"gleaning" poems - Hello Poetry

Every blue patch on the sky keeps an eye, cherishing clouds dancing, hovering over. The songs of deep blue ride the heady air, only to be stunned, all of a sudden, at the first sight— sung down on a perfectly placed mural. The Queen of Sheba tiptoes this way; King Solomon leans to the ground, only to find seas of silent blooms musing, dipping in sun-kissed dews— on gently tilted roses that will not fall, not from this picture-perfect, navel-high! Velvety, the rose rises from the ground; the forever-green Earth hangs low, in the dew on the rose that will not fall. Blossoming, eyeing an acute high, evermore hopeful to scale upward, toward the faraway, awaiting heaven's pool. There, the spotlight does not move— neither north nor south, nor up nor down— until Queen Fathima, the Queen of Heaven, steps on the "as above, so below" slope. There, the newly resurrected Earth will be primed, its minted atoms vibrating beyond bounds, rising, for the first time, atop the navel-high. Perfectly wrapped, the atom's circle finally turns on— the stepping stone that holds no pi-decimal hole. Pure Scientia hangs on the door of Paradise, awaiting the numerically perfect Queen Fathima to step. God willing, she will work in beauty: the most sought-after, perfect works of art— the lost masterpiece, not in translation, but hidden within the pi-decimal abyss of Earth's depth. Lo, the gleaning Sleeping Beauty peeps, trailing the role model Queen. Fathima—the first woman to enter Paradise— walks the walk: perfect, straight, numerically precise. As if she always knew, back from the Earth, of the murals ahead, hanging on Paradise’s wall, mathematically exact! Mirrors of imagination, new wonders on Heaven’s way, etched in the murals at the golden section, navel-high. She zooms past the ever-spinning atom’s perfect span, cemented at the entrance of Paradise. Yet leaves no footprint— for she never did, even on the sublunary Earth. A new wonder blooms in the classic old eyes: oh, Pi, still irrational, still pondering, at the measured, eternal navel-high!

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Oct 31, 2018

Oct 31, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC

shofi-ahmed

Earth to Heaven: Navel High

Every blue patch on the sky keeps an eye, cherishing clouds dancing, hovering over. The songs of deep blue ride the heady air, only to be stunned, all of a sudden, at the first sight— sung down on a perfectly placed mural. The Queen of Sheba tiptoes this way; King Solomon leans to the ground, only to find seas of silent blooms musing, dipping in sun-kissed dews— on gently tilted roses that will not fall, not from this picture-perfect, navel-high! Velvety, the rose rises from the ground; the forever-green Earth hangs low, in the dew on the rose that will not fall. Blossoming, eyeing an acute high, evermore hopeful to scale upward, toward the faraway, awaiting heaven's pool. There, the spotlight does not move— neither north nor south, nor up nor down— until Queen Fathima, the Queen of Heaven, steps on the "as above, so below" slope. There, the newly resurrected Earth will be primed, its minted atoms vibrating beyond bounds, rising, for the first time, atop the navel-high. Perfectly wrapped, the atom's circle finally turns on— the stepping stone that holds no pi-decimal hole. Pure Scientia hangs on the door of Paradise, awaiting the numerically perfect Queen Fathima to step. God willing, she will work in beauty: the most sought-after, perfect works of art— the lost masterpiece, not in translation, but hidden within the pi-decimal abyss of Earth's depth. Lo, the gleaning Sleeping Beauty peeps, trailing the role model Queen. Fathima—the first woman to enter Paradise— walks the walk: perfect, straight, numerically precise. As if she always knew, back from the Earth, of the murals ahead, hanging on Paradise’s wall, mathematically exact! Mirrors of imagination, new wonders on Heaven’s way, etched in the murals at the golden section, navel-high. She zooms past the ever-spinning atom’s perfect span, cemented at the entrance of Paradise. Yet leaves no footprint— for she never did, even on the sublunary Earth. A new wonder blooms in the classic old eyes: oh, Pi, still irrational, still pondering, at the measured, eternal navel-high!