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I S A A C Oct 2021
kites riding the eastern breeze
inner child hiding in the canopy of leaves
singing to the tune of the birds
lies being highlighted by the omnipresent sun
bring to light what you buried, sweeter than my metaphorical cherry
you cannot escape what you have done, you must remember the ones you have shunned
even if it's only to take note of, what not to do
even if it feels too much, I know you could
even if the world is too rushed, you know what to do
going down the wormhole, deep dive
my memories come in handy, high five
to save my sanity as I live life
getting my light underneath the full moon
from o'er eastern hills
a brightly glowing moon's face
rose in late eve skies
Thomas W Case Feb 2021
I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.
Elena Mustafa Sep 2020
Was this evil
When she snatched girls from the
To havevthem sacrificed and
By the jinn
When will she end her
Evil spree
Of taking innocence
And committing them
To Satan
Lundy Jul 2020
After a year I took you to the Eastern Sierras. Home.

Last time I was here these mountains seemed bigger, in pictures my face was thinner.

Walking in my granfathers footsepts I spoke of my family, I spoke of these canyons, you spoke of your dreams, and you spoke of us.

Black coffee in our matching cups. You make it strong; like me I said.

With the high sierra granite surrounding us we removed our bandaids and wondered where the scars went.

Everyone knows a broken heart is blind. At least that's what Jack thought me. After pondering it for quite sometime I think that I would like to give you mine. I think you see me.
old willow May 2020
Crossing the eastern stream,
I met a friend.
His shell, hard as he slowly
traverse across the water.
Crouching down, I asked him.
Oh turtle, why do you move so slow,
Yet never stop inching forward?
Mystic Ink Plus Oct 2019
मलाई सोधियो
किन भाईटीका अन्तिम दिनमा मनाइन्छ?

मैले भन्दिए
परापूर्वक कालदेखिनै
पूर्वीय दर्शनमा
हिरोको प्रवेश अन्तिममै हुन्छ ।
शैली : अवलोकन
विषय: प्रश्न यस्तो थियो
Kobu Sagiyama May 2019
For though we might,

We cannot fight the wind;

Try as we may,

The mist eludes our grasp;

Shadows defy our clutches,

Rainclouds form,

The sun and moon rise and set

Despite our will;

Controlling nothing,

Still we do not see,

And frame our lives with an order

That is illusion,

Timetables and inventories

Of ignorance;

Labels and times and convenience

We set in stone that crumbles

Like sand before the winds

Of Impermanence;

Change is the symphony,

And fluid the score

Of this dharmakayic waltz,

And though we dance

We fancy ourselves but

Onlookers to the show;

That when the crashing finale

Resounds -- as it must --

We stop our ears and wail;

Not seeing, deaf to the choir

That has but turned the page

To sing a new song;

Our own melody ended,

We fade only to be played anew

From the string of another bow;

The song goes on, rising, falling,

And Bliss is the one

Who follows as the Piper leads

With Namu Amida Butsu.
A Pure Land Buddhist poem.
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