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Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
On the very edge the living earth
dared to replicate Queen Fathima
The Queen of Heaven’s footstep.
That way is bedewed the destination de jour
graced by thousands of prophets of God!

In the name of Allah she descended
on the Night of Ascension.
From the Night of Measures unlike the rest
none can enumerate it yet an unnumbered zone
in the perfect geometrised transcended location.  

The earth steps in the gap making way for her:
The only asymmetric golden ratio
Slips out to the symmetric prophet flock!
Sequenced in symmetric phi she moves on
in the veil, reveals her unique divine relation,
the front burner for sure is ever closer to God!

So pretty classy she is the paragon work of art
the sunrise amidst the eternal night.
Her beauty in her shadow is burning fire.
She is 'Zahra' pure light the luminary dynamo
the only one woman had no shadow!

The great women flocked and mirrored the earth.
Treading across every atom on that angle
perfectly aligned down the Moon.
Until those beneath the skin atoms
bang, explode, on approaching the behemoth,
the vibration beneath Fathima’s foot!

The ocean billows up
feels life on the high
floating on the clouds.
Choreographed like a little dew
hanging low on the rose.
Just to drop down on that hot spot
like a cool honey drop.

Even the Moon on the horizon
fancies to sip from this drop.
Ah, the lunar punter is rowing down.
The sleeping beauty wakes up
eyes are on the silver dance.
Eying on every star in the night
the Moon is floating down.
The seven seas sing out in the dark
bubbling with exuberant fireflies
that would gleefully rock the moonlight boat
over to the cup of this pretty little drop.  

Poetry in motion is a sea on the ground
the same is known as the Moon in the sky!
The storylines jump ever more
on that way over the shady grove.
Painting the colour of the winds
the sky rains down on that spot
singing the sweetest title song.  

Never was a woman prophet of God
to the one primitive woman, the leading lady
'Sayeedatun Nessa' Queen Fathima
heaven is no secret, it is an open mirror!
For her heaven is made an open book
the first batch of houris came to be
tuning into mellifluous sounds of her toes.
The earth in its primitive water first moved on
bang, Big Bang, soon she drops in it her hair lock.
She's the hidden gem in the secret end of God!

For the planetary ebb and flow on the way heaven
the planet earth is the only stepping stone.
No matter how many times it tries on
there will still be an unturned stone.
Until the very one woman, the original
the Queen Fathima steps on.

Her presence connects the dots
the nadir and zenith perfectly line up
intersect into one grand perfect circle.
She will close it with the pi once for all
without a gap spilling new decimal.
Putting it all on the map ‘as above, so below’,
all in all, like it's in pure scientia scenario.

Heaven will open its grand door
where the queen will stand on.
No more reverse engineering physically
the original, Fathima will step on,
on the last turned stone.
From the one great woman
paradise starts from here on
from beneath the mother’s foot!
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.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
~for lovejunkie, who loved this poem best~

so many reasons,
so many stones
yet unturned,
for each poem
a season,
for every season,
a given reason

eyes, dimmer,
hearing, harder,
memories, ha,
disappear as fast as
footsteps upon
my island beach

this then
my log,
of places momentarily visited,
capturing the of,
of me,
the exactitude of
where, when and what
I felt

what felled me,
the long and lat,
of the attitudes
of breeze and currents,
the happenstance that carries
a desperate soul
eager and afraid
to remember


"how fragile we are"

so memorized records here,
for his storage and his places,
both filled and unfulfilled,


poems, nothing more,
flawed each,
product of a flawed man,

here, for all to see,
most of all,
for the man,
to see himself
when the eyes of his mind
at last be shuttered
4/11/16 8:04am nyc
Shah Fahad Sani Sep 2018
There is a chaos in my beats,
A sound of some sin keeps calling me
The elicited filth is blurring my vision
The guilt of my iniquitous deeds keeps visiting me!

A conflict is there, between my soul and body,
I am pulling away from myself to myself!
This pain in my heart keeps withering my poor soul!

In search of love, I left no stone unturned!
My toes are bruised while walking barefoot up to hills,
I've seen the thorns stuck in my skin and flesh!
O death! Come take me away from myself!!
Danielle Suzanne Mar 2017
I exhale.
One exhalation added
To the collective sigh of the sad
A sort of meditation
A sign of letting go
A surrender to the feeling
To the moment

I contemplate.
Repeated contemplation
Of every unturned stone
The groove in the record deepens
And the needle traps itself
The invitation of
Darkness is irresistible
emilienne 09 Jan 2017
Waves of remorse approach the shore
And recede back into the ocean once more
As these memories crash against the beach
I look back on what made me weak
I recall the bridges that I burned
And all the cards I left unturned
In this purgatory I will stay
No capacity for dismay
There is a poem by tay-anne called "The Only Lecture That Really Matters".  Tay's chilling quote from that piece, "Because a life lived in purgatory is better than one lived in hell" inspired me to write something with an atmosphere of apathy.
jim moore Dec 2016
Such brief pleasure
Your presence
The smell of your hair, your neck
I hold on for dear life

So many things left unsaid, undone
Pages unturned
Questions unasked
The curves of your body unexplored

The sensation of you, molded into me
In the late morning hours
In a strange place, an unknown bed
Left to remain in the imagination

The fear of feeling something
Got the better of me
The fear of feeling THAT feeling
Paralyzed me
ryn Aug 2014
Step into my universe
You'll see only words
In my mind, flurry of feathers
Hurricane of riled up birds.

They amass and circulate
Searching to break free
Storm of ink; doesn't abate
Bleed out for no one to see.

Hidden inside my heart
Forbidden words I long to convey
Teach me how to start
With you I foist to play.


Words veiled by silent secrecy,
Cloaked words I long to shout
Bordering the point of heresy
Tabooed words without doubt.

Almost an eternity I've whispered
With care and only hushed tones
Well kept secret undiscovered
Laying quiet under unturned stones.

Thought myself alone when I heard another
One that sings choral to my own
A mournful call that sang together
Grey melodies embodied in skin and bone.

The cravings of my heart
Your words I wish to fill
In my head occupies the biggest part
Our declaration's the only seal.

A vow you and I made
A love we wish to last forever
Dismissing that opportunities evade
Who would need a supporting paper.

Hidden softness within me
Only you can tap and enjoy
The only one that holds the key
Heart and mind meet to employ.


Our hearts, like kings, would've risen
Adorned and bejewelled on their crests
Let us sing in unrehearsed unison
Crowned words we've locked in our chests.



IamMsIves
rhymesmith
Written by Suckers for Rhymes - IamMsIves & Rhymesmith
ryn Nov 2018
O beautiful sunshine, may you beam
On a dishevelled soul as it may seem
Reach for the deepened crevices
Let light illuminate the darkness

O beautiful sunshine, may you bathe
Upon a weepy morn that wished you’d save
Let no mossful stone be left unturned
Let there be hope to those left spurned
Nina Kay Jul 2018
I've knocked for you on every door,
and opened mine to many an unwelcome guest.

I've searched for you in every face.
No stone was left unturned along my quest.

All of my life, I saught to find
the energy that only we
could possibly create  when fused together.

I didn't know the outfit that your soul would wear,
but I have known of you, perhaps forever.

I knew your touch would be the kiss of spring.
The sound of your approaching steps-my favourite song.

And when you took me in your arms,
I knew it's you I had awaited all along
Jen Jul 17
So many pages
In this story
Unturned
A soft wind
Blows in the window
It whispers,
"Was never meant to be."
"Leave it alone..."
Time to heal, again
To wait and see,
Hope for better memories
Licking my wounds
Picking myself up
Heart hurt but not dead
It deserves love
Time to keep turning
To the next pages
And move forward
In this story
Called life
Long story short... just returned from a trip to meet a person for the first time that I was talking to and thought might be my future husband who lives 3,100 miles away.  We met, were not compatible in real life...very complicated but it was very different than our long distance communications/phone calls.  I spent the majority of my time alone on the trip...If I ever meet someone far away again, he will definitely have to fly to me first.  Such is life. I've never been happier to see my cats.


I watched "The Greatest Showman" on the airplane home.  This song has been haunting me constantly...even had my own little solo session in my apartment. :-)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKEMBn_JdCE
Äŧül Jun 24
On every terrorist incident,
Leave they not a stone unturned,
And scream it without fail.

Why do they think of 7th heaven,
Heaven after killing so many,
Of the innocent people?

Undertakers of Ola they are,
******* commit dastardly acts,
Ever will they be able to gaze,
Right into their own eyes in a mirror?
Ola Who Uber is their warcry

Secondary acrostic.

My HP Poem #1747
©Atul Kaushal
Jesse stillwater Dec 2018
Mushrooms popping
up everywhere
moving pine-cones
like unturned stones
not even the weight
of lapsing maple leaves
can keep them down
as they reach up for sun

Four legged soul-mate
friskily passes them by
on her way to sparse
apples the deer didn't find
looking for a moment
to feel sun's slithering balm
where the mushrooms
bask in a warmhearted calm
Jesse — 2018
a walk outback
a minute ago near sunset
unnamed Apr 11
I'm the stone left unturned -
my vastness a paperweight
in his study
Truth Sep 2018
It exists.  One need just leave no stone unturned... relentless pursuit of truth.  Be a sleuth instead if jumping to conclusions...open minds unclouded can see with more than just the two eyes in their head.  The pineal gland, your third eye, hand in hand with intuition, the heart and a universal soul will lead you to that truth ......even if it hurts.
Liberté égalité fraternité
Sanprit Aditya Jul 2018
She waves by, like the glittering sunshine ,
Smile as enchanting as ever,
Makes me wonder and ponder why,
Why Some are just too deep for the world.

All qualities encompassed, vibrant as a color scheme,
Never left a stone unturned,
But humbler than anyone witnessed by me,
As some are just too deep for the world.

From the outside , she is cold,
Her depth is not seen by many,
Its only when u realise her heart’s of Gold,
That some are just too deep for the world.

Why to generalise, ill blatantly say,
You are a friend , people wish to keep hold of,
So no matter change, come time what may,
Coz its u who is just too deep for the world
Stop and think before
You take another step away
Consider what you leave behind
In venturing astray
Yet also what perhaps, you'd find
Out their beyond the known
You never know what self-discoveries
Are waiting to be shown
When they reveal themselves to you
You may be pleased
You left your home
Or may in longing to return to it
Get lost and feel alone
But the adventure
Yes, the journey
Is a lesson to be learned
So I exhort your curiosity
To leave no stone unturned
And never fear what could be under
Heaping piles of facile
Easy roads that expedite
This life
As merely a time trial
For the walk
Within the park is nice
But why not roll
Good fortune's dice
Just once or twice
C'mon and test your luck
And what your future has in store
Or what you make of it
In tirelessly
Searching,
Seeking more
Bob B Aug 2018
Watch out, or you will find that you're
On President Trump's Enemies List,
For democratic values and Donald
Trump cannot coexist.

Former CIA Director
John Brennan, now has learned
That when it comes to silencing critics,
Trump will leave no stone unturned.

After hearing Brennan's critical
Words, the angry Trump was stewing.
Bam! He revoked Brennan's security
Clearance despite no wrongdoing.

The crazed, vindictive leader called
John Brennan's behavior "erratic."
Muzzling the freedom of speech, Trump's
Becoming more autocratic.

The office of the presidency
Has never, ever been sullied so.
This vicious attack on our First Amendment
Rights is a terrible blow.

Trump accused Brennan of making
"Baseless charges." Real translation:
Brennan didn't hail Trump
With sycophantic adoration.

On Trump's list are others who
Might lose clearances as well.
Here his lack of integrity
And pettiness have no parallel.

Another motive for Trump's action
Is more diabolical yet:
He wants to strip the power away
From all people who might be a threat

Because of their connection to
The Russia probe. That makes sense.
As more dots are being connected,
The situation is growing tense.

While servile Republicans in Congress
Defend their despotic president,
Let Brennan's powerful words
Resound: "I will not relent."

-by Bob B (8-16-18)
Bob B Dec 2018
THIS poem is number 800
Of poems I've "published" on various sites.
You might golf, play tennis or paint;
Of me they merely say, "He writes."

Eight hundred poems are a lot
Of poems if you are keeping score.
But bear in mind that poets out there
Have written hundreds or thousands more.

Writing can become a passion--
Something that grasps your innermost being,
That vibrantly exposes your heart
When you try to express what you're seeing.

My approach is sometimes light-hearted
And playful if I am in the mood;
And yet I can be quite serious
And muse on something or ponder or brood.

I often write poems that tell a story.
Call them unsophisticated
If you wish, but frankly I say
Sophistication is overrated.

After observing the world around me,
I sit down and roll up my sleeves
To write, often focusing on
Some of my most annoying pet peeves,

Hypocrisy being ONE of them.
Oh, the slimy hypocrites ooze
Flagrant chicanery, fraud, and pretense,
And every day they're in the news.

Some say, "Leave no turn unstoned."
No, wait: I mean "stone unturned."
And no, you can't please everybody;
That's an important lesson I've learned.

If you've read all 800 poems,
I've taken up a lot of your time.
I hope you've found the journey worthwhile--
This journey through my verses in rhyme.

But if poetry's NOT your thing,
Do not worry; I understand.
You'll receive no criticism,
No reproof, no reprimand.

Therefore, if you've read this far,
Celebrate along with me
This little challenge. Raise your glass
And drink a toast to poetry!

-by Bob B (12-27-18)
Your nature is rather expressive
It creates dialogue in chirping happiness
Of birds climbing trees
But seemingly, doesn't lie in the height of apricot trees
In fallacies of piety
Like climbing from the apple flowers
To the suckling bees nestling in the flavor
Of the honey that comes from the *******
Of your breast that taste like apple and honey
As the petals of an aeolian wasp
Follow the areolar cusp
Hungering was part of the motivation
It was primal instinct of the ecstatic elation
So what about the leaves that turn brown
A Gilded crescent moon
Brings tawny owls in the night
Who can tread upon
But still see them leaves
Auric alchemy covering your ******
Like I can navigate your entire patina
Bodied with my left hand
Cupping your breast with the righteousness of writing
Now I'm ambidextrous
Teasing you with the tension
Of impressionism in my sensual seminar
Promising to pluck those flowers
I keep them in colored waters
So there's coruscating change
Within the cleft of the *******
Somehow I've found that to be trenchant theft
Of your virginity
There's more bliss in these pecks of mine
Except like woodpeckers pecking the bare-backs of fir trees
Inasmuch the resin falling
Keeping the Apollinaire's oil lamp of sin
Much alive
Earnestly timed
And the poetry reasonably alive
Romantically
A thought of fire in a rustic cage
Like Pandora's box
In the Coming of Age, mysteriously
There's more bliss in these perks of mine
Unlike aphrodisiacs in the sea
The Cupid's bow keeps
The aquiline philtrums intertwined
In pilfering perfection
Even in the decorum of our moaning
In the face of the coitus and chorus
The suspicion of Venus
Doesn't keep out the lust
Of the allegory
That included symbolic Folly
But Folly was just a face
Realizing the purpose of her
Was just exploring pleasure
Emanating with your caressing climate
To leave no leaves unturned
When it came to my gruntled grunts
Then came the ******
Unoccluded and unencumbered
Of every language, pulchritude placid
"Love flows away
As life itself is slow"-Le Pont Mirabeau, Guillaume Apollinaire
Yenson Jan 1
The  maddened thieves said we'll do your head in
Like the head was made in felony 'n deceits like theirs
Their connected Lunatic fringe says Paranoia is the thing
Like blameless innocent minds nurse anguish and fears
The festering Racist says hate, harass, degrade is our bling
The jealous 'n envious says we oppose, obstruck 'n no cheers
Simpletons bullies taunt torment abuse and hound to the brink
Brainwashed Rent-a-mob believe in the revolution of madness
Unhinged feminists says its war against a Pig don't you think

The bare-faced thieves  laugh and gloat in devilish pleasure
yeah, we want that ******* to suffer unbelievably and die
We have fooled all them stupid punters they're blindsided for sure
The poor patsy is as innocent as day, a nice gentle straight up guy
But he talks, knows too much, Joan 'n Kelly says he's too cocksure
Must think he's better than us, he turned us down so it's bye-bye
Too ****** real and good makes us criminals look like prize boor
So no mercy for saints, destroy his life and send him to the sky
Majority rules so get all the mob and call it a just war by the poor.
Purpose may be crafted out of nothing
Tools & Skills put to other uses

A Poet can write of Life
While searching for whatever amuses

Comfort in ageing is quietness
Inside where the doubts are clamouring

Peace is a mind filled with ripples
After a lifetime's endless hammering

Yes, the vistas of retirement are daunting
Left behind by a purposeful world

The book of one's life still open
But stuck on a page unturned

Sit back though and watch all the faces
Give labels and names to their expressions

See yourself walking beside them
Was that you? Were those your intentions?

It's the Noise I think is the problem
The white hiss that Time is leaking

But that noise is your system balancing
It is fresh air coming in and spring cleaning

Don't be staring ahead, just find a blank sheet
Put your name at the Bottom...
And fill it

This is not your Winter Of Discontent
But the Glorious Harvest of Autumn...
If you will it!
Thank you Lori Jones McCaffery for setting the seeds for this poem.

— The End —