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Jeremy Betts Jun 7
Feeling like half the man I used to be
I look to the sky desperately
Noticing something I don't usually see
The moon keeping the sun company
But the visual hit a little differently
Like I unknowingly unlocked some mystic mystery
Probably due to the particular mindset I'm in currently
But looking back at me was a half moon in all it's majesty
And I thought about it's cycle, it's personal journey
From full to empty then back again for all of eternity
Then my thoughts drift back to me,
Back to that feeling of illegitimacy
And this new found possibility
Based on the moon cycle imagery
Could it be something I could copy?
I guess I'll have to wait and see
But a sliver of hope, like the sliver of a crescent moon, may be all I need...maybe
Maybe I too could be whole again if I just move forward patiently

Maria Mitea Nov 2023
it's not hard to touch you,

he asked me:
- did you hear the winds last night,
and how the tender branches bent on you
like wings,

i reached home late,
fed the dog,
sipped camomile tea,
covered with stardust,
and drifted away, like an echo, will
Man Aug 2023
"The most exquisite face wrinkles and droops with age
Roses too must wither, mocking man's desire for any eternal beauty in materiality
Death will destroy the buds of youth, Cataclysms will demolish the grandeurs of this earth
But nothing can destroy the splendor of the astral cosmos"

Many forms, but crystalline perfection;
Mystics pine, on the meaning of raging storms;
In lieu of real connection. We can
Appreciate the beauty that is laid before.
Before our time, and we veer
Without axis, & detached from direction.
The Bhagavad Gita. (n.d.).
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2022
Finding the answer
Is important
But understanding
The question
Is even more

Any one
Who can show
Something in you
You have
Never seen before
Is important
Keep them closer
Genre: Observational
Theme: Stay happy ever after
tire siine meñ dam hai dil nahīñ hai
tirā dam garmi-e-mahfil nahīñ hai

Ambition rests within your chest but not a heart
Your wheedling, warmth of assembly is not nor its art

guzar jā aql se aage ki ye nuur
charāġh-e-rāh hai manzil nahīñ hai!

Go beyond paths of reason in quest of light
Lamp of the way it is but not a destination

ḳhirad ke paas ḳhabar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
tirā ilaaj nazar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

Intellect has news and nothing more
A divine glance is your cure and nothing more

har ik maqām se aage maqām hai terā
hayāt zauq-e-safar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

Beyond all ranks is your prestige
Life is a delightful journey and nothing more

ragoñ meñ gardish-e-ḳhūñ hai agar to kyā hāsil
hayāt soz-e-jigar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

If veins have flowing blood, then what is the reward?
An existence with a burning heart and nothing more

jise kasād samajhte haiñ tājirān-e-farañg
vo shai mata-e-hunar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

What traders of the West consider as synthetic?
These are entities of flawless craft and nothing more

urūs-e-lāla munāsib nahīñ hai mujh se hijāb
ki maiñ nasīm-e-sahar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

Bride like a radiant tulip, why modesty from me?
Morning breeze I am and nothing more

baḌā karīm hai 'iqbāl'-e-be-navā lekin
atā-e-shola sharar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ

Very gracious is voiceless Iqbal and yet
A gifted flame with sparks of fire and nothing more

✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain
Words of Muhammad Iqbal
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2021
In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                         ­         Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

— a metamorphosis
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2021
Morning doves cooing
Neighborhood singing in mist
Both songs from elsewhere
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