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Chris Saitta Jul 7
She is the typesetter’s “e”

The once-rounded uncial script,
Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk,
His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl,
Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight.

His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed
And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground,
With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind,
That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight.

In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls,
He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper,
Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold,
Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold,
To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women.
So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm.

But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,”
He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ******,
Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore.
His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man,
Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war.

She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.
For slide video:

Uncial script was predominantly used between 400-800 AD and is a majuscule script (only in capital letters)
True uncial scripts were unbroken, meaning the pen wasn’t lifted.
Carolingian script was the predominant minuscule script between 800-1200 AD and was used in the Medieval ages.
Other calligraphy terms include “blotting paper,” “carpet page,” “ligatures,” and “descenders.”
Terry Collett Jun 17
The French
peasant monk
shows me
how to cut
the tall grass;
he holds a scythe
like a warrior
his broad sword;
and I watch,

Spit on your palms,
he says in French,
gazing at me
with his deep set eyes.

I spit on my palms,
and taking my scythe,
I follow him
to one side,
avoiding his blade
as he scythes down
the tall grass.

Unable to match
his swift movement,
his casual attention,
as if it was all part
of his prayer,
and I, scything,
giving him,
a wondering stare.
Toxic yeti Mar 10
One upon a time
In ancient Tibet
There was an evil
Buddha Tenpa
Who used is tantric mastery
To bring back
His lover
And consort
From the bowls of hell
To be with him
And misused
His enlightenment
And spiritual knowledge
To raise the dead
To take down his
The foreigners
Who ****
His love.
shamamama Jan 27
"What's your birthstone?  
I don't know, Oh, I know--it's rock."

Black rocks baking in the sun
dot this beach
Like chocolate chips in the dough
They call to us
Come climb,
Come hop on us
Find treasures hidden behind and between
All our dark shadows,

Lying as still as stone
A large rock shape,
Oh, it's grayer
and duller,
and there's sand sprinkled on it,
And it's moving!
It's Living Rock,
The monk seal napping
from its morning meal.

Yes- we watch others walk right by him
caught in their words,
Unaware of the living amongst the rocks,
Living Rock doesn't care
His belly is full

Gray sleek shape
massaged by the wind
with feast in your belly,
So mighty tired!
You taste your sleep for days,
Clouds cover the day's starlight you seek,
Your body begs for light, and yet
Nobody can wake you from your slumber
Not even the high pitched voices
of children playing
nor the fishing lines in and out of the tide

What of your dreams
Oh Large Gray Rock
Do you dream of the ocean tossing
Fish  into your mouth?
Or of the warm sun coming
to bake your skin?

The salt water dances up your nostrils,
You lift your head in mild protest
Then let it rest on your
Ancient bed of coral and shell bones
My feet love to dig into your bed

No insomnia for you sea creatures,
Maybe I should count monk seals
Instead of sheep when I want to sleep,
Your body clock measures time
Not in days or hours
But in meals, in hunts
In fullness, in emptiness
Your sleep is well earned
My friend

We can learn from you.
You bask, dream,
Then awaken renewed
To taste your ocean again,
Rock, monk seal, ocean,  beach, renewal
Star BG Dec 2018
A sign on a door read
“Wise Monk
Clarity given to all questions.”

I read sign slowly, as my questions surfaced in mind.
On entering room, a monk on a large pillow sat with small mirror

I could feel the energy of unconditional love surround me.

“Come, stand before me, dear one.” He said, with warm smile.
“I see you. Do you see me?”
“YES.” I answered strongly,
as I began to ask my question about life.

He looked at me, with his endearing smile again,
that traveled right into heart.
“Well than, I see you, do you?” He asked,
holding mirror up to my face.

"YES," I answered, sitting beside him.
“Listen sweet one, when you look inside your own eyes,
you should see the reflection of me.
For I am you and you are me.
Therefore, all the answers lie within you,
as YOU are the master of your life.

We both smiled, while I began to digest his words.

And as we drank inside joined breath,
the Monk rose, whispering in my ear.

"I gift you with affirmation to recite daily.
It will shift your mind
to walk in the power of your heart."
With a bow, he spoke the precious words. “I AM the I AM.”

I left content to find my way,
anointed with truth that all answers flowed within.
My monk guide asked me to share this message. It is one more people need to realize. We do carry all the answers within AND we are responsible for orchestrating our lives. Be grateful for all the lessons in life for they are opportunities to experience freedom.
Farzaneh Qaf Jul 2018
When the Sogdian king, lost his son
Across the river, hands in hands with step mom
Step mom told the king:
"Big cat fish ate him! King"
Crying to death
Regreting his wealth
No food many days
Tried many ways
Calling out for guards
Searching every yards
Paying the temples
Ignoring gambles
Bending to his knee
Praying to the sea
Asking for a sign
Hope to see a line
Old monk saw him sick
Told him: "go and pick
Best fishing hooks there
Try to saile the river
Find the Big Cat Fish
Get him to a dish
Cut his stomach
Imagine it's cake"
After all of it
Cat fish escaped it
Turning around the boat
Calling out : "You Goat!
You're wife killed your kid
So **** her! Indeed!"
King was deadly shocked
No mercy of God
Rage was his weapon
To **** this dragon....
" wish I was no king
Could have my son under my wing"
That's what Said the king.....
Karu Kapi is an old Sogdian Manichaeian story, which I made a poem of it, the original ancient text is in manual Sogdian book by prof.Zarshenas. Sodian were one of the middle/ancient Iranian tribes
They were known for trading goods over the silk road
They had sharp hats and they were mostly Buddhist and Manichaeian
Those days Turks were using Sogdian as language of commerce
Location: from nowaday Uzbekistan upto Xinjiang province of China
Farzaneh.Qaf,M.A Scholar of Historical Linguistics
Sean Achilleos Jul 2018
I long to be alone
A modest cabin by the sea
Where the days are quiet
Where no television, radio or phone is permitted
No unnecessary words of explanation
Where the afternoon sun bakes warmly on my cat in the windowsill
A gentle purr of content
By day I will walk along the sandy shore
Cast away my formal shoes
Roll up my pants and place my feet in the crisp waters of the salty ocean
The wind ... The crashing of the waves ... A seagull's cry
A dog and its owner passes by ... An occasional hello
They say people need people ... But I don't know
Natures own form of conversation seems to be a better companion for me
With the competitive world locked outside
Where money is God and the race is fierce
A ray of light catches the colourful bottles in the window
Creating a prism on the floor
I could take a photograph ... Capture the moment
But if I send it to you
Will you feel what I see
Written by Sean Achilleos 09 July 2018©
Amazon: Sean Achilleos 'An Affair with Life' The Philosophical Poems of Sean Achilleos
YouTube: Sean Achilleos

Sean Achilleos' Music is also available on the following platforms:
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Terry Collett Mar 2018
The bell tolled.

The priest/ monk
entered from the right.

He knelt
and kissed the altar.

I sat on the other side
of the grille, black painted,
with twists and turns.

He bowed to us,
then turned away
to face the altar.

He began
the Latin Mass.

All knelt as he began.

One muttered to my right
a secret prayer;
to my left
one fingered
a wooden rosary,
mouthing Aves
and Glory bes.

He Latinized
his back to us.

I mused on Sophia
trying to ****** me
on the dead man's bed.

Her Polish/ English language
softly spoken
in my ear.

He read the Epistle
of St James.

The rosary pusher
paused her *******.

The prayer mutterer
silenced her words.

Sophia, I mused,
lay out on the bed,
hands behind her head,
legs spread wide.

The priest/monk
read the Gospel
of St Mark.

I closed my eyes.

I pictured the Crucified
in my dark.
Terry Collett Oct 2017
It was evening; skies had darkened
to that blackened blue.

You entered the common room
where I sat, and said the abbot said
I could come the following September
along with two others, to try our
vocations in the abbey.

Twenty four years later
I saw you last: you aged,
having cancer, but still your
cheerful holy self; I now married
with six children of my own
as my vocation, pained
to see you aged and ill.

You said nothing of yourself,
but asked of the family
and wife and how I was
in self and spirit.

I never saw you again;
you died months before
I came again; dark afternoon
with hints of rain.
On a monk and friend
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