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Derick Smith Sep 2014
An enigma:
though I craft verse,
my only response
to your Sufi ponderings:

a failing tongue and empty fingers.
I couldn't keep this confined to a comment thread.
I have found many great poets worthy of such responses here. I'm honoured and blessed to share in this corner of cyber-space.
Derick Smith Sep 2014
The swallows and sparrows
dance on the cool morning breeze.

They rise and fall;
         float and stall;
         soaring, diving, fluttering
and all the while chattering—
         not about days been,
         nor days to come—
         but the present moment;
         their current joy.

They trust the sun to rise at dawn,
the moon to appear in the even cooler twilight air.

The swallows and sparrows
      (dancing as they do on the cool morning breeze)
worry not about tomorrow—
for today will have troubles of its own.
This is my life at times; the embodiment of Matthew 6:26...
Derick Smith Sep 2014
Within the dragons' den—
    the smoke they breathe; twists, turns, spirals
    hea'enward in clouds of tar and ash
    (their mouths gaping and nostrils flared).

Indeed they don't breathe fire—
    They inhale it, swallowing whole
    The ancient gift of Prometheus
    (the first giver of stolen goods).

A wise woman once said:
    'This is the closest one can be
    with said sacred element. Yet
    such intimacy comes with price
    (as with all sim'lar relations).

I see their wrinkled skin
    And hear their deep raspy roar that
    rarely, though spontaneously
    interrupts their philosophy
    (or words of the drunk lay-dragon).
An oldie of mine. But one my mind wanders to from time to time.
Derick Smith Sep 2014
My Beloved speaks profundities
      and pays dues not His own—
while I, the sober fool,
      stumble falsely drunk.

Though His wine warms my heart
      and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins—
      I am not subject to it's dance.

I drink too little, too less
      for the drunkard I claim to be.
A venture into Sufist imagery
Derick Smith Sep 2014
Your living water
ferments my soul.

Out spills wine—
a sweet elixir

for thirsty souls,
for hungry hearts.

(Your drinking songs
soothe parched throats)

For our hangovers:
Your living water
A glorious cycle
Derick Smith Sep 2014
I love old books—
         their smell,
                  soft and softly mottled pages,
          and carefully illustrated frontispieces.

My bookshelves are lined:
         old copies of ancient classics.

I love buying old books—
         the lost treasures they are,
and the lost treasures they hide:
                      tram tickets,
              and scholarly students' scribblings.

I have some books I fear to open
         for fear they'll fall apart.

There are some who love old books—
         their possibilities,
         and superficialities.

Their bookshelves aren't lined.
         But rooms of reams of bunting, and tables of origami.
                          (or soft and softly mottled picture frames)

They love buying old books—
         not for wisdom,
         nor connections to ancestors.

They've no fear of giants' shoulders;
         whole worlds are torn apart.
An experiment in visual affecting.
Derick Smith Sep 2014
Between her and our
Almighty Beloved,
this mustard seed faith
grows as the willow.
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