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My beloved roams in my heart


O Sai we sprinkle pieces of
our hearts like petals
for You to tread upon


You leave a trail of Lotus blooms
My bird was wounded
with half a wing she flew
and rested on feathery clouds

The Sun was her friend
He bathed her in 5 Golden Pools
breathed light into cold dark space
and made wings from stars

She alights upon my fingers now
extended like blossoming twigs

Can you hear her boundless song?
How creative is the day
every morning Dawn
her face flushed in
shades of poinsettia pink
spreads golden wings
over the Earth
gently fanning flames of life

I plant my poem bush in
Her bright noonday rays
water flows from my
jeweled heart chalice
emotions, ideas, inspiration
flood lush fertile soil
soaking into a network of roots
reaching into beloved humanity,
this bustling world,
starry space and beyond
A tall elf stole like a Silver Shadow
past my window around 4 a.m.
in the freshly minted morning

My hubby, darling garden spirit
cherishes the dear little
plants and flowers in our yard
With care and love
he gives them their morning coffee,
fertilizing, watering the baby sprouts,
cooing sweetly over
his floral cherubims

They know his elfin footsteps
and smile happily as he putters
about in the
Wee, wee hours
My heart is yearning

As the yellow striped bee
yearns for nectar hidden
In flower blossoms
sweet *****

My heart is yearning

As the frozen earth
covered in Winter
yearns for warmth
of the sun

Brooding shadows
fall across lotus ponds
in full bloom
white swans blushing pink
sail by

My hands and feet are dyed red
with henna
but I cannot dance or sing

My heart is yearning, yearning
O my beloved
only for You
I must have written You
a thousand love notes
each stained with rouge kisses
and rose perfume
drowning in a sea of ink
ebony tears
O Dearest One
I have knocked on Your door
countless lifetimes
fragrant bouquets wilting
from warmth of my embrace

Still, the timeless treasure
of Your mysterious presence
remains bolted
beyond reach

Ocean currents are too strong
wrestling, they threaten to pull
the poor jivi under
Beloved
When will you rescue me?
Poetoftheway Apr 2019
coffee stain memories (an aging love)

our dozen or so mugs,
all white, her color of choice,
accumulating stains of black-brown coffee
that the dishwasher poetically concedes,
a decade plus of drinking, now, oh-now,
****** and can’t be removed

the lips of some are chipped,
the lips of some are chapped,
but they remain employed
for first coffee is a demonstrable
affectation of affection that losing
would be costly

but one of us soto voce, quietly whispers
the radical ionized idea,
shouldn’t we replace,
this should-not is an update, a cognition of
a bridge too far,
both agreeing, both conceding the symbolism,
the heart acknowledges a momentary thrombosis,
for the losing turnover is a winless loss

messaging in and about,
an aging staining love losing

~
A no ki tov tuesday poem
11:36 tuesday ki tov 16/4/2000+nineteen

http://hebrewmeanings.blogspot.com/2016/04/ki-tov.html

“The third day of Creation [Bereshis 1:9-13] is the only day in which the expression “G-d saw that it was good” is mentioned twice. This expression is mentioned both following the gathering of the waters which divided the seas from the dry land, and following the sprouting of vegetation and seed- bearing plants – both of which occurred on the third day of Creation.
As a result of the fact that Tuesday had a double portion of “ki tov” [that it was good], Tuesday is considered a particularly fortuitous day of the week. Many people specifically plan their wedding for this day. When moving into a new house, many people plan to move on Tuesday. Many people try to start a new job on Tuesday.”
Bleeding Doc May 2018
ishq pyar mohhabat
ye sabd paraye lagte hai,
anjan *** inke mayano se
ek ehsas iss dil me jise me
mohabat samazha karta tha
jisse dard ke siwa kuch na mila

yeh mehsoos bhi nai hua ki
apne he apnon ke  pankh
kat chuke the,
talash thi to bas us kandhe ki thi
jo iss ladkhadate hue ko sahara de sake

fir bhi, dhire dhire iss katon ki
chadar par aage badna hai,
dil yehi kehta rehta hai,
kyunki jhuthi hansi ki kuch
aisi adat si ** gayi hai,
ki ab chahte hue bhi dard
ka ehsas nahin hota hai

naa paresaniya, naa halaat na he koi rog hai
jinhonw hame sataya hai aur koi nahi
wo jhuthe log hai, wo jhuthe log Hai!

jhuthe logon ki duniya me
sachai ki kimat kon jaanega,
toot kar bikhar jayega
jo inse ulajhne ki thanega,
bhalai hai dur rahe aise logon se
jo achai ka naatak karte hai
dhakel denge ye bure daur andhere me
jo girega nikal naa payega!
ishq pyar mohhabat paraye paresaniya rog jhuthe logon ki duniya me
White like the North
and the cold places on the earth
my great grandfather was fond of
over-proof *** and
caribbean sailor blue waves

His Nigerian goddess bore him
nine children
pretty little barefoot toffee skinned children
scampering through sugarcane fields
and tall tropical grasses
the lilting sound of their voices
playing on balmy breezes

My Aunt Glo remembers him well
strolling about with his switch and
stiff upper English lip
he governed the immense rural
Jamaican plantation in St. Elizabeth
around the end of the Nineteeth century

Everyone called him Pupa and his
wife Muma

I don't know much about Muma
except that her mother was an
enslaved person and that she
had to tolerate the insult of ritually
hiding her mixed children when
Pupa's mother, Lady Bush
flounced into town with her entourage

There is an old photograph of
the two of them:

Muma in white frock seated,
her eyes drooping brown sparrows
Pupa with his switch, pocket watch
and far away eyes
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