades
learn from each deep cut
mend your white flag after it’s been slashed

there is a single hum between soundwaves
its deep chant will cure the chasm

in wounded edge of accusation,
edgy landscape of proposition,
double-edged challenge of confession,
the many truths form one bluff

leap, reclaim your glinting core in the cavern
rescue your carved-up heart


Drop that scratchy burlap drama
don a slick shawl of sensual truths
decorate your stark chamber

swinging between polarities
in stagnant simmering summer
bring down your suspended hammock
step gingerly off taut line

dismantle log cabin
assemble scraps into strong table
pass fruit bowl

you flung seeds in another era

stroll solid earth to meadow of tall cosmos
return to your loving gestures


Pull straw from basket you carried on your crown
assemble antenna

sever yarn between your self
and that clinging cat
knit it into scarf you can loosen

you are less heavy after combustion —
and rekindled with kindness

lead the assembly of selves
aglow with the gold you struck
invite memory to sink into strata
of your demolished home



What have you built that takes up too much space?
When did you last study details of that icon?
Are those arms still wrapped around your desires?
Do those eyes still care?
Look into the urn.
Are you empty? Do you have empathy?

After you dust off that little book,
will you lay it to rest?
candles that absorb so much energy
should be melted.
Is there still a feather in the leather binding you?
Are your channels clogged?

It’s okay to repeat the story,
layer it with pages and pages and acrylic pain,
mound clay until it’s taller than your house,
sew a version into seam of your dress,
hang panties on line and label each with a secret.
What emotion is trapped?

One leaf was like a little canoe,
cupping wood-stuff and stones and whatever weather.
When you hold it up does it speak to the sky,
do variegated paths appear in your eye?
What catches the new light of August?
What remains in the shadows?

Who is your caretaker on the tundra?
What burden do you pull?
If you retrace your footprints in snow,
do you step into love
or find yourself stuck?
Where will you seek shelter?


Zoe Krylova was born in Nicosia, Cyprus, and came to the US on a ship with her mother and her cat when she was four. She has been writing poems in tattered notebooks since she was small, finding it an effective way to weave together the disparate parts of her self, her ancestry, and her sense of home. She currently works in an art gallery and is a DJ at a community radio station, where she has been able to conquer her fear of the microphone and connect with people during the pandemic through sharing music that she loves. She also loves to hike, collage, take photographs, and sew. She lives near the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia, and is the mother of two humans, one feisty dog, and an aging cat.


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