The Gift of Love

 

Raja Tilkian

 Love follows me around

until I turn towards it

and see my own face

shining inside this Heart.

Love walks away

and leaves me alone,

but only when I close my eyes to it

and wonder where it is.

For Love is always beaming it’s glow

no matter if I come or go,

it is always loving me,

living me,

being what it is, through me

in perfect glory and attention.

There is nothing else I could do

but dance with it,

praising “thank you”

and feel it’s beautiful warmth.

There is really no place to go

no thing to comprehend

when the feeling heart is full

and when I am a fool for it.

I go mad with love,

crazy for it’s current.

It pulses inside these veins

and moves the body triumphant.

I must shout it out from rooftops,

quickly grab the one beside me.

See, see! Can’t you feel it too?

My eyes alive with fire,

my heart melting in its heat,

this jubilee is You as Me

and Us as It.

Can’t you See?

This is It,

This is All there Is!

Jim Tolles

The Red Poppy

 

 Kukuh Nugroho

The great thing

is not having

a mind. Feelings:

oh, I have those; they

govern me. I have

a lord in heaven

called the sun, and open

for him, showing him

the fire of my own heart, fire

like his presence.

What could such glory be

if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters,

were you like me once, long ago,

before you were human? Did you

permit yourselves

to open once, who would never

open again? Because in truth

I am speaking now

the way you do. I speak

because I am shattered.

Louise Glück

in, The Wild Iris

Poppies

  

Santiaga

The poppies send up their

orange flares; swaying

in the wind, their congregations

are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin

and lacy leaves.

There isn’t a place

in this world that doesn’t

sooner or later drown

in the indigos of darkness,

but now, for a while,

the roughage

shines like a miracle

as it floats above everything

with its yellow hair.

Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade

from hooking forward—

of course

loss is the great lesson.

But I also say this: that light

is an invitation

to happiness,

and that happiness,

when it’s done right,

is a kind of holiness,

palpable and redemptive.

Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,

I am washed and washed

in the river

of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—

what can you do

about it—

deep, blue night?

Mary Oliver

There Are Birds Here

 

Herb Bailey



 

There are birds here,

so many birds here

is what I was trying to say

when they said those birds were metaphors

for what is trapped

between buildings

and buildings. No.

The birds are here

to root around for bread

the girl’s hands tear

and toss like confetti. No,

I don’t mean the bread is torn like cotton,

I said confetti, and no

not the confetti

a tank can make of a building.

I mean the confetti

a boy can’t stop smiling about

and no his smile isn’t much

like a skeleton at all. And no

his neighborhood is not like a war zone.

I am trying to say

his neighborhood

is as tattered and feathered

as anything else,

as shadow pierced by sun

and light parted

by shadow-dance as anything else,

but they won’t stop saying

how lovely the ruins,

how ruined the lovely

children must be in that birdless city.

Jamaal May

in, The Big Book of Exit Strategies

The Bat

 

Nichole Sobecki

Sleek, faery creature,

Strange freak of Nature

That through the twilight comes and goes,

Could we the mystery

Of thy life's history

Resolve, and learn what no man knows,

From what weird forces,

What hidden sources,

Thy winged soul sprang into being

Then might we clearly

Divine more nearly

The world that lies beyond our seeing.

Quaint, mimic angel!

Thy new evangel

Disclose, and share it now with me,

While through the gloaming

Thus lightly roaming,

Thou flittest round this old oak tree;

Tell me what Ages,

What Cosmic stages,

Evolved thy Spirit in the Past;

The far stars glisten,—

Speak, for I listen;

Teach me the Wisdom that thou hast.

Nay, spectral flitter,

Where glow-worms glitter,

Thou art more silent than the sphinx;

Through eras ended

Thou hast descended

Down from the sphere of 'missing links',—

Like pterodactyl

Thy race runs back till

The distance foils our dazèd sight,

To prehistoric,

Rude, allegoric,

Brute offspring of the Infinite.

The Past hath vanished,

From memory banished,

What of the Future canst thou tell?

In words aesthetic,

Sage and prophetic,

Our doubting and our fears dispel;

When life is over

Shall Darkness cover

Thy twilight wanderings with the Night,—

Or from Death's portal

Wilt thou immortal

Speed forth into the realm of light?

Mute mystic rover!

Could we discover

Thy wisdom though thou answer'st not,

There is no human,

Or man or woman,

But hath the knowledge thou hast got;

We know we know not!

The gods bestow not

On thee a wider, clearer view;—

Thou art surrounded,

On all sides bounded,

By thine own ignorance,—adieu!

 S. Waddington

On Houses

 Eric Kim

Then a mason came forth and said, Speak to us of Houses.

     And he answered and said:

     Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.

     For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.

     Your house is your larger body.

     It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? and dreaming, leave the city for a grove or hill-top?

     Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.

     Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

     But these things are not yet to be.

     In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.

     And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?

     Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

     Have you rememberances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?

     Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?

     Tell me, have you these in your houses?

     Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?

     Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

     Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

     It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

     It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

     Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

     But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.

     Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.

     It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.

     You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.

     You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.

     And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.

     For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

Kahlil Gibran

in, The Prophet 

 

The Coming of the Ship

 

StockCake

Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn unto his own day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth.

     And in the twelfth year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward; and he beheld his ship coming with the mist.

     Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.

     But as he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart:

     How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.

     Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart of his pain and his aloneness without regret?

     Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.

     It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.

     Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst.

     Yet I cannot tarry longer.

     The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.

     For, to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.

     Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?

     A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that gave it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.

     And along and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun

     Now when he reached the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the sea, and he saw his ship approaching the harbor, and upon her prow the mariners, the men of his own land.

     And his soul cried out to them, and he said:

     Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides,

     How often have you sailed in my dreams. and now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.

     Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.

     Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,

     And then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.

     And you, vast sea, sleepless mother,

     Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,

     Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,

     And then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

     And as he walked he saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening towards the city gates.

     And he heard their voices calling his name, and shouting from field to field telling one another of the coming of the ship.

     And he said to himself:

     Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?

     And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?

     And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in midfurrow, or to him who has stopped the wheel of his winepress?

     Shall my heart become a tree heavy-laden with fruit that I may gather and give unto them?

     And shall my desires flow like a fountain that I may fill their cups?

     Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me

     A seeker of silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?

     If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed the seed, and in what unremembered seasons?

     If this indeed be the hour in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame that shall burn therein.

     Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,

     And the guardian of the night shall fill it with oil and he shall light it also.

     These things he said in words But much in his heart remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.

     And when he entered into the city all the people came to meet him, and they were crying out to him as with one voice.

     And the elders of the city stood forth and said:

     Go not yet away from us.

     A noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to dream.

     No stranger are you among us, nor a guest, but our sun and our dearly beloved.

     Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.

     And the priests and the priestesses said unto him:

     Let not the waves of the sea separates us now, and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory.

     You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our faces.

     Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled.

     Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.

     And ever has it been  that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

     And others came also and entreated him. But he answered them not. He only bent his head; and those who stood near saw his tears falling upon his breast.

     And he and the people proceeded towards the great square before the temple.

     And there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra. And she was a seeress.

     And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had first sought and believed in him when he had been but a day in their city.

     And she hailed him, saying:

     Prophet of God, in quest of the uttermost, long have you searched the distances for your ship.

     And now your ship has come, and you must needs go.

     Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you.

     Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth.

     And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish.

     In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep.

     Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and death.

     And he answered,

     People of Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving within your souls?

Kahlil Gibran 

in, The Prophet

On Self-Knowledge

 

Free Stock

And a man said, Speak to us of Self-Knowledge.

And he answered, saying:

Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights.

But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart’s knowledge.

You would know in words that which you have always known in thought.

You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams.

And it is well you should.

The hidden well-spring of your soul must needs rise and run murmuring to the sea;

And the treasure of your infinite depths would be revealed to your eyes.

But let there be no scales ot weigh your unknown treasure;

And seek not the depths of your knowledge with staff or sounding line.

For self is a sea boundless and measureless.

Say not, “I have found the truth,” but rather, “I have found a truth.” 

Say not, "I have found the path of the soul.” Say rather, “I have met the soul walking upon my path.”

For the soul walks upon all paths.

The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.

The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.

Kahlil Gibran

in, The Prophet

Self Satisfied Lust

 

freepik

Her cheeks heat

At the first sign of lust.

Her palms, they itch

With the need just to touch.

Her bottom lip, slick and bruised,

Caught between her anxious teeth,

The only sign of need

As her fingers dance lower.

Her breath catches lightly

As her fingertips drag,

Down past her curves

To the place where she

Aches the most.

The slick slide of fingers

Causing her toes and stomach

To curl,

Skin flushed with heat

As her shining lips part

In a choked off moan.

Thoughts and fingers

Moving quickly,

Shoving her toward

Release,

Pulling her under waves

Of needwantdesire.

Her back arched

Wantonly,

As her eyes flutter shut

The pleasurepainpleasure

Of too much and

Not enough

Causing her moans

To jump in volume.

Fingers curling between

Aching thighs,

And her body trembling

While pleasure crashes over her.

Erica

The Encounter

 

freepik

You came to the side of the bed

and sat staring at me.

Then you kissed me-I felt

hot wax on my forehead.

I wanted it to leave a mark:

that’s how I knew I loved you.

Because I wanted to be burned, stamped,

to have something in the end-

I drew the gown over my head;

a red flush covered my face and shoulders.

It will run its course, the course of fire,

setting a cold coin on the forehead, between the eyes.

You lay beside me; your hand moved over my face

as though you had felt it also-

you must have known, then, how I wanted you.

We will always know that, you and I.

The proof will be my body.

Louise Gluck

in,  The Triumph of Achilles

Orphan Lamb

 

pngtree

A black lamb centered in a green field,

his thin breathed-into sides confirming

his bereft call for milk amongst the bedraggled

white fleeced mothers, looking on,

who stood and watched, not hearing

‘plaintive’ or ‘lost’ or ‘waiting to be fed’

but the cry of another mother’s son

needing to find his own way back

to the flow-source of milk and the warm

fleece hug of his mother’s belly

swaying above the teat. They would stand

above his black skeletal form beneath the trees

dropping their heads to drive him off

and stamp and turn again, nudging their own

half hesitant, half happy lambs away.

We walked the fields an hour looking

for a mother standing alone or with a single lamb,

the burnt sun falling to a misted light,

the trees become silhouettes, black as the lamb itself,

our eyes and ears in the crowded field

bent to the ancient prayer rising around us,

the evensong of grief and motherhood,

call and response, wanting and not wanting,

the church bell call of a passing rook

sounding the hour as the last pale

just burnt gold of a cloud framed

our shadows, walking the lit vale

toward the car, toward loss, toward

something in our low disappointed voices

trying to remember from childhood both

the sense of source and the act of being pushed away,

where we were wanted and where we were not.

In the end, we took him home, to a waiting mother

who had lost her own, penned in a barn,

her grown head turned away in the wooden crush

so the lamb could drink and hours later

in the sweet hay strewn dark of the enclosing barn

the mother ewe could smell her own milk

tasted through the lamb’s own breath

their mutual life come to life by self-recognition,

the black lamb pulling mightily at the dugs

as the mother looked on, as we looked on,

and looked at one another

passing the tiny airline bottle,

the faint breath of whisky from our nip

misting and pluming in the half-lit barn.

The single, full malt taste of something met,

a breathing through in the chest, a way of coming to

and of tasting again, the essence of wanting to live,

something paid for by our seeking and our patience,

just a tang, a hint, a mere breath in the glow light,

of being born again.

David Whyte

in, The Bell and the Blackbird

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