What does this poem mean?

She asks me, what does my poetry mean?
Understanding my poetry is something earned
through it’s arduous journey from the shores of your mind
to the plateaus of your heart.

There is no right of passage, no words to honor here.
This poem is just a seductive container,
it’s contents manifest in your struggle to feel love and understanding
from the gift received, not the commodity purchased.

The true poet is the reader,
the alchemist, who can extricate the precious metal from dross.
I unravel my secrets through writing,
your secrets are the ribbons to be pulled from the package.

This poem is just soil,
you are the seed, the gardner, the rain and sun.
Whatever flower within you grows from it’s understanding
is known only by God, then you.

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Posted in Poems Beyond Their Words, poetry | 2 Comments

Broad shouldered lions

Corbis-IH212279

Broad shouldered lions
stand over the ocean’s quietude,
roaring thunder in the surf,
thudding sand laden questions
with salt soaked and matted paws.

Surly supplicants beseech the sea,
whose tides answer only to the sun and moon.
A lions home is the African veldt,
so, go home king of hearts…
The seeker leads and the answers follow.

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Waiting for Dr. Robbins

Absorbed with his iPAD, I’m fixated on his movements; scratching his nose, the glide of his finger over the touch screen.  My son’s shirt is exactly the same color and intensity of the indigo fish that are twitching in the micro-currents of a large coffin sized fish tank.  From somewhere in the waiting room, a wind tunnel of white noise encases me in sterile solitude.   It’s our third visit with Dr. Robbins who is leading the conspiracy to rewire his brain.  I say “our visit” as if someone else shares the brunt of responsibility, the guilt and condolences.  But it’s just me; his mother died a year ago this past January, leaving me to raise him and his sister.  We are sitting in the corner of the room with our computers; I am typing how a mother would be gently soothing him with long gentle strokes to fine textured hair.  He’s playing Mindcraft.  Our hands are busy computing with abandon… waiting for our brains to be rewired; his, by the smiling Dr. Robbin, mine, by the frowning of time.

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Journey Across the Bosphorus

bosphorus

There is a place where redolent memories sway
On the winds arriving from yesterday
From Remeli across to the Anadolu Feneri
Through the Bosphorus from Marmara to the Black sea
Voluminous vessels cross this straight
With treasured scents for a cargo of fate
Landing none too early and none too late
Just in time to empty the weight
Of thoughts on the shores of moments like this
That receive the waves that reminisce
His 99 names, or the One we seek
All truths reside in the heart we keep.

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Unseen Heart

proserpina

“You are sacred to Me,”
speaks a steep disembodied voice,
lifted by the lowly, rescued by the reed,
quenched by the eagle.
She has been delivered to the underworld
from sliding scree, into silence
from the long sigh of a still black flag
Hung for her Eros.
The one raised by no one,
Pounded into poet,
Scorched by doubt
and blessed with scars.
The doubting beloved is dancing
Despairing, the impossible possible.
Her solemn spin stirs open the rose petals
Far away in a waiting redolent garden
That is thirsting a tear from Proserpina,
wept for the company of a nightingale.
The beloved arrives with blood red wine.
“You are the sacred of the sacred
for your heart has eyes
I’ve no wings of fire, nor beast I be.
See my unseen heart
and I’ll return to Thee.”

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Posted in love poems, Poems Beyond Their Words, poetry | 1 Comment

Tend to the Lantern in Your Heart

lantern

I recently read an article which states that there is no “one” person who will fulfill us and that many couples initiate a union with a foundation based on each being “on their best behavior,” implying that over time blemishes tarnish bliss.  But optimistically, the article goes on to state that these couples should remain in the illusion (“lies”) and accept that nothing is 100% perfect.   One reaction to this is that exclusive relationships are unnecessary and that limiting oneself, may obscure the path, presuming you seek the path through another. These are significant emotional, spiritual, and physical considerations in our lives.

From the perspectives of Sufism, I find that the reconciling between “The ONE” and “the one” is a delicate and immensely profound and purposeful matter. Life (and loving others within it) is like hopping from stone to stone (human to human) through the unfathomable depths of the stream of True Love. The ultimate destination or purpose, for which life is only a metaphor to us poets, is unspeakable, silent, timeless, placeless. What is Fana Fillah without Baqaa Billah? Do the Dervish not whirl with one hand up and one down. Human love is centered on object based encounters, while divine love prospers in a “loving realm.”

We should behold, not “attach,” the one-ness of another in the reflection of our own “mirror.” Tending to the internal mirror as well as to the externals are of equal importance. I do not love or undress before a lover, rather I disclose unto myself in their presence. All around us, love is being reflected back. I see my lover as the moon: beautiful, one, whole, and reflecting the light of a sun that would otherwise blind my eyes were I to look directly at it. I’ve been blind in this way before I was born, so I’ve spent a lifetime pondering a higher form of vision… as a seeker.

The turn key to true love lies within a locked heart that is only opened from within – no one else can see the keyhole, let alone find and insert the key. I cannot help but love, God does the rest. There are never two exclusive lovers per se, only One and One; and the loving from this origin of another human, outlasts the lives of either earthly lover or their inter-relational chemical reactions; whether they stay or fly off to another.

There is no need for quantity or “extra lovers.” Whether one million moons or just one moon, a lover always reflects the true light we seek, but only if we open ourselves up to the origin and look with our hearts, rather than eyes. Do not seek a lover, instead seek to love; it’s amazing who you will find…and who will find you.

Your lantern is BOTH a beacon for others to find you, and the illumination you need to find them. Tend to the lantern my friends, tend to your lanterns.

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Posted in essay, love poems, Poems Beyond Their Words, poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Density of Absence

The density of absence is far more than that which is absent…

as such, it has it’s own gravitational pull

and so we fall toward the center

as if IT desires US.

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Poison on the Arrows Point

 

The only truth is the one that I choose,
and choose, and choose.
What then of these arrows
dipped in the elixir of delusion,
sent forth by the bow of truth?
Love may go awry,
but the archer always makes his mark.
We’ll sooner die from bleeding than
from the poison on the arrows point.
The universal adhesive for pairs who seek to be one,
is in whether each can endure being two.

 

(Revision in progress)

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A Sparrow Eats the Universe

http://en.cafa.com.cn/sparrow-god-funky-bird-ye-yongqing-2012-presented-by-longmen-art-projects-shanghai.html

http://en.cafa.com.cn/sparrow-god-funky-bird-ye-yongqing-2012-presented-by-longmen-art-projects-shanghai.html

If I knew who I’d be
by the last written line of this poem.
If I knew who’d sway, besotted, beside me
to lean in and catch the last word
of our maundering sobhet;
If this, I’d never have left
my Beloved’s company to begin with.

I crawled wild-eyed from the depths
of the inexplicable,
cold embers of abandoned age,
To go there.
To go to the tip
where the flame flickers
and breath burns.

The Beloved is the earth,
my awareness, roots.
If this,
then love is the water
flowing through the rock,
drawn up the vine
to fatten the grape.
This drunken dance
is a fruit harvest
We fools are the wine makers.
Who gets who intoxicated?

Bestami Bayazid said,
“I am the wine drinker and the wine and the cupbearer
I came for from Bayazid-ness as a snake from its skin.
Then I looked and saw that lover and beloved are one
I was the smith of my own self.
I am the throne and the footstool.
Your obedience to me greater than my obedience to you
I am the well-preserved tablet.
I saw the Kaaba walking around me.”

I say, I arrived in this place two sunsets back
but I did not have to travel to get here.
The earth makes its way around the sun on my behalf.
My journey is both a somber desert
and a purling rain forest
It is my pause that makes one or the other so.

A hungry sparrow hops cautiously through bread crumbs
strewn around a fat loaf of bread.
The feast is on the table, our hands in our pockets,
our mouths sealed shut,
bellies full of hesitation, we circle the spread.
Empty are the stores of those who
Cannot sate their hunger for truth.

The empty belly of a sparrow
sees the universe in a morsel of bread
So of what use is the whole loaf.

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Word is Metaphor

A word is a metered metaphor for a divine idea whose quality can only only be approximated through language.  The true truth to which it points, is unutterable, unfathomable; inaudible echoes caressing the ears of the heart.

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