a tribute to Rumi #18

I mention in my sidebar that Rumi is my favorite poet. I write poems in the style of his longing for the Beloved. If you would like to read the other seventeen poems in the series click here for the category list, and scroll down.

“Why does the Beloved turn us inside out?”

my heart frozen by her glance
I retreat to pray

a shutter bangs
halo of candlelight licks wrinkled seams

fatigue and fear etched by wind
grit sparkles in coarse beard

deep desert merciless
no matter how seasoned
flash flood sweeps both camels and men to the afterlife
but soon

when sand drinks as a thirsty beggar
the Beloved displays compassion and love
vast carpets bloom
more colorful and ornate
than the most skilled weaver looms

retiring sun embraces devout
robes of persimmon and blood
violets and lemons

diamond stars on ebony velvet
bring killing frost

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a tribute to Rumi #17

I mention in my sidebar that Rumi is my favorite poet. I write poems in the style of his longing for the Beloved. If you would like to read the other sixteen poems in the series click here for the category list, and scroll down.

“Snow capped mountains shrink under sun’s glare”

the facts are not in doubt
adjudication moves with typical
torpidity like glaciers in the
high peaks it grinds away
precedent to gravel and dust
that day the fruit was splendid
waxed and polished seductively winked
sliced samples artfully displayed
for discrete tasting of flesh
the purchaser acknowledges
selected each bagged and
transported promptly yet
like so many men’s souls
when cracked under pressure
every center was rotten
infested with vermin and worms
caveat emptor
a lesson hammered home by
tramping legions of eagles
does your pulse not quicken to
sense the Beloved in every
sinuous and sensual curve of
ripe mouthwatering produce
can we not marvel at perfection
of form and function yet still
curse the failure of human
cultivation of honesty
that lesson we never seem to learn
hide the vice within and loudly
proclaim devotion to the heavens

a tribute to Rumi #16

I mention in my sidebar that Rumi is my favorite poet. I write poems in the style of his longing for the Beloved. If you would like to read the other fifteen poems in the series click here for the category list, and scroll down.

“The taxes never fix the roads”

on the path, between bloody infant
squalling at being ripped from the Garden,
and drooling troubadour compelled
to repeat the same tale from dawn
to dusk, lies obstacles large and small.

lies, yes indeed, lies are the hallmark
of imperfection, of uneven truths denied,
denied as we trudge through existence
lashed by lust, harried by hunger,
thrashed by thirst, we stumble and fall.

thirst for love, knowledge, friendship,
all at one time or another, denied
for the sake of expediency, or shame,
or relatives of relative obscurity
claim status, protection behind a wall.

on the path, some seek spiritual
help, resigned to grasping officials
corrupt rulers, destitute kingdoms
crushed by more soldiers, wealth for
war, the taxes do not fix the roads,
for the Beloved does not make us crawl.

The Daily Post prompt

Uneven: ORIGIN Old English ‘unefen’ ‘not corresponding exactly’

a tribute to Rumi #15

I mention in my sidebar that Rumi is my favorite poet. I wrote a number of poems in tribute to his longing for the Beloved. This poem was my first attempt at Rumi-esque style. I wrote it years ago while waiting to be called in to do a stress test for my heart. Nothing was found, just work and life. The poem is rather overwrought but I am fond of it nevertheless. If you would like to read the other fourteen poems in the series click here for the category list.

“Fear, Unknown”

Whorls on your palm
Swirling galaxies,
Lines of demarcation leading to
Infinity.

Can you see?

The faint blue highways;
commerce bustling, all with
Duties.
An all-night dinner.

Each cell that was
Created
Understands what to do.

Instinct?
Programmed?

They just know!

Look at your palm
See how it holds your fingers
from escaping into the
Universe!

Of a time, they flee
Straining against unjust
Captivity,
Longing for a life.

A life far away from mortal cares.

Look at your thumb, proud
Meaty.
That word meaty.
What does it mean?

Should we care?

Jutting upright, arrogant
Dominion!
Over the offending digits
Fighting
It’s territory, the expanse
of taut skin.
Taxing the traffic, on the
Blue Highways.

Look at your wrist
Forgotten, alone.
Merely a junction between
Form and
Abuse!

Whorls on your palm
Frozen for the eternity that is
Your
Life!

Live it Well.

a tribute to Rumi #14

I mention in my sidebar that Rumi is my favorite poet. I wrote a number of poems in tribute to his longing for the Beloved.

“Present under the tree”

Scent of fir, can one who is blind still smell? What then of my
heart… as it beats, slowly in time to the Word scattered.
Scattered on backdrop of jet, pure white letters, they
are writ in the night sky. By day hidden, hidden from
us and withheld in a fringed purse of softest blue.

How then can I see? When resplendent beams dazzle my
eyes and confuse me?

So much commerce, such a din. How
can you taste God when the feast is so wretched?

You… you there… you have touched me. You have, you cannot deny. Cannot
turn your face from I… I have seen your glory and hope.

I have seen.

Though…

of late, I am weary…
am weary of the present… it seems interminable.

What am I to do?

Tell me!

This soul is part of you, but if I could not see, or hear, or taste, or touch
or smell you,
would then my soul, our souls still be? Illiterate… and unknowing, do
words, our words capture? Or are we
enslaved?

Shadows in the Universe we are, boastful and cruel. How can this be?
What made us this way? Can I not touch? How so, if I cannot touch self?
To be present… at my birth… what a wonderful moment that will be!

No more words, but sweet life, gulping breaths of the headiest draught
when I am free of cares and desires, when I… no longer am I…

but returned

to you.

You, who wait for all.

a tribute to Rumi #13

I mention in my sidebar that Rumi is my favorite poet. I wrote a number of poems in tribute to his longing for the Beloved.

“No one does melancholy right”

I fancied I could sense the haze rising from the peppercorns.
There.
In the market.
Old men and older women.
Dark brown leather.
Etched seams filled with dust.
High-pitched wails beseeching my attention and coin.
I saw none of this.
My eyes downcast refused to acknowledge wisdom.
Sympathy.
Understanding.
All was there for my salvation.
Failure met success and I shied.
Without my robe.
My staff.
Me.
I was nothing.
A spirit not of this world.
I could not reach out and none turned from their labors to say:
The man who tries to change his destiny through emulation of another should study instead how the peppercorn simultaneously burns and transforms simple mash into manna worthy of gold platters served to the mightiest leader ever foretold.

a tribute to Rumi #12

I mention in my sidebar that Rumi is my favorite poet. I wrote a number of poems in tribute to his longing for the Beloved. This one is new for The Daily Post prompt.

“I strain daily to reach You”

must I always reach over Beloved?
cannot we meet halfway?
my prayers ~ sent on leaden feet ~ march
over spiritual bridge to Your ears
I strain
listen
the echoes fade ~ birds wing freely
bereft
I gaze down
cloud-mapped stars ripple in
somber procession
the silence
breeze bears witness
tear plops ~ fish rises
we both are disappointed

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the arch of wooden beam though
reminds me
my thumbs ~ your curvature of spine
delicate vertebrae
bridge of skull and hip
yet when gripped ~ mounted
precious gift
strength fluidly combined
our fervent cries rise as flame to heaven
passionate prayers to the Beloved
consummation crosses over
at our peaks ~ our souls entwined
a touch of the Divine
we are heard
we are One

Click the category link and scroll down to read all the Rumi poems.

Authors note: Without getting into personal beliefs or politics or comparative studies of sex and religion [Wikipedia does that] most if not all faiths consider respectful and consensual sexual congress between married partners to be a form of prayer and worship and a bridge to God.

Another bridge poem for d’Verse “over the Thames to link millenniums” posted Oct 31st.