see the simpleton,
lying on his belly in the dust…

Night’s River

Where do you come from, where do you go,
When the light fades at evening and night’s river comes in?
Will you swim, will you drown, surrender your crown,
Or die from the loss that comes with each win?

What will you do and what will you say,
When the cold light of morning starts having its way?
Will you laugh, will you cry, raise your fists to the sky,
When the memories of home start fading away?

Where do you come from, where do you go,
When you’re caught in the great River’s undertow?
Will you fight, will you kill, surrender your will;
Will you make your new home way down here below?

I’ve come down from the mountain to a world full of fears,
To the sound of wailing and the crying of tears.
And the Lord of this land took me in hand;
Saying, “Take what you want, I’ll stay all arrears!”

I’ve been out on the green, hoeing my row,
Sowing the seeds and helping them grow.
And with each crop I learn to rotate and burn,
And with each season past, I’ve something to show.

I’ve come across oceans, I’ve come across plains,
I’ve ridden the turbulent winds and rains;
From summit to summit, from bourn to bourn…
With you forever I will remain!

O’ Rose!

O’ rose so wan, I do declare;
Why hang your head in such despair?
You used to be so strong and bold,
Until the invisible worm took hold.

O’ Rose so red, rose so rare,
Raise your head and say your prayer;
Let your fragrance fill the air,
And the worm be driven from its lair!

destiny determines the
conditions at one’s birth,
free will is what we do
with those conditions

no man is ever
completely right,
nor is any man
ever completely wrong

forget the world, become the
king and ruler of your own life

love is not a matter of belief,
but of demonstration

a hairsbreadth of difference
divides heaven and earth

those who love me
love me for what I am,
those who hate me
hate me for what I am not

OK, time for some humour, originally written for one of my children, lol;

Things Used to Smell So Bad

things used to smell so bad,
but now it’s just as well;
you know I’m kinda glad,
I’ve lost my sense of smell

things used to smell so bad,
every time I tried,
to be your Galahad,
I almost bloody died!

things used to be so bad,
that old familiar smell;
would find its way to me,
someone it knew so well

things used to smell so bad,
I’d end up outa synch;
far worse than compost bins,
or even kitchen sinks

things used to smell so bad,
I had to run away,
it used to make me sad,
‘round three or four each day

things used to smell so bad,
but now it’s just as well;
you know I’m kinda glad,
I’ve lost my sense of smell!

I’ve lifted the following four short poems from The Saker’s
Moveable Feast Cafe, circa January, 2021. The lines flowed
forth from a number of friends who took up my suggested
exercise of writing a short poem about love.

teranam 13

Love as a Verb

Love is not trite –
beats not its own drum –
silently does what needs
to be done.

At times it is tough
doing what’s best,
When Robin kicks
Junior, out of the nest

Anonymous

love’s homework

how fine are these new verses two
that do what’s right for me and you

and love cannot be trite
manifesting God’s might

perfection is all too alone
the fledgeling robin’s flown

onto my garden bower
singing to every flower

roses are red and violets are blue,
two’s company and three are too!

ioan

I’d like to be there
fly around and sing
and that, from all
my love and heart

forgetting sadness, tears,
the loneliness in night

when, at the end at least,
everything is light,
when the residents will be
only kids like you and me.

Dimitar

love is sincere, love is true,
love is the best medicine for you

sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet,
sometimes it’ll knock you off your feet

and just when you think you’ve used it all up…
love will appear and fill your cup!

Becca Stevens and the Secret Trio*; “California” Written by Paul Curerri, arrangement Becca Stevens and Michael League

* Bitola’s own Ismail Lumanovski on Clarinet

Becca Stevens – “I’ve known about Paul Curerri’s music for a long time, and this song has always been my favorite of his. I learned how to play the guitar part a few years ago and made a demo of it for a friend of mine as a gift. During the early stages of this album I threw this in my “writing scraps” folder just for fun. I was surprised to hear that Michael not only knows Paul’s music as well, but that Michael’s brother grew up playing music with Paul. Due to injuries, Paul Curreri is no longer able to play these songs himself, and it was very important to Michael and I that we do this arrangement justice. We love the contrast between California’s normal idealized identity as the land of hope and opportunity and Paul’s biting lyrics about the emptiness in the struggle.”

Dear friends, I am staring down the barrel of an upcoming crossing of swords, and will need every ounce of strength, wit and focus I can muster. I will therefore return here to the Cornucopia in approximately a month’s time, at the latest. Apologies for the cryptic preamble, but at this point, the less said the better. In the meantime, I will leave you with this extended poem, a veiled, albeit thinly, recounting of an encounter with one of those beings that are caught between the worlds, and which, as it turned out, I was destined to move on (to where ever it needed to be )… Thanks all for enduring my company thus far.

The Demon In The Room

I awoke that night in a cold dark sweat,
My head pounding, my body wet.
It was plain to see I was some kind of threat
To the demon in the room, so hard beset!

I’d been running at length and needed too rest,
To regain my strength and get back to my best.
“Rooms are all full”, she said, off the cuff,
“‘Cept for one out back, if you’re desperate enough.”

Now, I’m seeing double, my head in a spin,
There’s the strangest feeling in the room I’m in;
Cedar smoke I remember, and the deathly cold,
Before suddenly waking in a full chokehold!

I could feel its hatred, its murderous will,
Its suffocating grip as it went for the kill;
The pall was heavy and cold as lead,
In the room with the demon on top of my head!

Thus enwreathed, I held off doom,
Struggling to breathe in the twilight gloom;
Far away a mighty host
Heard the cry; O’ Holy Ghost!

Out of the whirling, blinding moil,
For a moment then, the thing recoiled;
I seized the respite and began to declare,
The most sacred of names and pure of prayers!

Looking for a place to lay my head,
I stumbled onto a succubus instead;
No one had ever made it through a single night,
No one had ever had the stomach for a fight!

As the night wore on, my strength increased;
Its assaults were absorbed and then released.
It had no answer to the Holy Name;
No trespass offering, no blood payment came.

By dawn its world had been displaced,
Its bed despoiled, its bower disgraced;
Finally accepting all that it feared,
With an angry fist it disappeared.

I slept the next day and all the next night,
I slept like a babe till the morning light.
When at last they came with water and bread;
“Can’t believe you’re alive”, was all they said.

Well, the moon was high on the night they wed,
Till her lover was killed in this very bed.
On him she stored what wealth she had,
In days long gone, before these last so bad…

I’d been running at length and needed to rest,
Regain my strength, get back to my best.
“This one’s on the house”, she said in her way,
As I thanked her and left, blessing the day.

Thank you Dimitar for your poems. Wishing you peace and blessings. Hopefully you will be back sooner than later.

https://space4peace.blogspot.com/2024/04/sunday-song-with-bonus.html

Evidently the “Tipperary” phase odf the war for the world is already over>  https://youtu.be/7nmHKn7vSZo

Es ist an der Zeit – Reinhard Mey + Konstantin Wecker

Any Law We Want

Alarming old tale. 1995  Early October, I believe, and humid, hot as Hell

A big diesel brought a 25 foot sailboat into the storage and repair boatyard. Incongruous little boat on a transporter trailer.The truck raised the hot dust

A dirt lot with ratty old shop sheds. A nervous young woman came too. She was from the State. A silly and frivolous girl, fresh from her training. She was out of place, alien – even in a place where all sorts of people work on their old boats.

The State lays claim to the estates of those who die, especially those poor and alone, unless there’s a proper will. And who can say in the case of a corpse found rotting, alone, in a moored boat? The silly girl wanted that boat for herself, and cheap. Naturally no will was found.  A self-confessed malfeasance, larceny in fact. A swindle. That the intended was a crime was not evident to her. The heavy automatic in her purse, well! A foolish alien stranger with a big gun, and from the State! Curious…

The yard forklift put the boat onto keel blocks,  old Andy got down and hammered wedges in crib block on old wrinkled drums, steadying the balance. The transporter pulled away with black smoke and faded.

She discovered that there was no way to get aboard. Hey you!

I shuffled away, Hey you! it came louder. The tease had worked… I turned and stood, looking at her.

How can I get on board?

You didn’t bring a ladder? Laughing at her, and her damned purse. Just like hooking a catfish.

She followed me like a whining puppy, chattering as I pretended to look.

Over the shoulder: What’s the gun for, most people don’t think there’s much need for a gun in a boatyard. Nope, no ladder here, we’ll look over there.

She opened like a book. Told me about her hiring and training and how she had to “deal with” dangerous men in her job…

That’s great! Shoot any yet?  Nope, that ladder’s gone too, well over in the old foundry shed…

Maybe the sarcasm registered a little, and we were alone in a dusty unused, gloom with bright rays through the decayed roof…nope no ladder. She was getting really nervous… I led her back to the boat, and she became effusive, a little, not aware of the manipulation, unaware on her interrogation. Maybe she sensed some my contempt, I don’t know.

Then began her justification. She chanted bullet points from training…

By the boat, arms now on hips, head back, looking up at me, she demanded You know why America is the best Country in the world, in all history?

(This was a bit shocking as a non-sequitur, and the proposition was absurd. But she was simply continuing to repeat what she’d been trained.)

No, why?

Because we can make any law we want!

Oh! Yes, of course! I hadn’t though of that. But doesn’t the basic law actually limit what government is permitted to do?

Maybe a long time ago…Now we make any law we want…

Well, they do…don’t they?

ENDE

(to my best recollection that’s all true. She did return a few weeks later, and found the boat ruined, worthless, the rains had come, and the thin hull filled, the boat had settled heavy on her supports, until one punched through. But she did bring a ladder.)

Hi, All. I took a little time out of my schedule this week past to write the following poem. I have added the second poem, to alleviate the somewhat dark mood of the first. Love in Spirit to you all, D.

bye bye sun,
It’s been a fine day,
but now the night’s turn has come

lay down your fiddle,
lay down your bow,
hark to the beat of the drum…

The Torturer

A skeleton dances a dance macabre,
Atop the fevered, blood-spattered skull;
As the torturer fingers a gleaming barb,
His quarry’s head limp, eyes glazed and dull…

O’ torturer, o’ torturer, how fast do I fade,
How deliberate your stride, how so undismayed;
Your’s the sting of the whip and the bite of the blade,
Mine to concede how I’ve been played.

’Tis not I, o’ wretch, the hand that lays waste;
’Tis not I sought counsel of fools and ingrates.
’Tis not I that ravaged the innocent and chaste,
’Tis not I that chanced to tempt the all-fates.

O’ torturer, o’ torturer, oh so on point,
Were I none the wiser, were I so adroit;
My body to the dogs, my soul to anoint,
O’ grant me this mercy, that I may exploit!

Black is the craw of a life gone awry;
A dying man’s wish I’Il not deign to deny.
Know that your road I’ll thus fortify…
Wherever tears flow there mercy flows nigh!

07 05 2024

Craw; a less common word for crop, archaic

Mercy

Mercy marks thy way with ease,
When all else tried but failed the test.
Soiled pride bends the knee
And disappears to take its rest.

Mercy marks thy way with poise,
When angry face, no longer red –
Tired of its endless ploys,
And temper tried, is put to bed.

Mercy marks thy way with grace,
With all resistance fading fast;
That foiled fear takes its place,
And new winged life be born at last.

Mercy marks thy way with peace,
When all forbearance comes undone.
And all love’s ways that are Thy Ways
Reveal their shining face as one!

HUuu

Houshang ebtehaj poems in farsi and english

Arghavan, a branch separated from its tree,
What color is your sky today?
Is the weather sunny,
Or is it still caught in gloom?

I am in this corner, detached from the world,
No sun shines upon me,
I have no news of spring.
All I see are walls,
Oh, this intense darkness,
It is so close
That when I try to take a breath from my chest,
It turns it back, locking me in a flightless path,
Within just one step.
A wounded soul like a sick lamp,
The night weaver narrates a tale of darkness.

I feel suffocated,
As if even the air is imprisoned here.
Whatever is with me here,
The color of joy has faded.
The sun never rises,
Not even a glimmer of hope.
In the corner of the eye,
This pain does not let go of forgetfulness.
Forgotten and silent in this corner,
Like a candle extinguished by a cold breath.
A colorful wind stirs in my memory,
Bringing tears to my eyes.

Arghavan is there,
Arghavan is alone,
Arghavan is crying…
Just like my bleeding heart,
Every moment, tears fall from my eyes.

Arghavan,
What mystery is it that every spring,
With the mourning of our hearts, it arrives?
The earth every year is tinged with the blood of swallows,
And this adds wound upon wound to the hearts of the burned ones.

Arghavan,
the earth’s claws are bloody,
Embrace the morning’s hem.
Ask the riders of the galloping sun,
Who passes by this pain and sorrow?
Arghavan, a cluster of blood,
In the early morning when doves
Begin their cooing by the window,
Take the colorful soul in your hand.
Carry it to the theater of flight.
Ah, hurry, as even the flying ones
Are concerned about their grief.

Arghavan,
hoist the crimson flag of spring,
You are my blood-stained poem.
Keep the memory of my colorful companions
Upon your tongue.
Sing the unsung melody of mine,
Arghavan, a branch separated from its tree, I remain…
I am sitting by the door, looking outside,
The window sighs,
From which path do you arrive?

The thought of seeing you was so delightful,
My youth has grown old in this hope,
You didn’t come, and it became late…
I am that cloud eager to rain,
My heart is longing for tears.

My heart is lonely, a stranger in this door and plain,
Does not know where to find its resting place.
One night, it embraced spring,
What fires, what fires it ignited.
I recited my own tale to his ear,
Like the tears of spring, it shed tears.

His sad eyes gazed upon me,
Drop by drop, tears rolled from his eyelashes,
A tremor fell upon his lofty locks,
Under his sorrowful lips, he chanted.
The clanking of chains on my hands,
I said to him:
“When they break apart from each other,”
A bitter smile appeared on his lips, and he said:
“It’s a captivating desire, but alas,
Fate has tied my excitement to this hope.”
And that golden boat of the sun,
Crashed against the rocks of the western shore.

I shuddered at the bitterness of the pain,
My heart wept with his heart.
I said to him:
“Look at this blind sea,
The eye of every star is a shining boat.”
He raised his head toward the sky and said:
“The eye of every star is a shining boat,
But this night is also a deep sea,
Oh, alas, the fleeing night pulls
The spell of night in their sleep.”
I said to him:
“The lantern of the moon
Shows the way to wakefulness from your eyes.”

He said:
“But in this night, it’s so enigmatic,
No melody reaches the ears.”
I said to him:
“But my heart is beating,
Listen, for it is the sound of his footsteps.”

He said:
“Oh, sorrowful in this deathtrap,
They capture a fresh prey again.
It is the sound of his footsteps,
A cry of despair fell upon me,
Amidst the tears, I asked him:
“What is the most delightful smile?”
A flame blossomed in his dark eyes,
A surge of blood erupted on his cheeks.
He said:
“The smile of triumphant love,
At the moment of dying, it shows on the lips of brave men.”
I rose with a shout,
And I kissed him….

dear sudhi, blessings.  you have been missed.  🦋

to bear this suffering,
I have sacrificed hundreds
of precious lives

traps set for the
pure of heart eventually entrap
the trap setter

listen to the tale of
my broken heart but do not
cry for my wounds

if your life is nothing
but a tangle of thorns
be as single-minded as the thorn
in your longing and so turn
them into fragrant flowers

🙏🏿 thank you, dear sudhi, 🦋

you are a song, a song of love
forged in a sacred vale;
a song set free over hills and lea
and carried on ocean gales

you are a song, an ancient song
sung in heaven’s bright fields
forgotten in haste when shown the waste,
the door behind you sealed

you are a song, a doleful song,
a tune so biting and thin –
the piper unfurls his loneliest skirls,
welcoming travellers in

you are a song, a by-gone song
of memories that reappear,
a flower so fey in autumn’s bouquet
with winter drawing near

you are a song, a song that soothes,
after the verdict is in
a song that survives through countless lives
surrendered like ashes to wind

you are a song, a song that soars,
o’er whistling peaks and plateaus,
high up above the dream of the dove,
where only the eagle goes

you are a song, a nameless song
a splendour that daily grows,
a song unsung, an unspoken tongue,
that only the heart may know…

This beautiful singer is singing in either Dari or Farsi. Love her verve and cheerfulness, which brings about a freshness to a new beginning ❤️

🦋 what a gorgeous share, thank you, dear sudhi.  🙏🏿

The King’s Servant

beware the highwaymen;
those who block the path to God,
raining death and destruction

do not intervene
but quietly remove yourself
from their evil reach

having drunk the poison
I lie cocooned in the robe
of my body

turning disbelief
into belief; make way for
the King’s servant!

🙏🏿 bless you, dear dimitar, i needed your words today.

The Madness of my Mind

Today I escaped the madness of
my mind. Why should I fear the
thing I always wanted and expected?

I entered this prison of the world
not knowing what I had stolen,
until I left of my own free will, and
found the sweetness of Soul within.

Though the world strikes and strains
at my temper, none can encroach upon
the inner form of that sacred place!

        🕊️

🕊️

🕊️

Lawless are they that make their wills their law… Shakespeare.

Under the Gun

Once upon a time I lived with you,
The best of friends, we were tried and true.
Now the tide has turned and the war’s begun,
Nothing’s the same when you’re under the gun.

I did everything I possibly could,
Went out of my way far more than I should.
Remained to the end when you’d been shunned,
How easy to forget when you’re under the gun.

Took you to the mountain, took you to the sea,
Tried to understand why you always disagree.
Put you together when you came undone,
But it makes no difference when you’re under the gun.

Now with hindsight it seems so clear,
All the things that you said were just a veneer;
Tied up and tangled in the lies that you spun,
Nothing makes sense when you’re under the gun.

In the shadow of doom my heart it mends.
I know I’ll be strong by the time it all ends.
Thought I’d seen everything under the sun…
Till the day I found myself under the gun.

🇵🇸

the Word transforms
the doubtful seeker into
the incandescent
lover of God

I have posted this before minus one verse, but I like the lilt of the rhythm. Something akin to a sea shanty, sung perhaps by a Nick Cave.

Old Galilee

How I long for my home
on the edge of the sea,
Among the cats on the docks
of old Galilee.
Whatever possessed me
in that old shantytown,
To come all this way
only to drown?

Overboard, overboard,
it’s overboard we’ll go,
The flood tide it rises
and the wind it does blow;
Neither captain, nor bosun
nor galley of slaves,
Can save us this time
from our watery graves!

For land-lubbing rats
the choice is but stark,
To hide from the beasts
that lurk in the dark;
What wouldn’t I give
for such sweet torment,
To escape the slow dance
of that long slow descent?

Overboard, overboard,
it’s overboard we’ll go,
For the flood tide it rises
and the wind it does blow.
Now the captain and the bosun
and the galley of slaves,
Can no longer save us
from our watery graves…

Now my mind it does beg,
and bargain and scrape,
I’m sick to my stomach,
and there’s just no escape.
I once dreamed of clover
but I woke up in fear,
Now it soon will be over
as the end it draws near.

Overboard, overboard,
it’s overboard we’ll go,
The flood tide it rises
and the wind it does blow;
Neither captain, nor bosun
nor galley of slaves,
Can save us this time
from our watery graves!

When the Lover’s Love is True

O’ life is fresh, life is sweet,
When the world is at your feet.
When youth is young and spring is sprung,
And the ways of love are just begun.

But life is stale, wan and pale
When all you do is to no avail.
When the flesh is heavy and the heart is cold,
And the ways of love remain untold.

Life is bitter, life is tart,
When the sting of defeat tears you apart.
When the pain of loss cuts your deep,
And the ways of love make you weep.

Life is precious, life is gold
When the winter winds blow cold.
And you’ve found the freedom that’s always new…
When the lovers love is true!

The Madman

There is a type of identification with the
object of one’s desire, so complete, so
all-consuming that should severance occur,
one is sent into an irrevocable tailspin.

This illumination (of God ) is a trial to the
body and a gift to the Spirit.

The madman is finally gone. Driven out
of town at last. The dogs have fallen
silent under the verandah. The one
that carried off one of his boots keeps
looking for him.

He’d given his heart to a young woman,
and so lost himself. Her station forbade
the return of this young man’s pure, sweet
love.

Where does pain come from? What is
the source of love? Their purpose?

You are going somewhere. Running
either from or toward something.
Preparation for your arrival has begun
well in advance. But while you’re
absorbed in the process of “arriving”.
these questions cannot be answered
to your satisfaction.

The young man had become rowdy
and difficult. Singing strange songs
that no one understood. Lucent
intelligence imbued with glistening
grief meant inexplicable fires breaking
out.

Years passed. Normality had settled like
fine dust over the town. Everyone had
forgotten the young man and his mystifying
prostrations. Everyone except an orphan
boy whom he’d befriended, the young woman
he’d loved and the dog with the haunted eyes.

One day, a stranger came to town, looking
for the madman. A young man, straight
and strong, took the man aside. “What
business do you have with Ilai, my friend
and brother?”

The man began. “My mistress had fallen ill.
At great risk to herself she determined to
undertake a perilous ocean voyage. It was
her wish to see the land of her youth, a
place of happy memories, once more before
her death.

She had come to know and had befriended
the young man, Ilai. She said he reminded
her of her own departed son, referring to
him as the Flaming Rod.

When the night of torture began and the
black waves arose, my lady’s condition
worsened. Fearing her death imminent
I pleaded with Ilai for help. However, he
turned and strode away and I’ve not seen
him since.

Lo and behold! Our ship went down. Many
lives were lost that day. But my lady, a
woman of means, had taken steps to
ensure our survival. After three days in
a coma and the storm behind us, she
awoke on the open sea. Explaining,
she told how in a dream, Ilai had led
her to a man with a face of pure light!

The man had given her a vial containing
clear blue liquid. He bade her drink and
my lady obeyed. Mercifully, she awoke,
refreshed and renewed!

My lady had learned that her friend had
come from this town. I have come bearing
gifts as a mark of gratitude for my lady’s life.”

The town put the man before an assembly,
and the jostling townsfolk heard of Ilai’s
heroic deeds. Some pretended they didn’t
know him. Others pretended they did. All
beamed with pride.

An orphaned boy, now grown tall, longed for
that familiar understanding, the dog at his
side with cowed head and pleading eyes,
remembering distant kindnesses. A bride
walked silently by her husband’s side, her
heart bursting.

Lovers have some secrets they keep, they
know love has no beginning or end. Only
constant inner listening prevents our lives
from contracting towards nothingness.

You ask, what happened to the madman?
Those endowed with Spirit know the answer;
He’s here, alive, within each and every
one of us!

I shall keep my heart
among the stars where none
shall hunt it out

When my heart calls her hither
Wherefore then the stars shimmer
For this and that dispute endeavor
Then sadden when none gets better

the victim’s fate;
an apparition riding
on a blistered wind

Not Ever

they say some scars are only skin deep;
the wound will heal and it’s gone forever
but those of the heart fester and weep –
and do not heal, not now, not ever

they say some dreams are misbegotten,
and children outgrow the garments they grew up in
but those of the heart are sorely forgotten,
and carry within the seed of ruin

they say some paths are narrow and deep,
yet others are broad and wide
but those of the heart are winding and steep
and the summit recedes with every stride…

they say some scars are only skin deep;
and wounds disappear till they’re gone forever
but the scars of the heart fester and weep –
and do not heal, not now, not ever!

Very cold and early winter weather down under…

Old Father Winter

Old Father Winter, bundle on his back;
Slowly shakes his head, taking up the slack.
Rime on his moustache, cankers on his toes –
Leaves a trail of dread everywhere he goes.

Old Father Winter, at last your work’s begun;
You’ve slept away the year, now here comes the fun.
Your hunger now awakened stalks the weary earth,
Consuming all before you, for everything you’re worth.

Old Father Winter, with tricks beyond compare;
What once was full of hope, is now beyond repair.
Until the turning of the sun you stand so bright and tall,
Then all at once the charm is gone, you bow the knee and fall.

Old Father Winter, there is a price to pay;
Rushing headlong in your pride, your cloak has turned to grey.
Your raiment once resplendent white, has one more task in stead;
To wake the sleeping earth and slake the thirsty dead!

Old Father Winter, that one of countless years,
Turns his back and walks away then slowly disappears.
The earth it stirs the birds they sing trees they yawn and stretch their limbs,
The child is born and wonders then, how life was lost and found again?

Ustad Shujaat Hussain Khan
“Main to piya se naina laga aayi re”

Main to piya say naina
lada aayi ray
naina lada aayi ray,
Ghar naari kanwari kahay so karay,
Main to piya say naina lada aayi ray.
Sohni suratiya, mohni muratiya,
Main to hriday kay peechay samaa aayi ray;

Translation:
I’ve just sunk into the depth
of the eyes of my beloved
If the women at home call me a maiden, let them,
I don’t care what these friends say.

A beautiful face, and an enchanting body,
his beautiful face, charming like an icon.
I’ve hidden it in the depths of my heart,
I have made a place in the bottom of his heart.

~ Amīr Khusrau

The Songbird

Late at night the songbird sings;
You listen and you strain your ears to hear.
That song so far, that song so near,
Late at night when the songbird sings.

Early in the morning when the songbird flies;
You wonder when it sleeps and when it wakes,
You wonder why it weeps and why it breaks,
Early in the morning when the songbird flies.

In the middle of the day with the songbird fled;
You’ve heaved, you’ve hewn, you’ve toiled and bled.
You’ve survived the monsoon, you’ve buried the dead,
In the middle of the day with songbird fled.

Early in the evenin’ the songbird appears;
You put away doubts, you put away fears,
You put away sorrows, you put away tears,
Early in the evenin’ when the songbird appears.

Deep in the night when the songbird sings;
You’re wide awake as its song begins.
You listen and you follow to the temple within…
Late at night when the songbird sings!

Bless you Dimitar … your words are much needed these days … much appreciated …

and Sudhi’s lyrical contribution complements your gift … blessings on you both …

the ultimate goal
of the spiritual seeker,
is not the gaining
of knowledge but the
understanding of truth

Truth

Truth is not some precious book
Gathering dust up on the shelf;
Warranting only an occasional look,
No matter what you tell yourself.

Truth is the boundless source of Life,
Of everything that is or aspires to be;
From the chains that bind you to strife
To the key in the end that sets you free.

Truth is the Breath of Life Itself
That God breathed into Soul, and said; ‘Live!’
And every man’s one true wealth,
Sustaining all who’ve leant to give.

Truth does not apply to some
Or exist in part outside the whole;
But like the beat proceeds from the drum,
So truth proceeds from the heart of Soul.

Truth is the golden thread beyond time
That binds the earth and the heavens above.
And ever more and more sublime,
For those who learn the ways of love!

Asabiyah

those with whom we enjoy a group solidarity.

bless you  all  🕊️ for the joy you bring.  Peace, love & light.

With the ever present danger of annihilation of the species looming over the heads of the human race, it’s good to consider from time to time the larger picture, being that this is a warring universe and as negativity runs rampant, so too is there an opposing positive wave of influence not to mention a third, neutral force, which is in fact the pure, unadulterated Divine Spirit of Itself. Man’s inescapable destiny leads to an unfoldment of consciousness which eventually places him, or Soul, rather, in the neutral camp. Why the neutral camp? Because God of Itself does not involve Itself in human affairs, It’s concern is Soul, the eternal part of us that survives physical death, and Soul’s eventual return home to Heaven or the Ocean of Love and Mercy from whence It came. Soul continues to unfold like a beautiful flower into an ever more Godlike and purified being, eventually taking Its place among the ranks of the spiritual hierachy, (as opposed to living a merely selfish existence and “taking life for all it’s worth”). In the meantime, human beings fight it out to the bitter end, time and again, leaving a trail of waste and destruction behind them / us. It should be noted, that there are beings of a higher order that assist the human race from destroying itself, and so, along with the best efforts of fhe more enligtened Souls on the planet today, we have this particular safety net, which is a good thing to remember.

One of the seeming paradoxes we confront as we unfold is the understanding that as much as we may be averse to particular Souls we may meet and have karma to resolve with, the actual key to doing so is to forgive these primitive types their destructive behaviour. This is the only way it seems, we can be free of further rounds of karma with them. Having been involved with a bunch of particularly nasty types I can share that this has been a very challenging and difficult episode in my life. Wanting on the one hand to wish complete destruction on them, while on the other, remembering that they too are Soul, has been and is, as challenging a challenge as any I’ve had to undergo, at least while my family’s hell continues and there is the red-hot emotion of immediate experience at hand.

I wanted to dedicate the following poems to such people, as there are many on the planet today, who apparently appear to be tumbling out of the pipeline at a quickened pace, reincarnating and sowing seeds of destruction as is the wont of young Souls who have the consciousness of little more than animals and have no regard for anything but their own agenda. I have tried to understand this headspace in the following poems.

Song of Praise (The Parasite)

O’ Lord, your benevolence precedes Thee;
Always taking the most,
Sucking blood from the host –
O’ to ride on the back of a flea!

Dear Heart, your abundance flows endlessly;
Never far from the source,
On the dog’s neck of course –
O’ to ride on the back of a flea!

O’ Fate, that opened my eyes to see;
It’s the parasite’s life,
Far from all strife –
O’ to ride on the back of a flea!

O’ Hark, the bells do chime for me;
When that beast is dead,
I’ll still be in the red –
O’ to ride on the back of a flea!

I’m Just a Gun for Hire

I’m angry for a reason, got paid a handsome fee;
To bring you down to ground, the rest I’ll do for free.

The molotovs are ready, pyro in the boot,
You’ll watch that mother burn, I’ll take away the loot!

I’m just a gun for hire, it’s not my place to ask;
You want the job get’s done, I’ll take ‘em all to task!

I’ll tell ‘em that they’re wrong, I’ll tell ‘em that I’m right,
I’ll use their words against them, just to pick a fight.

And should they dare to try to stop me in my way,
Should they ask me why, I’ll surely make them pay!

I’ve got no brain, I’ve got no sense, I’ve got no love at all;
You’re the one I’m told to hate, and I’m the one to make you fall…

I’m just a gun for hire, someone who trades in fear;
I’ll do your dirty work, and then I’ll disappear!

They Shot an Eagle

They shot an eagle, hung it out to dry;
Plucked out its feathers and lined their beds,
Cut off its claws and adorned their heads –
They shot an eagle, hung it out to dry.

They shot an eagle, took its life away;
Pulled off its wings to try on for size,
Flapped and flapped but they never did rise –
They shot an eagle, took its life away.

They shot an eagle and laughed as it died;
Gouged out its eyes and fried ‘em in ghee.
They ate the eyes but they never did see –
They shot an eagle and laughed as it died.

They shot an eagle and sliced it in two;
Ate what they could, fed the rest to the pigs,
Danced and danced and threw up between swigs –
They shot an eagle and sliced it in two.

They shot an eagle, took it out of the sky;
They did everything that they possibly could,
They did everything but they never understood…
They shot an eagle, took it out of the sky!

Till The Goal Is Won

Seasons come and seasons pass,
They leave their mark yet you outlast.

The flood, the drought, the fire, the rain,
The brilliant sun, yet you remain.

The wandering sea, the bountiful earth,
The beautiful flowers all praise your worth!

The raging storms that shake the bough,
The trembling leaf, the reaper’s plough.

The winds so fierce, the snow so bright,
All test your mettle, to your delight!

The moon so full, the stars above,
The mighty vault, the song of love.

The morning breeze to soothe your brow,
To withering grief you did not bow.

With heart so pure toward the One,
You will endure till the goal is won!

Good poetry does not attempt to mystify life but offers a viewpoint that represents a deeper more intuitive grasp of existence, ie; something that circumvents the straight-jacket of the mind. Poetry deals with states of consciousness, offsetting the cold harsh reality of existence in the material universe and points the way toward spiritual qualities inherent in everyone.

you are the medicine
for the sickness that
eats away at me

The Fifer’s Lament

Well, the night was dark and dreary,
Word to the soothsayer was sent;
He came with a frown as he sat down,
Said what he said then went.

The strangest zeal overtook me then,
But nothing I did could ignore;
The words of the seer as cold as lead,
Soon I would be no more!

When the sun it finally came,
‘Twas clear its warmth had somehow fled;
As I called for my wife and only child
To be with me by my bed.

What does the humble man bequeath?                                                                                                                       
A ring to the love of my life.
And because its song has served me well,
To the baby I leave my fife.

Is life no more than a wayward dream,
Haunting the broken minds of men?
A flickering flame that endures the winds,
For three score years and ten?

My lover’s eyes and my baby’s kiss,
I’ll surely miss in this life forestalled;
But if this were all, I’ll gladly go
To the place that I’ve been called.

Oz, before, sorta… On The Beach  https://archive.org/details/on-the-beach-1959  Ava and Greg fool around for a while… Schute was, of course, optimistic  about the way of the conflict, sorta. Simpler times anyway. And the actors and sets aside, it’s fun to see the way the time was before all this drang to some sort of horrid future. A mirage, but a pretty one.

Enough for now of dark subject matter. We shall now turn to life affirming lines that celebrate the attraction between the sexes.

Her Kisses Sublime

Well, I remember Ruby and I remember Gwen,
And the things we’d do back in her play-pen.
But it’s to Janet the fair I’m most inclined,
She of the kisses far sweeter than wine!

How she’d lie on her stomach, wrapped in her cloak;
More crimson than red beneath the old oak.
Weaving honeysuckle strands before turning to me,
With her lily-white hands all down on her knees.

Those days are long gone, but not in my mind.
The years they have passed and they’ve not been unkind;
I’ve a child of my own, and a good wife at that,
I’ve accepted my lot and there’s no going back.

I work the machines and I bring home the chow,
Never read no books and I ain’t startin’ now.
The kid and the wife, I won’t disavow,
But there’s only one memory I’ll sometimes allow…

How she’d lie on her stomach, wrapped in her cloak,
More crimson than red in the shade of the oak.
Weaving honeysuckle strands before turning to me,
With her lily-white hands all down on her knees.

Her kisses were sweet, far sweeter than wine,
On a bed of summer grass, our limbs all entwined;
My head still swims after all this time,
At the thought of her lips and her kisses sublime…

O, dear sudhi,  how wonderful to hear your voice.  i’ve been hoping you’d stop by.  yesterday evening i watched once more “a river called titas”.   it is so beautiful, i naturally spent much of the film thinking of you & wishing you’d us visit more often.  you, like the evocative indelible photography in ‘a river called titas’, are key.  blessings 🕊️

A new challenge everyday
You keep away and delay;
When I act to close the gap
Fate says there is a bigger play.
— RUBAIYAT (verse 7)

A reply:

O friend, from your foes
your heart should be released.
Confer with those you know,
and open your heart to please.
Enjoy the pleasant company
with the good wine and ease.
And from the ignorant fleas,
flee like the breeze.
— Hafiz Shirazi

When the hunger for music and sound becomes so acute

that you want to go and lie in the middle of them and take in every little part
with all of you
.. all of it

and then, drift back to earth

Eric Clapton…a bluesman…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EuceYp-t9CM

…and a brother;
https://faroutmagazine.co.uk/eric-clapton-claims-israel-is-running-the-world/

Natalia Lafourcade – Tú sí sabes quererme (en manos de Los Macorinos)

Playing for Change…”with the poor of the earth I want to cast my fate…”

God’s Lion

When God’s lion roars his kingdom awakes,
The echo resounding across the plain;
The deer and the antelope pause in their play,
Marking with reverence their Monarch’s reign.

When God’s lion roars all creatures take heart,
The schemes of dissenters have come to an end;
The leopard pays tribute, licking its wounds,
Where once a contender, now a friend.

When God’s lion roars, the wildwood shakes,
The quarry it trembles deep in its lair;
Of what will the Sovereign today partake,
Venison, giraffe or fowl of the air?

When God’s lion roars, his pride responds –
“Queens make ready to lead the hunt!”
The Matriarch of the elephants calls to attend,
The old and the sick, that struggling runt.

When God’s lion roars, wise men defer,
Those who live by the sword, take heed;
Lowly or haut, cunning or blunt,
There’s nowhere to run, it’s time to concede!

When God’s lion roars, his kingdom is roused,
Small creatures emerge from burrows and nests.
The deer and the antelope pause in their play,
Summoned to become the Monarch’s guests.

When God’s lion roars, the signal has come,
Its echo resounding across the land;
God’s table is rich and laden with fare,
All creatures are invited to bring a chair!

The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

🦋 Peace & blessings, dear sudhi.

Silence is Gold

You used to carry a beggar’s bowl,
Living off crumbs down in a hole;
Looking for something that cannot be told,
Words are silver, but silence is gold.

You used to carry a calligrapher’s brush,
Elegance adorned the palace so lush;
The king would come by with his questions so bold,
Words are silver, but silence is gold.

You used to carry a sword of steel,
With matching armour from head to heel;
Despatching enemies when secrets were sold,
Words are silver, but silence is gold.

You used to carry a wound so deep,
By day and by night you’d tremble and weep;
Some burdens you share, but others you keep,
Words are silver, but silence is gold.

You used to carry a beggar’s bowl;
Speaking in tongues, wearing blindfolds.
Till the day you finally came in from the cold…
Words may be silver, but silence is gold!