A great idea is not your own.
Rather, you belong to IT…
and you are not alone in the clutches of such brilliance.
A great idea is not your own.
Rather, you belong to IT…
and you are not alone in the clutches of such brilliance.
All we’ve had to drink for days
is drawn from tears and venom.
The pools of hope, we’ve dipped our cups
are buried beneath crumbled macadam.
To whom do we turn to in this darkness
Those sweet among the souls reviled
When no lantern burns nearly as bright
as the extinguished light of a child.
From the remains of our homes
Ashes drift from the rubble and the tinder
So all the world can see of our faces
Are shivering ghosts of cinder.
There was a time we flew our kites,
On a Mediterranean wave combed beach
Where the winds of hope drew out our strings
Beyond where Gaza’s prayers may reach.
Calls to “cease fire” by unknown tongues
bring tenuous silence to the ramparts
diplomacy may pen the end a battle,
but resolves not the war in our hearts.
Within my heart is a river like yours
That meets at the edge of the ocean
Where thirsts are quenched and time dilutes
our flowing tears and venom.
Children of Israel slumber on
Beneath the veil of an Iron dome
Tis ours of gold we take as shelter
and dream of returning home.
Freedom has no borders
Tis an illusion of a thin and weary line
For every day we wake in hunger
We’re sated by our love of Palestine.
This poem dons the thorny cloak of consequence,
Readers listen for its truth, but only the truthful hear.
Life is a kiss, a soft touch, else the prick from the thorn of a rose.
Seek love through beauty, but do not trample in gardens of idols.
From the mysterious combustibles of the heart,
True love smolders in the eyes of the friend.
Our babbling into oblivion leaves us in rented repose,
Friends made to bide the commands of their hearts…
Meant to wake along the sun’s blue arc of horizon,
Stirred by fleeing zephyrs, our dreams fast on their heels.
God wakes not the dreamers, with wordless hearts,
whose flagons fill with love to overflow reality’s cup.
Those delivered from God, are left to love others;
To dream awake and not wander off on winged words.
Oh, as my consciousness slips away in silence,
My lips spin silk into wildly flailing ribbons of flame.
God seals the scent of truth in my heart
And calls the faithful opener to draw the fiery bow…”
We who glow like embers are also shadows cast by light,
Just as the moon is a phantom without the sun.
As it reflects the sun, the moon cast light as if it’s own
If not mirrors in each other’s sky, what truth and beauty shown?
For each step taken toward God, He takes ten toward us;
how am I to love a Lover like that?
Nothing among everything, everything among nothing;
“Where shall I go, from thy presence, when thou art everywhere.”
Tis the prismatic heart of the poet alchemist
that frees the noble metal from its base alloy.
But my Beloved casts a white light no prism breaks;
No colorful shards to speak, no replicas.
Love is pre-eternal wisdom, named by God,
whispered into the heart, sealed by silence.
A secret unlocked with the lips, flies away untold;
The key lies within the unopened vessel of truth.
It is you who are being unlocked by it,
Your passage to the qalb*, is your annihilation.
Our gift of truth is unwrapped from the inside
From the heart, it ascends through dying bone and sinew.
NOTE:
*Qalb = heart, but different than we “think.” Qalb is more “essence of heart,” the momentum of the soul, not of flesh or romantic metaphor, or worn shape of a hand-gesture. Some languages hold a meaning well beyond the number of letters in it’s words. Arabic is one of them and is more of the pronunciation of a symbol… it is intended to be a spiritually efficient way to speak, one of depth beyond just speech and listening. It is conveyed through the feeling it elicits, which is why the listener is as accountable as the speaker… which is why the translations of such deeply mystic and beloved Arab and Persian poets require more than transliteration – it requires “qalb.”
Annihilation is salvation – the gift of truth is unwrapped from the inside. It ascends through the upwelling of love, an overwhelming disclosure, while our surface of bone and sinew disintegrates and descends. Death is the release of the incarcerated spirit; annihilation of the material container in which salvation awaits. Some spend their lives recklessly tearing open a path to the heart, when it beats softly through, patiently and joyfully awaiting the wearing down of time. Annihilation is not the wanton destruction the body but the desire of the soul to rebuild. Dream, take your time, lest your careless pursuits drift wildly from the path between your mind and your heart. Some truths you seek may be of no use in this lifetime, but rather in the timeless, unfathomable, afterworld – submit to these truths that seek you.
The illusion of love for another
is a manifestation of a secret
withheld from us by God…
as such,
those we love cannot darken our lives,
for what illuminates them,
is a reflection of a Truth
beyond death.
Those that carry the candle,
may not have lit the flame.
Those whom we surround with hatred, surround us;
and so it goes with love.
Love surrounds those
who surround others with love.
The conflict begins and ends
with how you circumscribe yourself.
You see, hatred is fear tied to a soul …
love is letting go of the rope.
We are weary of strife and long for love.
To be moved at all by words of love,
is an ember of hope in darkened hearth,
waiting for a breeze to raze the flame again.
What you feel from these images,
is what your heart is trying to see.
This is only confusing to the mind.
Love first, rationalize later.
Those who walk the path of destruction
with an army of thousands
are more alone than one
who walks the path of peace by himself.
Gazing at the gates of hope
in the lens of my camera.
This, his expression,
upon seeing his own reflection.
In anguish, he asks,
“Is this another check point,
Beyond which
I’ll never pass?”
I gazed at the gates
of my own despair.
In this child’s
world-sized eyes.
Still Ponds in a dusty desert;
thresholds, I’ve never crossed,
Waters, never rippled –
Never sipped.
Self-loathing, I ask,
“Of what use, my bright lantern,
when I fear the shadows
in those I’ll encounter?”
As a journalist of death, I tell you,
I’ve seen the persistence of life
in the faces of children
who’ve never lived.
Facts are vulnerable to the spin of opinion, an infectious bother at times, but ironically necessary.
I leverage facts for better judgement of opinions. Mine and others. Facts have a better casual impact on judgement, opinions more reactive. Facts conflict and converge in the face human nature… inevitably it is our nature that must also be examined and cultivated.