AMBITION

 

stockcake

One day, an obscure youth, a wanderer,

Known but to a few, lay musing with himself

About the changes of his future life.

In that youth's heart, there dwelt the coal Ambition,

Burning and glowing; and he asked himself,

"Shall I, in time to come, be great and famed?"

Now soon an answer wild and mystical

Seemed to sound forth from out the depths of air;

And to the gazer's eye appeared a shape

Like one as of a cloud—and thus it spoke:

"O, many a panting, noble heart

Cherishes in its deep recess

The hope to win renown o'er earth

From Glory's prized caress.

"And some will win that envied goal,

And have their deeds known far and wide;

And some—by far the most—will sink

Down in oblivion's tide.

"But thou, who visions bright dost cull

From the imagination's store,

With dreams, such as the youthful dream

Of grandeur, love, and power,

"Fanciest that thou shalt build a name

And come to have the nations know

What conscious might dwells in the brain

That throbs beneath that brow?

"And see thick countless ranks of men

Fix upon thee their reverent gaze—

And listen to the plaudits loud

To thee that thousands raise?

"Weak, childish soul! the very place

That pride has made for folly's rest;

What thoughts, with vanity all rife,

Fill up thy heaving breast!

"At night, go view the solemn stars

Those wheeling worlds through time the same—

How puny seem the widest power,

The proudest mortal name!

"Think too, that all, lowly and rich,

Dull idiot mind and teeming sense,

Alike must sleep the endless sleep,

A hundred seasons hence.

"So frail one, never more repine,

Though thou livest on obscure, unknown;

Though after death unsought may be

Thy markless resting stone."

And as these accents dropped in the youth's ears

He felt him sick at heart; for many a month

His fancy had amused and charmed itself

With lofty aspirations, visions fair

Of what he might be. And it pierced him sore

To have his airy castles thus dashed down.

WALTER WHITMAN

Cowardice in Power

 

Fatih Berat Örer

A figure of authority, a mask of might

Hides behind a title, and a coward’s fright

Shouting at the innocent, with a voice so bold

But trembles at the thought, of facing the truth to be told

Their words are laced with venom, their actions cold as stone

Leaving scars that linger, long after the moment’s gone

But I see through the façade, the fear that they conceal

A coward’s heart beats weakly, beneath their pompous reveal

I refuse to sign, the papers of shame

I’ll stand up to the bully, and play the coward’s game

You threaten me with dismissal, with a voice so loud and clear

But I’ll take my stand, and show you what courage looks like, my dear

I’ll face the man who’s holding my pay

And demand the truth, in a voice that’s clear and gray

You may try to fire me, but I’ll not be tamed

For I know that courage, is not just a word, but a flame

That burns within my soul, a fire that never fades

Guiding me through darkness, and the coward’s charades

I’ll not be silenced, I’ll not be swayed

For I know that truth and justice, will find their way

You may have power, but I have a voice

A voice that speaks for justice, and a righteous choice

I’ll use it to confront, the coward’s disguise

And bring to light, the truth that they’ve denied

The coward’s mask will crack, the truth will be revealed

And those who stood up tall, will be the ones who are healed

Their courage will inspire, and their hearts will be free

And the world will be a better place, for all humanity.

Sibusiso Vincent

Saying no

 

archillect

Nobody likes to hear it,

‘no’ is not it, but ‘yes’ is their favorite,

Though a two-letter word,

It has more power than what I’ve heard,

I’m made into a bad person even though I’m not,

I’m then made into a liar right on the spot,

Because, I then say ‘yes’ to change the plot,

Hoping then after they will say ‘I forgot’,

They actually never will forget,

For it was what they wanted to hear,

Then I’m faced with great regret,

For from this siege, I want to disappear,

Situations like these don’t ever seem to end,

But only seems to happen over and over again,

I’ve learnt that it’s better to say ‘no’ than yes,

That way I wouldn’t have to be settling for less,

Terminating all wills and contracts of relationships,

Learning to say no to family, lovers and friends without having to feel like a witch,

Because one day they’ll all have to know,

That very deep down in my heart I actually wanted to say ‘no’.

Jahnella McDonald

A Touch of Woodland Time

 

ZOYA GREGORY

 In the vastness,

where time loosens

and the world opens its doors,

buried feelings rise

like spring water from dark earth.

Through the ridges and valleys of this life

we have come to one another,

and in that finding

there is a quiet joy

the body remembers

before the mind can speak.

I am no longer lost

in the maze of my own mind.

Beside you,

the old loneliness gives way,

and something in me awakes—

not innocent,

not perfect,

not unscarred,

but willing again

to be undone by light,

undone by love.

Cheek to cheek,

we move through meadows

and along the edges of streams.

I tuck sunlight

into your midnight dreams,

and for a little while

the day grows gentler around us.

Side by side,

we lift our faces

to the auroras,

their green fire wavering above us.

I kiss you slowly,

with intention,

as if each kiss

were a prayer laid

upon mortal skin.

We know

we are given only

a touch of woodland time—

brief as mist between the pines,

fading like warmth

left in the palm

after a hand has been held.

Flesh falters.

Blood cools.

One day

even your hand

will loosen from mine.

Perhaps that is why

I hold each caress so carefully,

as if love burns brightest

where it cannot remain.

The hour passes.

The light withdraws.

What we cherish most

is always passing through us.

And still—

or because of this—

I love you more fiercely,

more tenderly,

as though the heart,

knowing what the body cannot keep,

must answer

by opening all the way.

At twilight,

when the air turns blue

and the first stars appear,

we wander hand in hand

without needing to speak.

The path rises before us,

and still we go on,

drawn by that quiet knowing

that has followed us

through more than one lifetime.

If our hearts cannot speak,

what then shall we say?

What words could bear

this nearness,

this sorrow folded

inside every blessing,

this strange mercy

of being flesh and blood

and still daring

to love what will not remain?

Perhaps nothing.

Perhaps language fails

where the soul has already knelt.

Let us not ask

for foolish perfection.

Perhaps it is enough

that your hand finds mine

while there is still warmth in it.

Under silvered nights,

beneath Alhambra’s glow,

our hearts recover

their old rhythm,

as though they have known this music

long before this hour

and are only now remembering

what it asks of us.

Above us,

the stars continue

their patient shining.

Below them,

we stay close,

listening to each other breathe,

grateful for the small miracle

of being here together.

If there is a promise,

it lives here:

not that time will spare us,

not that the body will keep us,

but that love returns

to the breakable world

and asks again

to be trusted.

With every heartbeat,

it begins again.

It is still

your hand in mine—

brief,

mortal,

trembling,

and dearer for that.

Omniverse Traveler

Until Love Is All That Remains

  

Tumblr

When I lose myself in love,

the mind becomes a river,

winding through forests

like an unfinished argument,

touching ancient stones

that remember old storms,

embracing Mother Earth,

carrying leaves of ache

toward a sea it cannot name.

O infinite silence,

gather me into your loving arms,

where the heart becomes a shrine,

lit by an unquenchable flame

of longing I cannot command.

It speaks in prayers

carried by desire,

shaped and tempered

by lifetimes of salt and sorrow,

no longer asking to possess,

only to be emptied

until love is all that remains.

When I lose myself in love,

even the body bows—

the hands, the breath,

the trembling silence

between one heartbeat and the next.

And every word,

like an incense-carried prayer,

if pure enough,

if washed of pride,

if softened by grace,

longs to return home to God.

Omniverse Traveler

At the Feet of the Infinite

 

Tushar Khandelwal

 

At the feet of the Infinite,

lay down the burden of becoming.

Let the restless mind loosen its knots,

let the heart unclench its hidden grief,

let the soul remember what it was

before name,

before wound,

before longing,

before time.

Breathe—

Sweet morning rose.

Let us release this play of life.

Live, and let go.

Scatter the rosary in the pouring rain.

Perhaps I win the lover

and mourn the friend.

The stars are within reach,

a breath of heaven in thy heart,

a raft of light on a storm-tossed sea.

The ocean is not outside thee;

it rises and falls in the chamber of thy chest.

Every sorrow, 

every love, 

every farewell

is a wave returning to the boundless sea.

Breathe—

Sit like Siddhartha under the bodhi tree,

where time kneels before eternity,

where desire becomes prayer,

where the self dissolves like mist

beneath the first gold of dawn.

At the feet of the Infinite,

nothing is lost.

The beloved, 

the raven hair silvered in the wind,

the weeping in the dark,

the vanished years,

the unfinished song—

all are gathered into one endless light.

Be still.

Breathe—

and the universe breathes with thee.

Omniverse Traveler

Not as You Imagined

 

Lane Dorsey

My life,

my thoughts

are clouds crossing

the sky of consciousness.

Who am I?

Am I my thoughts,

my emotions,

my name,

my hunger to be seen?

The world teaches me

to add to myself.

I become a storehouse of things:

a title here,

a skill there,

another possession,

more riches,

more praise.

Yet, who am I?

I labor, I gain, I lose;

still I ask—

is it enough?

am I enough?

O my soul,

never let me go,

whispers the small self,

afraid to disappear.

Was joy in yesterday?

Shall I chase tomorrow?

What will they say?

What mask do I prepare

to meet the world?

Then, from the silence,

a voice said:

what you seek

lies behind the noise.

But still I cry,

I am special,

I am meaning,

I am the world—

until the sky answers:

yes,

but not as you imagined.

Omniverse Traveler

Ego

 

SetareRzb/Pexels

 I just didn’t get it—

even with the teacher holding an orange (the earth) in one hand

and a lemon (the moon) in the other,

her favorite student (the sun) standing behind her with a flashlight.

I just couldn’t grasp it—

this whole citrus universe, these bumpy planets revolving so slowly

no one could even see themselves moving.

I used to think if I could only concentrate hard enough

I could be the one person to feel what no one else could,

sense a small tug from the ground, a sky shift, the earth changing gears.

Even though I was only one mini-speck on a speck,

even though I was merely a pinprick in one goosebump on the orange,

I was sure then I was the most specially perceptive, perceptively sensitive.

I was sure then my mother was the only mother to snap,

“The world doesn’t revolve around you!”

The earth was fragile and mostly water,

just the way the orange was mostly water if you peeled it,

just the way I was mostly water if you peeled me.

Looking back on that third grade science demonstration,

I can understand why some people gave up on fame or religion or cures—

especially people who have an understanding

of the excruciating crawl of the world,

who have a well-developed sense of spatial reasoning

and the tininess that it is to be one of us.

But not me—even now I wouldn’t mind being god, the force

who spins the planets the way I spin a globe, a basketball, a yoyo.

I wouldn’t mind being that teacher who chooses the fruit,

or that favorite kid who gives the moon its glow.     

Denise Duhamel

in, Queen for a Day

Bone

 

Tinnakorn

From One

who says, "Don't cry.

You'll like it after a while."

and Two who tells you thank-you

after the fact and can't look at your face.

To Three who pays for your breakfast

and a cab home

and your mother's rent.

To Four

who says,

"But you felt so good

I didn't know how to stop."

To Five who says giving your body

is tough

but something you do very well.

To Six

Who smells of tobacco

and says "Come on, I can feel that

you love this."

To those who feel bad in the morning yes,

some feel bad in the morning

and sometimes they tell you

you want it

and sometimes you think that you do.

Thank heavens you're resetting

ever

setting and

Resetting

How else do you sew up the tears?

How else can the body survive?

Yrsa Daley-Ward

in, Bone

'The Lordly Rape'

 

Farah Siddiquie

And then I was raped…

Trust is where it all started,

Giving way to his rains of emotions.

Drinking a glass of entertainment;

He promised me ‘love’.

Barely being the medicine to overcome all my pains,

He intrigued.

Just as the distance between glowing coals.

Closest when he came, I sensed the uncertainty was about to happen.

He smelled me, the animal in him was very new.

I reacted to his abnormality.

He shut my lips kissing me hard.

That’s not how the first kiss should be.

With his hands behind my head and corpulent body pushed against me.

Dry lips, chapped skin, bruised kiss, dry love

He was so sure, so confident and so distinct.

That his loathing eyes discovered me in full.

His tampering hands pounced my bust harder than ever,

His claws were like birds of prey

As if I was the last piece of his bread, and he didn’t want to delay.

The perpetrator parted my legs and came in

Cold blood ran through my spine

Mourning with élan,

I was unable to protest against ‘the animal’ in him.

While he was busy taking the flavour of my cream

It was my first time and he dug me deep

Wondering how rigorous lethal uncouth one could be

Forgetting his ambit.

I wished I could give a loud scream

But my hands were tied,

Honestly, I couldn’t move my legs.

Only I was able to feel the blood clots

And him kissing me tip to toe, licking me everywhere,

Without missing the opportunity he wrapped me like a silk cover,

Played me like a toy;

Ignoring the convoluted look on my face, he went on exploring me

Enjoying every push in between my legs

The need of his body seemed to reach the aisle.

I squirmed against the hegemonic animal

He knew not what ‘love’ was all about,

By then he was all a pernicious lynch.

Mastering the flame of hope I wished to tame the world, ‘the beauty of love’;

So that they would not have despoiled to gain

But sure enough, I never wanted to be loved like this.

Neither the pleasure could defeat the pain.

All I was left with was a sore breast, an eaten clitoris.

And myself in the bed lain.

That night, I looked up to the sky

With sad eyes,

The sky seemed so tragically beautiful.

Quilted memories, half-swallowed truth, prolonged journey, sullen songs

Some bitter, corroded, tasteless stories

Plunged into my head.

I talked to myself, “I must learn to live without tears.

I must not complain.

I must find my own strength to bear this alone.

We are cultured and civilised.”

I smiled at the moon and murmured, “Life is beautiful”. 

Nibedita Sen

Sugar coated words

 

Aung Myo

Some days I welcome the frost in the mirror,

too unbreakable to reflect crystal thoughts,

Stones rattling for each word thrown in discarded arrogance,

Barely skimming the surface as I casually toss them aside.

Some days I am on the run,

A fake criminal with no record, only the sentence has already been given,

Judge and jury lining up one by one

Ready to hurtle sugar coated undertones of narrative, silent accusations.

However far away I am sent,

Through the raging underbelly of a swirling mist or banished to the darkest corners,

I still exist                                                                                

I am ready.

I have survived!

Elizabeth Shane

in, Behind the Mask

Insomnia

 

Alex Brzezinski

o, for the old unconscious days when

     i hopped out of bed

at 7 A.M.

     not knowing how glad i was

to be repressed, 

to be unaware

    of my miserable

marriage,

    how glad to be lonely but

out of touch

with myself.

o, those great busy times

    when i was young and woke

    without memory of a dream,

no traces

of the inner shipwreck —

    no debris, no drowned

animals, no ark torn

to pieces by

         the powerful storms of night.

    could anyone have told me then 

of the nights

i would spend,

    all these years, 

haunted by

opaque dreams, an obscure 

    and heavy darkness?

         and yet, here we are, 

old, tender insomnia,

beyond acquaintanceship, 

    friends now,

watching middle-of-the-night tv together, 

    susceptible to ordering

    strange items from infomercials, 

    hoping this, finally,

    will aid our sleep.

but possibly 

we don’t want

         to sleep anymore, not

the old way. we

         want to wake up for real,

or at least to dream

    the clear vibrating images

that struggle upward from

    the depths —

dreams with stallions and

    who knows what else.

but no, that sounds too 

dramatic. it’s more mundane 

than that.

we have our job

         to do now. we 

have an ocean to empty

bucket by bucket,

         to find the bottom 

and the old ark

and all those dead two-by-two animals 

in need of decent burial.

    yes, that’s insomnia. it’s 

being

    the last surviving animal 

of your kind.

    so get up and stumble through 

the dark and pee and sort through 

your e-mail

    and eat something and possibly 

masturbate and then remember 

your original task

    and get your bucket

and see if you can empty the ocean 

and find another

    of your kind down there, even 

a dead one.

    no. that’s just an odd, 

feeble joke. we’re

not laughing tonight. 

there’s no strange animal 

down there. it’s

    a small boy flailing

    his arms in the huge surf of 

the dark. he’s waiting for me,

    and I barely recognize him. 

anyway, he hasn’t given up, and 

the waves lift and suck him under,

    over and over,

and that’s it.

Pablo Neruda

The Scapegoat

 

kieferpix

We have all of us read how the Israelites fled 

From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, 

And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup" 

When the waters rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. 

The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" 

That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. 

You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -- 

Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro". 

For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears 

In deserts with never a famine to follow by, 

The Israelite horde went roaming abroad 

Like so many sundowners "out on the wallaby". 

When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, 

Was dying, he murmured, "A rorty old hoss you are: 

I give you command of the whole of the band" -- 

And handed the Government over to Joshua. 

But Moses told 'em before he died, 

"Wherever you are, whatever betide, 

Every year as the time draws near 

By lot or by rote choose you a goat, 

And let the high priest confess on the beast 

The sins of the people the worst and the least, 

Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer. 

Because all your sins are 'his troubles' in future. 

Then lead him away to the wilderness black 

To die with the weight of your sins on his back: 

Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, 

For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" 

'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity 

This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. 

By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, 

Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, 

Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, 

Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate; 

Just here let us note -- Did they choose their best goat? 

It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture 

By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a 

Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose 

Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. 

In fact I should think he was one of their weediest: 

'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, 

When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; 

Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers 

Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, 

That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers. 

Be that as it may, as each year passed away, 

a scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted 

With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) 

And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated. 

The day it has come, with trumpet and drum. 

With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb 

They lead the old billy-goat off to his doom: 

On every hand a reverend band, 

Prophets and preachers and elders stand 

And the oldest rabbi, with a tear in his eye, 

Delivers a sermon to all standing by. 

(We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he 

No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) 

The sermon was marked by a deal of humility 

And pointed the fact, with no end of ability. 

That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, 

And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. 

Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat 

And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, 

Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. 

With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- 

"Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, 

The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" 

Then signs to his pal "for to let the brute go". 

(That "pal" as I've heard, is an elegant word, 

Derived from the Persian "Palaykhur" or "Pallaghur"), 

As the scapegoat strains and tugs at the reins 

The Rabbi yells rapidly, "Let her go, Gallagher!" 

The animal, freed from all restraint 

Lowered his head, made a kind of feint, 

And charged straight at that elderly saint. 

So fierce his attack and so very severe, it 

Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, 

Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it. 

The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, 

A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", 

Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", 

And made a beeline back again to the camp. 

The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast 

So gallantly making his way to the east, 

Says he, "From the tents may I never more roam again 

If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. 

He's hurrying, too! This never will do. 

Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. 

After all our confessions, so openly granted, 

He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. 

We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, 

If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" 

He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, 

A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. 

"Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, 

And drive back the brute to the desert again. 

The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids will frown on you, 

From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you -- 

Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you." 

So Abraham ran, like a man did he go for him, 

But the goat made it clear each time he drew near 

That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him. 

The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- 

"Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- 

And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, 

The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. 

The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, 

And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! 

He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!" 

But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. 

('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), 

"It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be 

A good thing for someone to take up the running." 

As soon said as done, they started to run -- 

The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns 

All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, 

And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. 

And then it came out, as the rabble and rout 

Streamed over the desert with many a shout -- 

The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, 

Had been in his youth a bold metallician, 

And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, 

"Any price Abraham! Evens the field!" 

Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, 

And Abraham proved him an "even time" man, 

But the goat -- now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on -- 

Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' 

And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. 

Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp 

Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, 

And paling and wall he plasters them all, 

"I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says, 

The pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills" 

"Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all 

Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; 

Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! 

Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children and all, 

For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!!" 

Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side 

Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement! 

One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" 

And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. 

His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, 

But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste. 

With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, 

The people came back from the desert in dread. 

"The goat -- was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?" 

In very short order they got plenty word of him. 

In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, 

"The trail of the serpent was over them all." 

A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter 

Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter". 

The bill-sticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, 

The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; 

He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, 

But his latest achievement most anger arouses, 

For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, 

One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flow'r-bed, 

Discovered him eating the Rabbi's geraniums. 

Moral 

The moral is patent to all the beholders -- 

Don't shift your own sins on to other folks' shoulders; 

Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, 

Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them: 

Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst, 

But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. 

Remember, no matter how far you may roam 

That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens, 

Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". 

Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, 

And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it, 

But, die in the wilderness! Don't you believe it!

Sylvia Plath