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Shofi Ahmed Mar 2018
The material body was yet in the making
The first and foremost luminary feminine
ebb and flow heartily pans out
flawless flow to the finest angle.
Across the nadir to the zenith
Fathima eyes on upon it like it
shapes and forms are waxing lyrical:
The pure masterpiece without a mirror!

Arts on the go Fathima moves on.
Praise be to the Lord she being made
to measure inborn mathematical the pi is her!
(For the perfect circle the circumference is masculine
The pi tends to circle the blank space within is feminine)
She can budge equally in the shadow
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer into a whole full number!

Hops up her first step she looks for ‘the all’
the complete whole the absolute one Allah.
Time and again she steps up but finds no floor
Her measured step by default lays on 360-degree circle
Scans all things at the first go still finds no bottom!

The first luminary masculine peace be upon him
first looks in the open she takes the veiled angle.
Through the evermore pi decimal micro-hole
She looks on and witnesses the first water drop
surfaces up without a base without a roof on top!
It follows through truly the copy of the original
softly springing around the serene water paints  
of all the maters to be created from this first drop.
Fathima looks at it and veils withdraws her reflection.

It’s still remembered in the sky that follows suit.  
First, a star was born stepping in Fathima’s shoe.
It tried so did the full set of the galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds a bottom.
Because amidst this water circle floats the first soil.
Allah called it His house that He first created from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimage around it in the core
known as Ka’abah up to the heart of the earth it rose.

In the pre-designed world after the first masculine
the first feminine Fathima thus did the first pilgrimage.
She walked the walk did so in the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven on the hidden hand of the pi.
Every little fraction, the small decimal does it count
connects to the dot without showing up a pattern
Long live, long live the digital charisma is on the rise!

Retracing time and again the sun rises in the median lane,
yet the black box scores it's only a dark chart at the end of the day!
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary-dip
It pulls all, the mighty sea that the earth can't
and sync in the feminine water cycle but save only one
with Fathima floating out of the box it can’t link up!

Like millions, ever wonder where Fathima’s grave is?
The earth strived too to the death bite to print her footprint!
Most of the mass visiting Medina look too see the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been a tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown. Reportedly she wanted her grave to remain unidentified.
King Panda Jan 2018
gnaw red your bone
in the aliform of dream
this

allocation of my
guts spreads lips
onto stained paint buckets
I

never meant for
us to be beautiful
adding

music
to every line
that came out
your mouth—

a moth-springing
butterfly
its

wings no longer
dusted but

dried and wasteful.

it was the
paradox of doubt
and

I cried through
painkiller night
Sana Jan 2015
My heart I bequeath you
O’ stillness of my universe
I bequeath you my sanity
Spreading this cloak of being in your dust
I bow to your twinkling stars
To the waxing sun and scented grass
I bow to your springing rivers
To the parched grain and blossoming flowers
I bow to the warmth of my lover
And want of my beloved
I bow to your saccharine figs
And honeyed nectar in chalice filled
I bequeath my mortality to your transiency
Blinded by this light in game of ruse
Into your cohesiveness, I fuse
In blinkers to win the race
Espying a king in glass
Presage of being a slave

Yet when darkness falls
I furl my cloak and solemnly rise
For I bow not then
To your barren fields and waning suns
I bow not to your garish colors,
To the cloying drupe and wilted blossoms
Bracing my feeble transience
With my tenet and trail of faith
I bow to the King of kings;
Whilst I beseech for emanating hope,
In my tigers clasp, my God’s rope
I beseech,
Till the noise becomes music again
And as I gaze in the glass now,
All I espy is a beseeching slave
True, the brightest light casts the darkest shadow but it is in darkest that brightest embers can be found.
"Inside the womb, silence whispers;
Darkness wombs the light
Raging storms give birth to light"

Our fate is storm,
We are the light
We are the raging storm
patty m Nov 2014
Outside my garden wall, traffic swishes, yet in this place of rock and sand, cool moss and good earth, I lose myself in reflection.

secret shadow land
my deeper self plants firmly
spreading family roots


bird feeder robbers
springing from the sweet gum tree
three playful squirrels

even in chill air
splashing sounds twitter loudly
when birds come to bathe

Precious relics are buried here. Baby teeth collected by the tooth fairy, a tiny lock of baby's hair symbolic of her first haircut.
Crystals, quartz,  a single silver button, and spider webs gossamer as silk

lines drawn in the sand
speak a language all their own
whispering softly.

Autumn days warm as butter quickly change to chilly nights.  
While I, a contented cat enjoy a cornucopia of earthy colors and pungent scents; Chrysanthemums, lilies and wheat, surrounded by harvest candles, their flickering teases shadow as it dances across the wall.
*
Mums and marigolds
help to brighten hearth and heart
mini-suns glowing

Happiness is abandoned nests, the fledglings gone having found their wings.  For now I'll claim them and set them among the stone elves and tiny pumpkins.


One perfect blue egg
alone in deserted nest
dreaming it can fly

Wind's echoing rasp meets soft night's descent sending eveyone closer to the fire.  It's too early for snow, but the scent is in the air.  A polar vortex is what they're calling this fast exchange from fall to winter chill.  

*
outside the windows
tree monsters flail their limbs
lashing and thrashing

Little eyes are getting sleepy.  Time for prayers and a bedtime story, then kisses as she's tucked warmly into bed.


as today concludes
I sit alone with my thoughts
sipping strong black tea

unconscious bounty
poem seedlings blossoming
grace a tired mind


sleep and renewal
met with a dusting of snow
on the evergreens.


Even as I clear away snow from the sidewalks, the birds gather hoping for my gift of peanuts and bread. .  
Feathered friends you know when I open the door, all gathering to sing your morning songs from the eves and bushes.  
Your joyousness is contagious and I too hum a song enjoying the crisp feel of the cold. .

Glorious new day
the rapture of whiteness sings
hymns of renewal
*
Tiny footprints trail
disappearing in bushes
softly fluttering
Haibun is a form that includes diary entries and haiku to further enhance the moment.  This is a repost but I've amended certain segments and added more haiku.  To all who read me, I say thank you for your comments and thoughts.  I hope you enjoy my small snapshots of time and vision.  
big hugs
Patty
"Can I see you yesterday?"
Kisses fall like painter's snow
On oil laced canvases of grey
On brillant blue.
"Can I see you a week ago?"
Lips on lips and breath on breath
Sunlight picks up the autumn glow
On satin skin.
"Can I see you a month before?"
Hands entwine in summer blaze
Tingling sweat trickles slow
On breast pressed
"A year, can I see you a year past?"
Springing florals dense damp earth
Neck stretched filled with scent
On nibbled kiss
Brown eyes to brown eyes
Time on time
Tell me you're mine
"I'm yours."
My usual question, "when can I see you again?" I rephrased, "when do you want to see me again?"
KNOWER Nov 2014
We're all just a massive mess of energy
A beautiful, massive mess
And that's just the brilliance of it!

Times and times retold of our divinity,
Of our ancestors painted by the stars,
Of glory untold
And oh the glory!
That you may see it
Or even hear the echoes of its glorious memory resound across the heavens
And the loftiest of them all being our mind
Singular, not plural
For we have but the same mind
That we are moved by the same passions
That we are subtly subject to change
Oh, our malleable souls!

That we aspire for the Heavens
So we may get to soar freely
And yet dance to tunes of a heathen kind
Such is the hypocrisy that we've been raised to uphold as daily norm
None being the lesser!

For had it not been so, then with God you'd be this very moment
As Master, nature springing to your tunes
That you'll master all as Did SoloMon
Tense just being one of our many creations

So through this wake up call,
I beg all of you to arise from your deep slumbers
Your virtual realities whose bounds you artfully set with decided deliberation upon your mind
Wake up and see that you are infinite!
Wake up and see that you are divine!
Wake up and see that you are gods!
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”

“just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?

cause be-ing
just
is a **** good one

way back in March
wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and
a good story telling
way of seeing and the
secret sauce-way
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well words,
for I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes
of young poets

words welling springing from between
the oohs and ahs and the damns -
I wish I had wrote that...

so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you,
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?

and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?

use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:

“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”

so write with that window light on and
wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...
to read you rightly

6/25/18
10:25PM
Marla Mar 31
Spirits and omens
Invade my field of sight
Bearing premonitions.
Their offerings
Often include
Thread-bare strands of
Wisdom,
Like the dregs of some forgotten brew
Springing hotly
From a leaking ***.

Charming haunts
Leave daunting jaunts
For those that can see
What others can't believe.
Shysta Jul 2018
i've been gone for too long
stopped for sometime;

ran out of words
             out of emotions or maybe feelings

of a deep, pitch black void inside of me.


but, it feels different now
as if i'm whole, maybe mended;

        i enjoy lying on my bed on a sunday morning
             as the sun spears my eye,
                      it doesn't hurt anymore.


i wrote a letter to myself after a long time,
and the first sentence was a happy one, surprisingly;

          i wrote about a new jacket i bought the other day,
                about filling my basket with flowers i killed,
                      only to keep them alive in my books.


i feel a change within me, a new spirit, rush
springing up in me, wanting to explode

            everywhere,
            

and honestly-
for the first time,
          
           i feel as if i'm back
          
                                 back and alive;
Valsa George May 2016
Unexpected…..
So unexpected was the meeting
It was in the dim candle light
of a city restaurant that I saw her
How time had etched its marks on her
The long dark curly hair
has turned all white
The even set of pearly teeth
now discolored with missing gaps.
A weeping willow with gnarled branches!

Did she recognize me?
Her searching eyes registered
a limp awareness
Soon I saw her cataract eyes shining
in unclouded recognition!

My memory like the arm of a crane
lowered to plough up the hard crust of the past
and rose with heaps of broken rubble
I nosedived into the past
to the little village
where, as children we ran round
the long necked shady trees
until our little heads went dizzy

Stealing behind the tall grass
how I would suddenly yell out;
‘The thief is in hide
Come and track me if you can’
forcing on her an arduous search,
all the while giggling at her vain efforts!

How we ran after the ripe mangoes
that fell in ones and twos
when the winds shook the fruit laden boughs
and how we quarreled over the yellow ones
like mongrels over a piece of bone

I remember once when the drizzle
suddenly strengthened into a heavy down pour
with thunder and lightning accompanying,
how we ran dripping and frightened
seeking shelter in the empty cow shed
at the backyard of a house,
clasping tight to each other!
She was then a little girl
with springing feet and dancing steps
naïve and naughty with all mouth and ears

But as time skipped by
she kept a safe distance
No more I saw the former ebullience in her
In its place, a quiet reserve settled in
The chatterbox no more opened her mouth
To my questions, her answers were mono syllables
My efforts to walk by her side
always ended in futility
either she would quicken her gait
or lag behind at snail’s pace
Seeing me somewhere
she would walk away with eyes down cast
But I always noticed a faint smile
lingering on her curved narrow lips

Around it, I built my dream castle
where she reigned as my dazzling queen!
I am not sure how it was with her
One day even without an abrupt goodbye
I had to leave my hometown to an alien soil.

For long, she came, sailing in my dreams!

After a couple of years when I returned
to the land of my childhood
the mute witness to my unuttered passion
I knew from a close friend
that she was forced into a marriage
much to her consternation!
She is reported to have confided to someone
that she hoped the ‘thief who stole her heart
would one day, come out of hiding’

We met again
We heard each other’s cracked voice
and stood unable to recollect all

Much water had flown down
under the bridge
And we floated in the rush of currents!
This poem has to be understood in the light of the highly orthodox milieu of an Indian village of the time between 1960's and 70's when no computer or internet facility was available. There was a lot of segregation between the sexes and no free mingling was allowed. So there was no open expression of love. In a society where arranged marriage was preferred, even falling in love before marriage was seen as a taboo !
KM Hanslik Nov 2018
There are flowers springing from my bones
in places they were never planted
fracture my skull and call it apathy
I say pain is a better road than dying alone;
can't you see the way my vision is blurred,
squinted too long at the sun now I think I've done damage
burned holes in my corneas before the age of 21, but those are just
surface things, right?
the road feels a lot longer when the cold air hits all my soft spots, like my neck so I cover it up
pooling all my efforts into growing thicker blood that will keep my skin warm
;keep kissing bruises on my arms, thinking that love will heal each new halfhearted attempt at self-sabotage
or manage the leftover evidence;
did somebody forget their brakelights on?
I'm trying to figure out how to get these needles out of my head
rocket science, learning to reverse detonate what might be left
in my system
system check, leaving sticky residue
behind me in my heavy concave tracks
softly trailing back
gotta learn to do it right the first time before I backtrack
my ears ringing like a sound clap;
bringing up old war wounds like we've lost gives us some sense of entitlement
things we don't want to lack,
leave the last stack
where I can mull over the aftermath
digging graves for those who are still alive,
burn my skin tonight
burn it right off my bones so I'll know I'm alive
still kicking like the second round
the afterthought that realizes what went down the first time
don't let me out of the house tonight,
god knows what I might find.
Nat Lipstadt May 3
the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles

a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children,
shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing,
jumping in and out of a fountain pool
of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building,
the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls
the untimely end of the babies of last year,
lost to wanderlust on York Avenue,
cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering,
but new spring is the season of new birth

the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts
unusual pink flowers
well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree,
a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree,
we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed,
in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover
will bring us a winter fin finale

the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide,
the youngers are skipping the interregnum season,
going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings,
voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism
aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in
medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket,
decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed,
all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted

the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries
of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out,
a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale,
guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity,
the children desert happily their wintery confinement,
by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead,
their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break

Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays,
more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of *******, of staying warm, staving off winter *******, and winter planting for spring harvesting

children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place
grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal,
so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored
toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of
sporting *****, as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8?

all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets,
vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished,
to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds,
letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms,
naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward
into the party of life by inhaling nature’s

nature.
5-3-19  606pm
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
"THE EARTH IS LIKE A CHILD THAT KNOWS POEMS BY HEART"

The night
had stuffed the dark

into every crevice
of the house

and his life
awoke to a big blue sky

holding a crocus
in the palm of its morning.

The world was springing
into being

all around him
as if existence had

changed its mind and
decided to stay.

A solitary oak
reached a gnarled hand

and snatched a cloud
( that happened to be passing by )

out of the air
just like that.

The cloud struggled
to break free.

The oak gave a hearty laugh
and let it go.

The cloud scurried away
fretfully looking over its shoulder.

"So, what kept ya?"
he asked spring.

Spring...just smiled.
Riffing on Rilke's lovely line!


Spring has come back again. The Earth is
like a child that’s got poems by heart;
so many poems, so many verses,
patient toil winning her prizes at last.
Strict, the old teacher. We loved the whiteness
in the old gentleman’s beard, its bright snow.
Now when we ask what the green, what the blue is,
Earth knows the answer, has learned it. She knows.

Earth, you’re on holiday, lucky one: play now!
Play with us children! We’ll try to catch you.
Glad, joyous Earth! The gladdest must win.

Every lesson the old teacher taught her,
all that is printed in roots and laborious
stems: now she sings it! Listen, Earth sings!

Rainer Maria Rilke; translated by Stephen Cohn
B L Sep 2018
I've been trying to see the in-between;
The overlap in separation...
                            I want to see what can't be seen.
                            I want to embody imagination.

"That's a tough way to go." They say,
                    "You shouldn't try so hard to know."
But a river is a tough thing to stop,
                                   So I just let the water flow.

Because you don't come upon an idea...
You always start from within it,
Both springing forth and unfolding,
From their inception, until it's finished.

Your ideas, as you are, are intricately connected
To a place where no thing exists without a purpose...
No answer without a question.

The question and answer, you see, exist in simultaneity...
Born from the same concept; they are stuck together, forever, genetically.
Monika Layke Aug 4
I hear echos down the halls
Drum beats anchor the caverns
Singing voices to my soul

They are not all gentle
Or alike sweeping through the
Post

Through my eyes,
Wide crimson
Nostrils and dragon legs clean as
Crystalline
Know this is freedom
Springing
From the soil, she can breathe—
Gabriel burnS Dec 2018
bare bore-feet tread as one, the ore of Eurekan stone,
bearing belief in the Philosopher’s;
drilling the marrow of the underskull mine
never stopping to wipe a forehead,
and yet, never a chore
as the springing of sweat
dried up long ago
drained with the dread
People keep saying
“You should fight for your love “
But it still feels so unnatural to me
Such a disconnected thing to utter
so archaic this notion of fighting
as if I held the key
to universal order

Why would I aspire to such arrogant a feat

You must understand that when I think of love
I am engulfed with joy and warmth
that I cannot fathom war
so stop trying to send me into battle
I do not want to join the Calvary

Instead, I am placing my heavy shield, weapons and armament down among the flora
springing into life

‘Tis is a celebration in disguise watching him walk away faithfully
into the thicket,
eyes closed but in the direction
of his true
inward self
Now, why would I fight that
Evan Stephens Jul 22
White roses hook sleeves
in a hot rain park
as we hurry to leave
a new fringing dark
of clouded eaves.
I drink mezcal, you sip
soft wine, we kiss
at the bar as storms slip
through streeted air
with a springing hiss.
Lightning lashes bare
angles of pink night.
We lean close, share
Sunday's appetite.
sheila sharpe Aug 20
Gwyneth is your name  
meaning “White blessed”
from an ancient Celtic Kingdom
a name echoing long past times
of lush green valleys
of place names like lilting hymns
You were once a child exploring life
then a young woman, then a wife
I see now a simple paper cup
tea and biscuit melded by
a daughter’s loving hands
I see now your pure white hair
from your bowed scalp springing
listening to voices lifted in song
happy memories bringing
your hands are freckled
now a tissue’d cover for frail bones
that once cradled your daughter
who now steadies the
spooned comfort
as your lips mouth
the remembered words

Gwyneth
a name, a person, a life
a daughter’s love exemplified
forever held now in my mind
a poem describing a daughter's attentiveness to her mother at a weekly singing group I attend with my husband, daughter and my grandson who has cerebral palsy.  The daughter's love was beautiful to see.  The Mother's name was Gwyneth
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