"mingling" poems
Mind
Soul
Body
All colliding into one.
Mingling together,
Keeping the flame of lust burning as bright as the mid-noon sun.
Cool breath fanning over burning skin.
The love they feel never wearing thin.
Wrapped safely in her lovers arms feeling far, far away from any harm.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
#
*I wander throught the works of art
upon a gorgeous but cool day,
Bewildered by the beauty
(and the price they ask to pay).
Paintings hang in canvas booths
in styles of every kind.
Statues, crafts and metalwork
aesthetically designed
Food and drink and music too
a rousing, festive place.
But oh my friends, the greatest art
was smiles on every face.
So many strangers mingling
with a common goal to share
To wit: a friendly greeting
and goodwill enough to spare.
Indeed, the day was perfect
with weather cool and fine.
But nothing tops a friendly smile
in harmony with mine.*
#
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
if the ocean would carry me
it'll collapse under the weight of my bones
made with cement and steel
and the burden each brick owns
witness the waves howler and scream
just like the heart caged in my chest
blood bubbling around the muscle
surging with every beat and protest
the bottom of the sea may be quiet
like my tongue folded neatly in my mouth
though feral beasts deep within
choke with pressure more than i can count
the ocean and i are seperate
both flowers from different gardens
one ephemeral, one wilting before your eyes
but both's head tilting up to the heavens
sorrowful eyes, swirling, storm awakening
chaos mingling betwixt water and blood
ravid souls in dire need of feeding
cursed and blessed by god
i wonder if i could carry the ocean
within just the corners of my palm
i and the ocean - we are one
a catastrophe after the calm
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 10:22 AM UTC
nearer:breath of my breath:take not they tingling
limbs from me:make my pain their crazy meal
letting they tigers of smooth sweetness steal
slowly in dumb blossoms of new mingling:
deeper:blood of my blood:with upwardcringing
swiftness plunge these leopards of white ream
this pith of darkness:carve an evilfringing
flower of madness on gritted lips
and on sprawled eyes squirming with light insane
chisel the killing flame that dizzily grips.
Querying greys between mouthed houses curl
thirstily. Dead stars stink. dawn. Inane,
the poetic carcass of a girl
10k
The sweet fragrance of hibiscus
its petals soaked with dew like sparkling jewels
mingling with the tropical song of the waves dashing against the sandy shore
where my mind travels so often to
tropical birds hush to sleep the world and every living thing
but morning wakes with dew sweet hibiscus blooms
and happy dancing butterflies kiss those petals of hibiscus flowers
such ineffable beauty that takes my breath away and when I inhale
I breathe in the sweet hibiscus blooms mingling with the smell of the salty sea
with my pen to paper I describe what I see and witness in my mind's eye
oh how I wish the journeys on the wings of imagination would last forever
but sadly the all too soon end just like sweet hibiscus dreams
~Marian~
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
It begins with the ominous clouds that roil and billow over the sky.
Then they darken:
Soft whites...
Seductive greys...
All the way to the purple black that haunts the skies on the cusp of a winter night.
The smell that follows this sinister nebula of vapor hanging over your head is that of life bringing relief.
The smell of dry earth mingling with that of the fresh water above reminds one of summer breezes, freedom and relaxation.
The cool but warm drops of moisture start gently stroking your shoulders and arms.
The strength increases, forcing you to squint as you take in the beautiful composition of nature above.
Soon you're covering your head as the rain pelts down and you race for shelter.
The puddles appearing on the floor disrupted by the matter consistently falling into them.
You peer into the world, completely changed, as you visibility decreases and smile, the metallic twangs to the rain hitting the patio roof fill your ears and soul with its rhythm and music.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
The stars, your eyes, mingling, glistening
Shivering tongues, softening, intertwining
The gentle trembling of warm fingers
The wet air is filled with whispers
Crimsoning cheeks, the blushing of lips
Hot sand caressing soaking flesh
The velvet sky slowly sinks, darkens
And falls upon our shadowy figures
Round silver moon gazing over playful skin
We laugh, we bathe in its ethereal glow
Fearless hands searching, finding, exploring
pearls, treasure, long lost secret land
Not long until like the waves we crash
Dressed in thick foam to wash ashore
Sweetly softened by the silken sun, we melt
Into the heat of the golden morning.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
She had hung it up from the mantelpiece in her bedroom, so when he entered the room there it was. It was suddenly lovely and he immediately imagined her body flowing into it, flowing from it. Standing close to the dress he brought his fingers to the fabric, touched gently, stroking then, as though it already held her form and substance.
Stepping past thoughts of her that so stirred his body he entered the pattern of the dress. It was a meadow in southern Ontario. July, when already the sun had bleached the profusion of grasses: water chestnut and papyrus sedge. He had stepped from the untidy veranda, past the pond, and down the rough track between the fields unmown, uncut, left fallow. As he entered the breaks of woodland between these swathes of grassland, deciduous leaves, dry and brittle from the summer's heat, were strewn on the path, and between the trees clumps of bramble bushes with berries of red and blue, black and purple.
There was no wind. The only sounds an underlay of crickets, his footfall, and the sharp mournful cries of geese on the now distant pond.
He saw her like an apparition standing motionless at the woodland’s boundary; her dress at one with all that surrounded her. When he came close and placed his hand on her shoulder he could smell the sweet dry earth mingling with her body's sweat, a hint of her *** as he placed his cheek against the shower of printed pollen amongst the leaves on her back.
Back in the late afternoon bedroom he heard her move about in the kitchen, and the spell broken, he turned away and went downstairs.
Several days later, as they prepared for bed, she slipped the dress on. As she stood in the lamplight smoothing it against her flanks, adjusting its fall across her ******* he felt himself faint that such a thing of beauty could be a joy forever . . . and beyond.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?*
isabella: the french psychology
exchange student -
hung up on her ex-boyfriend -
really in anime movies -
and that american i competed
with on an edinburgh pub-crawl
for freshers -
and lost my virginity to -
probably the only time
i had the ontological parameters
of your atypical man -
"hunting", competing -
oh so, so, enthralling....
(spot the irony mingling with
ridicule, when people "know"
how the modern man behaves,
with his caveman predecessors:
dragging a woman
by the hair type of cartoonish
depiction) -
the other fun time i've had
encounters with h'americans
was in Soho -
two colts, texan tourists asking
for directions,
or where this or that place was...
it almost warmed my heart
hearing that twang
of the tongue...
perhaps someone from arizona?
that has that - "mid" western
twang of the tongue
added to the bite...
snub the Boston high-mind
eloquence, like:
you really really want
to sound european...
never mind...
people say that water is tasteless...
hmm...
so last night i was heating
up one arm of scissors...
and sniffing it...
then licked the other arm of the scissor...
what's in water again?
minerals... a subtle presence...
magnesium, potassium, iron...
you name it...
so yeah... water is... "tasteless"...
eisenzahn that i am.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
My dear Icarus,
Have you brought tales of gold for me?
You-- the master of self,
The one who held his own thread and shears.
Don't share of how hard you beat your wings
But how the air beat against your brow.
Don't echo your father's faded cries
But sing the songs of the Aegean sea--
Sing them only for me!
My sweet Icarus,
Is the world as grand as the travelers say?
Are crumbling maps and hand-spun tales nothing to compare?
I've read of Sicily, where your father rests his mourning head.
I've traced its rivers as they curved against my torn papyrus.
Sicily, the land of Aetna.
Oh, to watch the land shake at the beckoning of her call
(Oh, to fly free of these labyrinth walls)!
My darling Icarus,
Tell me-- is life better above the blanket of Grecian blue?
Is it better than what the Fates designed?
Is it better than what I hold today
(please, let it be more than today)?
My beloved Icarus,
Will you give me your wings--
The mingling of feather, wax, and dreams.
Will you give me your wings and
Your will to yearn higher and higher
So that I too can reach the city of gold.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC
Faces unknown, side by side;
Cooperating and mingling;
Looking for a better spot, and yet,
heading the same way.
Everyone becomes equal,
Everyone pays the same fare,
Everyone has a life,
Each as complex as the rest.
Every face is new,
Every mood different.
holding some mystery,
Each different,
None less or more.
A game of patience;
Waiting to reach the end of one path,
And the beginning of another.
A hurry to get up, and get down.
A bus, a metro, a train,
An auto and an aeroplane,
The modest pace of a tram,
The coziness of a shuttle van.
The stories in a public transport,
Are things I wouldn't wanna miss.
I shall never, for the life of me,
Stop traveling in public transport.
Without it, I wouldn't be me.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Inside the drainage basin
Bounding my soul
Fluid dynamics
Condense
Phases of water
Gather in the
Mountain towers
Over time
Gravity plus precipitation
Converts
Into snow pack
Come spring
That snow pack
Braids it's way down the mountain
Co-mingling with groundwater
Bubbling up in springs
Gathering momentum
In mountain streams
A constant conversion from
Potential to kinematic
Energy
Streams make their
Way into prairie rivers
Meandering along
Through riparian pockets
Of biodiversity
Reaching a levee
Then breaching
Local, national, and international boundaries
Are no match
As my soul
Finds it's way to base level
In the ocean of your love
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
)
. ) ( ) (
( ) ) ( )
) ( ( ) )
( ) ) ( ( (
) ( )
there you are...sitting right across •
and here i am...fidgeting in my seat
•searching for words...but seeming-
ly at a loss•only the eloquence of
my racing, thumping heartbeat•
trading only in silent words and
coy gazes•mingling within the
tendrils of wafting steam•
divine moment as the
heart rapidly races•
over our hot cuppas, soaring into caffeine
fueled dreams•
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
5.9k
There is no smell in all the world,
None in the North or South,
None in the East or West,
None in the lowest places,
None on the highest peaks,
Like that smell filling the air,
Filling the house,
Filling my senses,
That smell of spaghetti frying,
Frying in the morning light,
The smell so different from when it was first cooked,
Moving the senses,
Moving the mind,
Anticipation in scent,
The sauce sizzling,
Changing,
Changing in the frying pan,
As the noodles turn crisper,
Crisper,
Crisp,
With that crispness like no other,
The noodles,
No longer white,
Made yellow,
Yellow from the sauce,
Fried onto them,
One with them,
Flavours seeping in,
And the sauce,
Orange now,
Red orange but clearly orange,
No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan,
And as the sauce and noodles change,
Reach that perfect point,
The smell just right,
The colour just right,
The texture just right,
The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo,
Then, and only then,
The spaghetti no longer stirring,
Evened out,
Temperature lowered,
And carefully,
Slowly,
To keep them on the top,
The eggs break,
White running among the noodles,
Filling the gaps,
Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan,
Yolks floating on top where they should be,
The perfect drop,
And the odours as the white changes,
Filling the air with new scents,
Mingling with the ones already present,
And then the salt, disappearing on the surface,
The black pepper,
Black flects,
Scattered evenly,
Perfectly,
The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti,
And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole,
That hot smell,
That bright red colour,
And the silver lid slips on,
Over the top,
Hiding,
Protecting,
Cooking the whole,
Until it is done,
And the lid set aside,
The whole onto a plate,
Perfect to the senses,
The smell,
The colours,
The texture,
Perfect,
And the first bight,
Heavenly,
Like nothing else on earth,
Almost sweet,
But still savoury,
Strange to those knowing bowled pasta,
Strange to those knowing simmered sauce,
Strange to those knowing fried eggs,
But the tastes,
Perfect,
Blended,
Strange but familiar,
Many memories,
Images,
Experiences,
All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti,
And the fork through the yoke,
As it runs down,
Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white,
Perfect,
Amazing,
Done.
~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
(you do you, baby boo, i know moms
who rather write poetry and spend five
bucks on their kids’ mouths lolol)
always the act of forgetting the people
behind the screen, when you blame me
like mingling with lanceheaded dreams
delivering pointless blows spelling it
like im incomplete unless i bring all of
myself to the table alone
& the room’s clean, and the kitchen’s clean
the birds sing and the sunlight’s cold and bright
seems like everything’s where it’s supposed
to be when you’re not around
now what a paradox that is
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
I'll ravage your flesh with a ferocious hunger,
devoid of any restraint or inhibition, as I immerse myself
in the pursuit of satiating my most primal desires.
With every inhale, the intoxicating scent of your flower
captivates my senses, leaving me lusting for the delectable
sweetness that lies within. It's a flavor that seduces like a
symphony playing upon my taste buds, awakening an insatiable
craving that consumes me from within.
So, my love, settle upon my tongue and allow yourself to
indulge in the enchanting sensations that await you there.
Feel the heat of my breath mingling with your essence, teasing
and coaxing, guiding you towards the pinnacle of pleasure.
As the strands of your hair intertwine with my grasp, I will
shape our movements with unwavering confidence, leading you
through the tumultuous symphony of our desire.
In my presence, the strength of our connection will resonate
through every fiber of your being.
Your legs will surrender to their trembling under the weight of
our intense union, while your heart and soul collide with a force
so powerful it leaves no doubts or hesitation in your mind.
You will know, without the shadow of a doubt, that you
belong to me and me alone.
And allow me to confess, my darling, that my words possess
a hypnotic quality that penetrates your very core.
Even before my teeth sink into the tender flesh of your neck,
my lips will grace its surface, ascending its contours like
a mountaineer seeking the highest summit.
With every touch, every caress, the walls within you will
yield gradually and willingly, testaments to the profound pleasure
I offer and the ecstasy we create together.
As our passionate encounter reaches its zenith, I want you to
revel in the knowledge that every moment has been a sensational surrender to the depths of desire.
My whispers, soft as silk against your ear, will affirm the
undeniable truth that our connection is beyond question or doubt.
It is a truth that we share, etched upon our very beings, binding
us together in an unbreakable bond.
In the end, my love, there is no room for uncertainty.
Your complete and utter enjoyment of our encounters is not
a mere fleeting possibility but an irrefutable reality that we
both embrace. In the whispers of our ecstasy, in the echoes
of our connection, the affirmation resounds loudly and clearly:
__You belong to me, my love... and forevermore,
you shall remain mine and mine alone.__
Feb 10, 2024
Feb 10, 2024 at 12:08 PM UTC
Necklace of rope around your neck,
Cold sparkled your tears,
Mingling in our kisses,
Drawing out fears.
Blood crows' broken beak,
Moonlight mourning the free.
Your glimm'ring eyes,
'Ere eve of death,
Last thing mine heart aches to see.
Strange things happen here,
Under the Hanging Tree.
*"String me up!
Lest apartheid influence separation,
String me up love!
Sing me songs of silence, kiss away segregation!"*
My voice unwavered,
Decaying church bell tolling twelve,
Cold, cracked fingers fumbling rope.
Moon lighting the way,
The wind whispering,"hopeless,"
Frigid lies hope.
Shuffling of feet in the woods,
Edge of moonlight creatures stood,
Watching the Hanging tree,
Where the dead told his love to flee.
-Firefly
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
You kiss me, I kiss you
You grab me, I stroke you
On we go, *** for tat
Push inside
Fill me up
Stretch me out
I cling to you, surround you, arouse you
Still and slow at first
and the pressure builds
Harder and faster, till we're all skin, and teeth, and nails
And the smack of my skin on yours
It's a race
You pull me, I push you
You scratch me, I bite you
On and on it goes
Breath mingling, sweat mixing
Till we both come
panting, leaning on each other
This is physical, the most carnal desire.
This I understand. In this we are mere objects; animals moving solely on instinct.
It's the occasional tender touches that confuse me.
A soft kiss on my forehead, your hand seeking out mine; these baffle me.
Sometimes I wish I knew your intentions, sometimes I wish I knew mine.
Do I want more from you then the physical? Do you desire more from me?
In my wondering sometimes I think it might be nice to have a part of you,
and to give you something more of me.
But you never ask and I'm reluctant to offer.
Where are your layers?
Are we deeper than this kiddie pool we've been wading in?
What are we?
You never ask and I'm too cowardly to offer.
So we remain laying together, so close yet so distant.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 10:30 AM UTC
Well-tempered
As Bach's staccato joy takes hold
Of Book 1: Prelude No. 3
A clavier so mild, calm
Lagavulin-scented air
Peat moss, weather fair
The happy harpsichord
And the placid piano
Join in my glass
Mingling, giving the whisky
A nuance
Of elegance
Balancing the burn
Excellently
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
When first I saw you,
you were lying on a green bank laughing at the sky
as you watched the clouds scud by
and you saw all kinds of shapes in those clouds
and gasped in awe as the myriad of birds
soared and wheeled through the clouds.
Your laugh skipped across the distance between us
like magical notes from a faery harp.
The sunlight lit up your golden hair
making diamonds out of the shafts of sunlight
as you turned your head to and fro
making the sunbeams dance to your tune.
And about your head was a halo of white lilies …
When next I saw you
you were hand in hand with your love
walking into the sunlight from the grey stone church.
Your brocade of white entwined with golden thread
sparkled like a million gems.
Your face was bright and alive with smiling eyes
and your golden hair fell down around your face
catching the sunbeams.
And ringing out their joy, the church bells pealed for you.
And in your hand was a bouquet of white lilies …
I saw you again
on that same green bank laughing with joy
as your golden child frolicked in the warm summer sun,
her childish laugh mingling with your own in angelic harmony.
You grasped her up and, wheeling her skyward,
faces upturned, letting the sunbeams play around you
and then, holding her close, you sank to your knees
cradling the babe, letting the love flow out and around you both.
And in the child’s small hand was grasped a single white lily …
The next time I saw you
you were quietly sitting in the late summer sun
comfortable in your chair watching the golden sun flame red
as it sank below the distant horizon.
Your golden hair now not so vibrant
and your face etched with the many years of your long life
yet when you smiled at the glory of the setting sun, the sparkle of your eyes
was not dimmed at all.
And around your feet grew a field of white lilies …
The last time I saw you
I gave you my hand and, with fingers entwined,
we walked away from the sombre crowd whose tears flowed like pearls
as the stark white coffin was lowered into the ground.
And looking into your face I saw you again
as you were that first time,
your golden hair that fell as rivulets
around your now pale, sad face.
I took that face in my hands and gently kissed your lips,
no more than a whisper, like a gentle spring breeze teasing the blossoms.
Still hand in hand, we looked back at the sad scene and then turned and walked into the light.
And all about your grave lay white lilies.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace
what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart contents?
hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic
mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips
with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?
later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity
from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat
her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;
I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally
rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,
*sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,*
which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies
5/29/17 i
12:43pm
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
The sun tipping over the horizon
Lifts my lids each revolution of this Shady green sphere...
And for a few brief seconds
The fingers of sleep
Drag me back.
Warm pressure on my eyes,
Pooling, (re)opening them to the last
Paradise;
The only oasis where your eyes are not closed
And your bones are not dust somewhere
Mingling with the soil in Pittsburgh.
Just the same, I know you're the product now
Of some hypnagogic state;
Of the last traces of theoretical DMT swirling in my brain
As is leaves Morpheus behind in the shadows.
You're just the most beautiful hallucination
The truth in the chaos of dreams
Cluing me into what I've been denying
For 13 years.
Impossible that I've preserved you better
Than any mortician could have
In the recesses of my mind
You are a perfect replica
An unholy copy of the original
All creamy skin
And ocean eyes,
Full-lipped smile tipping somewhere between
Arrogance and joy.
"I'm gone," you say. "I'm dead."
Repeating what I already know
"I'm dead, I'm not coming back."
On repeat like the worst kind of ear worm;
A carousel of sound that dips and weaves through every filament of Unconsciousness.
Denial; like reaching out my hands
I shove against the reality, against the unreality
Against the prison sleep has woven
And crash forth
Damp and gasping
Like breaking the surface once more
Teetering over the horizon with the sun
Into the waking hell of another day.
The carousel makes another revolution.
See you on the other side tonight.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC
Close your eyes and open your heart,
Can you hear the silence!
Can you see the darkness!
Be grateful for the little things you have in life,
For all our lives are full of bounties and blessings..
Mingling with other people from different backgrounds and Ethnicities inspired me and made me wondering in the deepest meanings of life
Allah created us for one aim which is to worship Him alone..
He empowered us with all the tools that would help us to achieve life's goal
The holy Quran will heal your heart and the sunnah of our prophet Muhammed PBUH will enlighten your path..
A letter to one's self..
Thank you is the least word I can utter to express my gratitude for you my lord
You created me out of love before I was nothing,
You gave me everything..
From the beauty to the health and wealth
The eyes, ears, hands, legs and heart :")
A muslim family that helped me through,
The Arabic language that allows me to enjoy Quran,
You made me walk through your path to discover your light
Thank you for the awakening moments you granted me
Thank you for the air I breath the beauty I see and the food I eat
Thank you for the birds and trees
For the water and leaves
For the seasons and planets
For the sun and the moon
The clouds and the sky
If I ever start I can never count all the blessings you granted me
It is really important to step back on your life and start thinking and Talking to your self
To give your soul the boost to continue this life
To empower your faith and renew your tawakul (reliance on Allah)
I felt the need to cry when I attended today's speech by one of the sisters
She spoke about how insan needs to always rely on his Lord
Yeah sometimes you really get confused in the realms of life and you forget all the bounties that you've been blessed with
Shaytan comes to you and start whispering that you always need more..
It's okay to always need more because Allah loves when his servants
pray to him and asks from him,
But this doesn't mean to forget all what you've been blessed with
It's really important to specify an hour each morning to reflect upon your life and to thank Allah for every single moment you have
Allah has created you out of love,
You are a unique version of your self
Nobody is completely like you
You are you and you should love yourself because Allah wants you to be like that..
All praise is to Allah!
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC