Best Khalil Poems
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
Khalil Gibran
In days of darkness,
sad stars shimmer like somber souls.
Upon the return of solitude,
whilst shaping strings of silence,
a troubled tongue becomes a soundless voice.
In each tear there is torment.
Reminiscing unredeemed memories,
heartbeats of the heartbroken echo gently at nightfall,
as a black blanket covers indigo horizons before my eyes.
In an anthology of angst.
Shrouded shadows in manipulative mirrors,
shield the sensitivity of sincere speech.
Without words, embodied emotions,
integrate into invisible inflictions.
Perpetual pain from a poisonous past,
repeats in an unrhymed repetitive rhythm,
as fragile fingers trigger hidden trauma.
In the midst of misunderstood metaphors.
There are secrets in suppression,
with so much lost in a suicide of expression.
Spiteful spirits reappear, reflecting like
neoteric neon drops on midnight shores,
washing away forlorn forgotten footsteps -
yet the sorrows continue into tomorrow.
Trials of time leave behind trails of truth,
as facts of fate fail in this false fairground we call life.
Reflections of regret resonate a reality,
where the world is working on its own worries.
In hollow nothingness, death is a blessing,
as no one offers holy hope -
only silence remains.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” - Khalil Gibran
I am a delicate deck of cards,
alabaster roots, tossed
across time’s yard
from foolish patterns
of poker promises,
like the days
when scorching summer
was an ace of solstices.
You’ll find my name
in numbers where
the perfumed forget-me-nots
in pressed pages slumber;
defined as the black hearted
queen of blood diamonds,
soaked in vintage
murdered lies-
fallen angels, singing
solitaire’s sorrowful sirens.
For I have long earned
the straps
within mystical corners,
crumpled, placed
to breathe in a crystal coffin
with no escape,
and no mourners.
Yet the moon subtly smiles-
at our sin, through
rose-colored everything.
And I swim
in my own darkness, wading
through wet waves
of black spades,
washing wounds
in the nothingness,
crashing unto gates
as heavy as
a raven’s wing,
whilst I’m clawed
and transformed
under betrayal’s sting.
So take my scars
as an offering,
feeding the knotty cracks
in our foundation, paper thin;
there’s nothing left
to take, or give in
this facade we maintain
of this kingdom
of an immortal harlequin.
"The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind." Khalil Gibran
Mr. Moore taught us English lit
but more important than that,
he taught us how to use our wit.
He willed us to go way beneath
the surface and there discover
treasures hidden under the heath.
He urged us all to cast our lines
way far out into our waters,
waters of thought, we could refine.
We found Truth was for Mr. Moore
like a shield or coat of armor.
These well-known words tacked to his door -
"Above all, To thine own self be true."
Then, does it really matter much
what others choose to say or do?
Virtue we came to realize
exists in the mind of the man -
his character without disguise.
Everything around me is still
The soft lights ward off the cold
My worried heart is unsettled
Every minute makes me old
Time seems to drag on and on
Not sure I can take much more
I’m waiting for my angel
to walk in through that door
There is nothing to do but wait,
so I wonder about her day
but what’s taking her so long?
Did she somehow lose her way?
I think about my visit
My first time to see her place
In my glimpse into her life,
a weariness I can trace
She flew away to this isle
to try out her angel wings,
and in following her dreams
she untied the home spun strings
“Our children are not our own.”
Oh, great Gibran*, can’t you see?
My precious 18 year old,
Will always belong to me!
Oh yes, she may live elsewhere
Have a family of her own,
but she’s my little baby
and in my eyes she hasn't grown
I wait and wait and wait
Please, God, let her be alright!
I look out of the window
at the blackness of the night
I think of all those mothers
who wait for their children dear,
whose tired and aching arms
long to hold their loved ones near
The wait for them is fruitless
Its end is a tragic woe,
for death holds back their loved ones
The "Wait of Pain" will not go
My heart shares in their sorrow
My soul weeps for their plight
For though my daughter is late
She’ll be coming home tonight!
For Waiting Contest by James Rogers
September 9, 2015
*Khalil Gibran was a Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer of the New York Pen League. There recent move, The Prophet, was about him.
"Zeal is a volcano, the peak of which
the grass of indecisiveness does not grow."
~ words of Khalil Gibran
Musings of this poet often run wild
with a zeal burning like a roaring flame.
The idyllic rhymes must be reconciled
to reveal a poem that bears my name.
With a zeal burning like a roaring flame
there is a fever raging in my heart
to reveal a poem that bears my name.
One that views nature as a work of art.
There is a fever raging in my heart
urging me to script without sleep or rest.
One that views nature as a work of art,
Through fervid passions stirring in my breast.
Urging me to script without sleep or rest,
my muse is overbearing and zealous.
Through fervid passions stirring in my breast,
penned words are vines climbing on a trellis.
My muse is overbearing and zealous
With jewels and gems, my lines are adorned
Penned words are vines climbing on a trellis,
even if they are disparaged and scorned.
With jewels and gems, my lines are adorned.
The idyllic rhymes must be reconciled.
Even if they are disparaged and scorned,
musings of this poet often run wild.
~ A Pantoum Posted ~ December 5, 2021 ~
"Z" Contest sponsored by Constance La France
“Some of us are like ink and some like paper. And if it were not for the blackness of some of us, some of us would be dumb; And if it were not for the whiteness of some of us, some of us would be blind.”
Khalil Gibran
Am I lost in a secret world of uncharted distant shores,
riddling once more in the confusion of Morse code.
Separation resembles the mourn of a black rose
in perpetual pain perspectives of a shackled heart -
with repetitive echoes of empty sentiments.
Street lights are no guide in nights that never die,
where the painted sky is blacker than black.
As carved feathers from wings of hope keep falling,
floating in strong winds, drowning in crimson forever rain,
composing dehydrated water locked memories.
Tormentally trapped in melancholic moments,
not wanting to exist in a world where a glimpse could kill.
I am all that you cannot see, just a blank canvas.
An unfinished poem with suppressed thirsty ink.
My armour is my silent fury brewing with thunder.
Unapologetically naked, unafraid if lightning strikes.
In this wired life, I'm fighting with myself - but surviving.
There is nothing magical in the mental joy of living,
so I have no concern for who casts the sands first,
as my quill cries your name, I am poetically yours,
a misfit misunderstood metaphor, yearning for more.
K-ind
H-eart
A-lways
L-ets
I-ts
L-ove
G-ive
I-mportance
B-y
R-ightfully
A-pplying
N-iceness
Topic: Birthday of poet Khalil Gibran (January 06)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
"Oodles of Joy"
In the morning of everyday i
start
I make a food that's really
smart
Crunch'em, rip'em, and pour'em out
As saliva pools form in my
mouth
Put it in the mic for just about
three
Impatiently watching those
beautiful noodles waiting for
me
When the time Is up
I Pop it open and take them out
And start shoving "Oodle's of
Noodles" into my mouth.
Khalil Wali
Islam Burning
In deep purple flame
Stapled to the cross
While the peasants yell below
Demon demon demon
Black flags rise
Hearts fail to beat
Humanity has lost this score
The axe swings in the air
Freedom at last
From Islam’s beasts
My head tumbles into the dust
I am now an icon of the history I so loved
I am Khalid al-Asaad
Your humble servant of antiquity
Aug 19, 2015
In memory of Khalid al-Assad murdered by Islamic cowards.
Islamic State militants beheaded a renowned antiquities scholar in the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra and hung his mutilated body on a column in a main square of the historic site because he apparently refused to reveal where valuable artefacts had been moved for safekeeping.
According to Syrian state news agency Sana and the UK-based Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, Asaad was beheaded in front of dozens of people on Tuesday in a square outside the town’s museum. His body was then taken to Palmyra’s archaeological site and hung from one of the Roman columns.
“Al-Asaad was a treasure for Syria and the world,” his son-in-law, Khalil Hariri, told the Associated Press. “Why did they kill him? Their systematic campaign seeks to take us back into pre-history. But they will not succeed.”
I do not know what work there is as many feel
I have always worked with love and taste
In my teens my second home was Library
Reading Gulliver travels and one-act plays.
After getting my master’s degree in English
I got a job in the university campus as a lecturer
And never felt teaching as a work but joy there.
My house was where I could hear college bells.
My class-room lectures were for three hours
And reading at home for next day preparation.
I *dramatized great works for the college fine arts
Even I *directed those works in my spare times.
After retirement my sons look after my needs
I enjoy looking after my needs for the fine arts.
*************
*The title of the poem is a famous
quote of Great Urdu Poet Khalil Zibran
*P.S. I shall be posting some photographs of my activities in
France and England, 1989. in my blog shortly
====================================
Eighth place winner in
Contest: The work you do in Honor of Carolyn Devenshire
There was a man;
Whose lived by the mountains for ages.
He was; but to be seen,
Or heard.
He was; truly bizarre,
With no lads by his side,
He lived in the castle;
Of Romania of Britzsit.
When the wolves cried in horror;
When the mountains stood still;
There he was; looking at the moon,
While dine in the blood of daughter of Khalil.
Such sad, sad tragedy indeed,
Of when people in England came
To visit,
He'd waited anxiously;
For his dreams had fulfilled.
Blood-lusted,
Mind-infested,
Sane-filtered,
People-affrighted ,
Bodies-attracted,
Moon-lighted,
And self-powered.
Arose from the dead;
Came the fellow named Vlad,
Whose souls mined in Romania,
Then he alone be named Dracula.
by Khalil "The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind."
The teacher I remember as the best
stood out easily from all the rest.
She taught creative writing. At that time,
I had no clue when older how I’d love to rhyme.
She’d have us sit in a circle, for that
encouraged students more to want to chat.
Instead of seeing others from the rear,
we got to see the faces of each peer.
In our giant circle, we would discuss
our own opinions, and it is a plus
when students can feel comfortable and free
to say what’s on their mind; that’s great to me!
After learning different ways to write,
we’d write at home, and it was a delight
to share our poems and short stories too
with one another and get points of view.
On work I handed in, feedback I would get.
Critiques this teacher gave to us, and yet
I felt this teacher cared for us because
she helped us know our strengths, not just our flaws.
Our teacher made class fun with games we played.
With these activities, our teacher made
us be creative, for she did not preach.
I hope like her I’ve been wise when I teach.
Your plump love I can't wait to
see
It's decadent.. And always,
lustfully waiting for me
Hug me and hold me close
against your bodacious body.
Big and round. That's why I call
you my hotty
It is Your plump love I
can't wait to see
When you arrive home tonight
I'll be waiting,
with a ring,
patiently on one knee.
Khalil Wali
with your permission my lady
i will take my leave
has your heart spoken it all
do not tarry here
do not let quiet pervade
it will destroy the silence of love
where galaxies meld
a thorn in the side
hidden burr in the saddle
if you do not let your heart sing
love is where dreams are shared
where the labor in the vineyard
is hand in hand
where the souls merge
into a quest for one
let your heart sing
give me your dreams
let me be a part of you
love harbors no fear
wine's grapes are crushed
in a gentleness, together
one must not hurt the seeds
it sours the wine
with your permission my lady
i will take my leave
let me depart knowing you
in all of its wonder
may the dreams that fill our vineyard
live in the calluses of our shared labors
OKC 8/04
"My friend, it was but a song of love out of a poet's heart, sung by every man to every woman" Khalil Gibran
Youtube: The Love Song by Khalil Gibran
quite the lesson within this video
Juicy Pineapples is his favorite
fruit.
That's why bright optimism
runs deep within his roots .
He is long tan and handsome.
Always expressing a unique
personality that's awesome.
You can find him working hard
at Target or Starbucks.
But to all the single women out
there he is taken so it sucks!
He is a great friend and always
wears his "Diamond" hat facing
to the back.
And I'm glad we met and I
hope he stays black!!
Khalil Franklin