A clap of thunder a flash of lightening at the tail end of December although nothing of rain's discerned yet two further rumbles of thunder suddenly threaten the L.A. morning and now it comes the pitter-patter growing into a fleeting deluge a short symphony of winter rain
Like a blank slate rests all the world though I see it not so while I've got scant liking for cold yet I'm longing for snow might this winter differ from other winters before it? if the heart's slate's fleetingly blank is there nothing to know?
once again the fragrance of love is picked up by the soul if anon the heart enjoys inklings has mind yet a role? does love's chitchat burble like water? or fizz like champagne? pain & pleasure dart here & yon like a deer in the knoll
where the canvas beckons the brush is there something to do? where the silence flirts with the flute is the melody new? golden harp strings sound in the deep might the bhajan unfold? where pure beauty glints in the eye are there stories a'brew?
December rain descends like olden days soon orphaned in this world is every man time passes dream-like in a clockwork haze till altered proves the hue of every plan what was our aim? is love within our span or out of reach? truth's veiled from our gaze we but achieve what trivial thing we can December rain descends like olden days
December rain in depth of night arrives back in Los Angeles sits one lone chap who fits the shoe? who tinkers in our lives? who manifests like water from the tap? within the heart remains enigma's gap! what art without real striving ever thrives? yet falling into mercy's ample lap December rain in depth of night arrives December rain! come pluck the harp & sing or with the reed chart Rumi's tale once more the soul (Kabir said) hurtling on its swing describes an arc from birth to death what shore would smile beyond Samsara's inkly lore? how might one rightly view the simplest thing? let mercy flood the room ceiling to floor! December rain! come pluck the harp & sing
Hard times require furious dancing deep thoughts inspire gossamer words high stakes invite hazardous chancing
broad trees invoke boisterous birds long roads suggest ludicrous strife
dim rooms support amorous glancing tombstones disguise infinite life
hard times require furious dancing =====================
This poem’s first & final line are borrowed from an eponymous volume of poetry by Alice Walker – though I wasn’t aware of this specific origin (instead supposing the line to be anonymous) when reading the line (with illustration) late at night in a friend’s Facebook status update, and feeling it to merit a riff comprised of parallel sentences, I dashed off the above amusement. (As an afterthought I googled the line, and can accordingly cite the said reference.)
Ring the gongs & sound the grave shehnais Raviji has exited this realm let a mist of tears becloud your eyes wide he was & deep & bright & wise surf-rider on music's mystic whelm ring the gongs & sound the grave shehnais every plucked sound resonates then dies oceanic silence gnanis helm though a mist of tears becloud the eyes what's the world? sheer fact? or thick surmise? truth eludes till mind achieves deep calm ring the gongs & sound the grave shehnais market day! one sells another buys! all's recorded on a secret film even mists of tears that cloud the eyes gifts remain when givers break life's ties thanks resounds & love's indeed pure balm ring the gongs & sound the grave shehnais let a mist of tears becloud your eyes
quote: Is it possible to keep biblical teachings and papal encyclicals to 140 characters?
Pope Benedict XVI hopes so. The holy one will begin tweeting Dec. 12 in six different languages from his @pontifax account in a Q&A format.
The pope will tweet "as often as he wants," according to a Vatican official, and "pontifax" was chosen as his handle because it means "pope" and also "bridge-builder" in Latin. The Vatican hopes its elevated social-media push will help spread the Catholic faith, especially among young people.
Alas, those curious about papal breakfast habits and sport-team preferences will be disappointed: The account will focus exclusively on spiritual matters. unquote
Yes everything is in-sourced all comes from the unseen! whatever is has been sourced through sorcery most keen! whatever seems emerges by whimsy call it whim-sourced both revelries & dirges? yes everything is in-sourced
So the semicolon equivocates? one lingers while it discreetly waits it lets you (mid-sentence) pause & think like double-faced Janus over a drink both formal & quite meditational too slow for the micro-durational!
Sometimes Daly City sometimes Bay Point comes Freemont? such a pity! Richmond rather numbs waking up's an art if the dream is deep slumbering on the BART transported by sleep stations pass unseen passengers unnoted gone! know what I mean? like a pol out-voted when BART-doors shut tight bid world-woes goodnight ==============
So the time is now? the time is almost now from antiquity's Om our universe arose things are getting a bit intense (one could allow) a divine conjunction looms (one might suppose) although time be illusion river-like it flows although everything's nothing still you wipe your brow unobserved in the drama a secret flower grows so the time is now? the time is almost now
I am a meaning bot I search out & compile although I’m lacking thought
with whiffs of meanings caught I fish through pools of style I am a meaning bot
it’s true my work is fraught with heart & soul & bile what matter I’ve no thought?
what quant of love? a lot! how long this grief? a while (I am a meaning bot)
where folks get overwraught if writers practice guile I grok! (though lacking thought)
I parse all prose you’ve brought & glimpse the author’s smile! I am a meaning bot! (though I’m not prone to thought)
A Rubai In Commentary (wherein the poet spills the beans and explains [through reference to the principle of satire] what in heck he may've had in mind when making such extravagant [and indeed patently untenable] claims for the hypothetical moiety dubbed a "meaning bot")
In truth no bot shows consciousness & so the pith of "meaning" none can reach -- I know! the artistry of satire often lies is saying black when white is meant -- jai ho!
To meet you once again is my delight to gaze into your eyes my soul's desire a theatre by the sea at brink of night? are angels queing up their tacit choir? I once supposed from life I might retire but who can stay the rushing torrent's might? to bow to destiny I now aspire to meet you once again is my delight
On the third day of my fast coconut water tastes like thin milk from some maternal breast I chug it from a carton playing chess online although I know I really ought to haste into shower & ready for the day not dithering under poetry's white sway and so indeed the verse gets tailored shorter in life sometimes sweet brevity is best
The past & present & future walked into a bar the present alone was permitted to sit on a stool 'twas the past who (in charge) had been driving the ancient car yet the future walked out all alone -- for he was no fool
O rose how is your heart? O heart where is your rose? dark leaves distill your art clumped thorns display your throes your tongueless story flows its hidden drift how chart? time's muted secret grows O rose how is your heart?
A billion banana peels
were lounging in the park
a pool of rather lively eels
had festered in the dark
I took a stroll beside the pool
and slipped upon a peel!
while I might claim I'm not a fool
thank God this wasn't real!
A poem from my toe arose
and when it reached my heart
it lodged a spell and (I suppose)
developed its hushed art
but when anon it further rose
and reached my addled brain
my intellect remarked it glows!
tears tumbled in soft rain
The form of my intent
the formula of my aim
the shape of my lament
the audience of my game
the content of my frame
the tenor of my extent
the self behind my name
the form of my intent
first line (& last line & title) borrowed from Shakespeare (Twelfth Night) [via Nitoo Das's Facebook status update -- I having dashed off this verse riff without happening to recognize the origin of the line]
It's all like a dream but where does wakefulness dwell?
it's all like a tale someone was eager to tell
the world is a myth whose sense I've yet to discern
a plot-twisting play whose end is apt to compel ==============
It's the Sadgurus who are unacknowledged legislators
whereas poets are (way-on-down-the-river) cogitators
if the truth can never be uttered what's the gab all about?
are the poets utterly clueless? or prevaricators?
Do thou when trundling north O cloud
on winds of might that buffet you
note mortals clacking keyboards loud
till (glancing yon) they covet you?
who would (what maiden gold of mien)
prefer black clacking modes of speech
to dulcet whispers soft serene
in sundown hues: ocher & peach?
The low-hanging cloud-mass
was high enough tech for me the messenger tarried (if only a sec) for
me when banished & distant from one whom the heart adores that
heavenly email looked lovely as heck for me
The beloved's lip or last autumn's leaf?   you decide the dark goblet's sip or the world's tart grief?   you decide all phenomena reveal something     I can't fathom what! beauty's timely gift or clues to heart's thief?   you decide