Best Mandalas Poems
Which is the greatest conduct of them all,
which one denies terpitude & futility most strenuously,
which exhalts productivity & nobility most vigorously,
is there a single method of action, behavior of best results
that is preeminent & priority above all others, a vangaurd conduct marshalling the rest,
I am the voice of Sympathy,
where there is woe, misery, lamentations abounding like leaves on trees
you'll find me, not as uplifting but reveling,
speaking as Efficiency I confidently state that none is more pivatol
to success or goal, on my balance constructs & destructs are indistinct,
Compassion, the cornerstone of virtue, I am enabler of empathy,
the isolated instructor from within,
the summons of sorrow & vision of victory,
as Education I say essentially,
expansion of intellect shrinks the world & ignites ingenuity
fascillitating personal progress like the breeze pollenates,
the attitude of Art, this is I, violent epiphany,
serene sensations & resolute reflections,
a communicator of a cosmic kind, imagination hammering,
I'm the bell holler,
the quaint choir of warm Exhaltation,
a muse of meditations & mandalas, I build temples from tissues
and citadels where fears nest,
calculator of consequences, a storm of precise pursuit,
I am that which commands, conquers & survives demolition,
Leadership, heart's precinct,
you cannot deny my supremacy,
I am that ravenous stimulation which can kill or invite life,
Copulation is the term, that impetus which fascinates,
Love is my name,
I engender shame, pride & sacrafice,
a mountain whose summit always rises,
I arouse life forces to ever increasing standards,
Warfare, desire's demon,
you all blame me for the wrongs & feverishly recruit me
when your charms fail,
I am fire upon the soft flower of rewards -
J.A.B.
The things I've been, the things I have been, the things I am, things I'm to be,
a symbol so dark, a sign so brite, a mark of the heart,
shadow of the soul,
rind of mind,
as the Buddhist meditates on mandalas of rich color,cycles,devas,dangers & devotions
I embrace the world with all my senses, with vigilance,
riled rhapsody,
Christians sewing psalms into the conscious
confounded with temptation, condemnation & damnation,
as Buddhists focused towards an ineffable destination
my terminus is an awareness that explains purpose without pain or pleasure
but with an indomitable patience for being in perfection,
as blue is blue for blue,
Freemasons have their acacia & aprons,
the magic of History, of memory, of Brotherhood,
I shall memorize the wrong & right of my behavior, of my beliefs,
carry the cross of carelessness, rub beads of bemusement,
scratch thy palms upon the rough ashlar,
bleed for the sake of beauty, for the right of recognition,
as a hawk glides and swoops with an exactitude
reminding One not to waste effort, to combine instinct & strategy
into trusted tactics, salvation found in solitude,
intuition aimed at the heavens can demonstrate
there is knowledge in not knowing,
serenity can be secured through suffering, happiness in creative endurance,
a nomad, a monk, mother of a nobody
may teach that freedom is measured as strength through degrees,
chessmen bespeak the value of loyalty & sacrafice,
police have a badge, judges gavels, bankers use notes, psychologists study dreams,
artists utilize shapes & sounds to elicit feelings
evoking meaning for life,
perhaps superstition is ultimate motivation,
subjective & collective interpratations for reality which make it all tolerable,
that special definition making life personal,
when a culture abandons, or forgets the symbols of it's constructs
how can it survive,
continuity can not color & inspire posterity,
a tree without water,
as when a human neglects itself,
disfiguring the ideal into something rueful or baleful,
then the mystic symbol must change with it
as rich soil to mud,
the symbology survives, elastic and plastic like a spider web in the wind,
nature will always reconstruct,
teaching that our lives are inflamed imprints for the future -
J.A.B.
Mamakailang- ulit nang nangyari 'to?
'di maka- idlip man lang mga mata
Ilang ulit na bang nalihis sa mundo?
Hating-gabi, ikaw'y saksi!Sumagot ka!
Siguro mga sampong beses na yata?
Makisimpatya ka't ngumiti man lang!
Hindi ba? Kung 'di, tayo't ikaw'y magwika!
Hating- gabi, ngayo'y mangusap ka naman!
Ako'y iniwan ng taguri'y pamilya.
Imbi't ipit sa pugad ng umuusig,
Dito sa bangin ng siguro'y sakuna,
Tanong ko'y, 'Muli pang iniwan, o, bakit?'.
Kung babalik- tanawin ko ang nagdaan
Ay hindi ba't mandalas pa sa parati?
Sa gali't alimuom man dinamayan
Kayo! Ngayo'y 'niwang sa takot lugami?
Ganito ba ang aking dapat sapitin
Sa libong kabaitang aking napunla?
Ito ba'ng igaganti ninyo sa akin
Sa tulong kong sa inyo'y sukat nagawa?
O, hating- gabi, hiling ko'y sumagot ka!
Magkusa kang tugunan 'king mga tanong
O kaya'y hugutin yaring mga paa
Sa lusak- takot na niri'y nagbabaon!
Ikaw nalang ngayon ang ako'y mayroon;
Liban sa nasa kamatayan nang buhay.
Wala na mga naturingang katotong
Tunay. Sila'ng mitya na ako'y mama'mtay!
Tibetan Buddhist monks create
Mandalas out of sand,
A process that, to me,
Is very hard to understand.
For colorful designs composed
With symmetry and care
Are made by placing grains in patterns
Quite beyond compare.
It may take hours, even days,
Until the work's completing
And then it's swept away to prove
That all in life is fleeting.
In Denver's Art Museum, near
A mandala intact,
The visitors can make their own,
On paper, though, in fact.
With colored pencils we filled in
Our complex mini wheels
And, like the monks, perhaps we knew
How satisfaction feels.
But one big difference - when complete,
We got to take ours home,
As proof of vision and
An inspiration for a poem.
subject
object
one hand clap,
kaleidoscopic
head trippin'
on the road without a map,
illuminated
confiscated
buddha’s holy rap,
no self
myself
nirvana's just a trap,
rocket trip
crashing down
head ringin’ trigger slap,
genocidal
herbal tea
messiah takes a nap,
broken flags
burnin’ toys
helmet hammer double tap,
win some
lose more
karma takes another lap…
My fragrances have guided you to my colourful winter gardenia
A cobbled pathway will walk you to a vanilla mushroom house
Atop with a fireman's helmet of red riding hood flower wine
Bee loved sunshine daisies spread their wax petals on the crimson rooftop
Clusters of blue lotuses float in my faded old bathtub in close vicinity
The small wooden well with an overhanging planked bucket sheltered above
Houses red geraniums and ruffled peonies in the backyard
My skin peeled timber wheelbarrow rests being tired of traying
Blooming pink roses, green brushy ferns and purple asters
A pathway of coloured mandalas to step upon with sweeping skirts
Encircle around small earthen-pot fountains dripping lazily
From one clay vessel to another to ripple over creamy pebbles
Leisure around the hibiscus bushes and you'll find a log table with stumps
Rest a while and watch the the stone swans resting their beaks on breasts
Pleased to carry their petunia backs to dwell in your warm arbours
I'm a paradisiacal retreat for a photographic memory to paint me in words
April 4, 2016
“The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof but canst
not tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth.” John ch 3. vs 8.
In a plain bound book
I tattoo white paper in blue
Then wrap myself in this shaman’s cloak
To fly with the eagle to a sky renewed.
I sing words salvaged from the press
In the intervals of Te Deum,
Stolen from its church,
Sung so only its melancholy shines.
Pärt turned to church and tradition
Amidst a century of horror,
And I turn to these conjured spirits
In a world polluted by podcast trash.
Inwardly, I turn – not without question.
The simplest words are sewn with elaborate doubt.
But into the image of inwardness
I dive deeper, and there find reasons to go on.
In the mandalas, strange mazes, of this book
I encircle, tame, and then hold fast
The sound of the blowing wind.
I want to walk with you as Lovers do
to see the wild geese soar above our heads
like seraphim rejoicing heavens blue,
lush emerald groves, and sunsets apple-red.
My love, I want to read your favorite poems,
to sing your cherished songs, divine your dreams--
I yearn to touch, to know your body's thrum
all awash in light of silver moonbeams.
My darling, how I long to memorize
the spectrums of your aura, of your soul
I want to see mandalas in your eyes;
to nourish you until your heart is full.
Our love could be a rainbow wonderland;
oh, how I long to hold your weary hand.
Who says that birds of different feathers can't live together?
God created different feathers for man to admire and understand that,
Similar feathers live in similar habitats,
They feed, fly and passionately protect each other.
Boulders from high, dry territories break down with time,
Roll downhill to reach distant resting places,
The gushing, foaming brooks and rivulets carry them along,
Sometimes pushing them, and sometimes letting them be when they are tired.
In this sojourn they smoothen their rough, crude exteriors,
To ready them before they reach the destination of their choice.
Their inviting looks in the doorways of the shallow babbling waters now,
Attracts the breeds of Michael Angelo's with their searching eyes.
They embroider red-green birds of space on soft angular stones,
The blue and lilac bewildered, round-eyed owlets perch quietly alongwith,
The crimson, yellow coloured netty-winged butterflies of the earth on oval seats,
While the rounded stones are like sequined multi-coloured catalysts under the sea.
Earth, space and water are united by the souls of these creative artistes.
With deft fingers and palette rainbow paints in their studios,
Nature is re-created on mandalas in all its delightful magnificence,
Which God Himself was not empowered with.
January 19, 2016
Contest:Theme#7 Colours
Sponsor: Skat A
Reference to artists like Sehnaz Bac who paint beautiful mandalas.
Creating mandalas
as they waltz on their toes-
blooming like lotuses
in a stagnant pond;
their cores are pupils
welling with tears:
weeping beneath
the shadows of nimbus.
Rings with no beginning
neither an end;
silent are their echoes
as they flow like silk.
The only audience
aware of the pool-
are soles of filth
awaiting to be cleansed.
From a curtain of raindrops,
on roads they now rest-
searching for the face:
the advent of death.
Anticipating the fact
that heat is preferred,
ripples embrace
as they're consumed
by the earth.
a cascade
ancient spirit healing, Asian artwork.
adapting mandalas around the world.
Abstract designs articulate self worth.
Hindu and Bhuddist monks used mandalas
in creative, meditative, teaching -
ancient spirit healing, Asian artwork.
Today’s artists use the same principles
line, color, texture, shape and symmetry
adapting mandalas around the world.
A personal transformation occurs
coloring in my book of mandalas.
Abstract designs articulate self worth.
July 24, 2021
Hop skip jump laugh and dance then for fear feeds fragile fornicating frogs. And as spots are squeezed and pus ejected. The falsities beneath are plainly on display. No more hiding in boiled bumps. Serving stewing stakes stairs stained stares. Minding the ever increasing corners of protruding print processions. Flags held high. Over twenty thousand feet. But no boots in sky paths. And no grass coloured cloud could ever play a clarinet. Now before I eat an egg with toast I must clarify one thing. The radius of a fridge freezer is measured only by balancing pillows on one's head and playing monopoly with the cupboard doors. Drawers are excluded. Denied access you see. Due their un orderly ways. It is very disrespectful to the spoons. Hook then a towel. And spear sausages. Goodbye and goodnight. Many eras. Many moons. Many mandalas. Haha candlelit tables dancing in mid air. Haha hows the horse? Hmmm indoctrinated intoxicated introverted ignorant insect. And a beef cutlet wit melon jus. *** institutionalised z a big Z
My gypsy, mystic, music soul dances in ellipses
Down pathways of holy manta mandalas.
Ritualistic, shamanists trace circles in painted sand,
And, I stand in boots of slavery,
Like a penitent at the altar,
Seeking entry permission at
The vulvic door of your love.
You wallow in anguished, angry fear,
Hungering with your eyes.
the rosey velvet treasure clutched
Like crumbled heart-shaped chocolate dreams-
Of Valentine's Days forgotten.
You never even got a card.
It still hurts you deep inside;
Down in your "long ago".
Leaving teardrops like a breadcrumb trail,
My robber's feet run rampant
Trampling, as I scamper,
The Lilacs left before your door.
When you relent from your sorrow;
Stop paying interest on debts you don't owe,
You'll find me at the local pool-hall
Shooting darts and talking low,
On the pay phone in the back.
Many different directions,
adventures as yet unknown;
Nothing prepares you for oblivion,
doused in hypnotic battery acid;
All your dreams are sure to bloom
living in the moment of every turn;
Always a stumble of pure perfection,
surely you will awaken.
Down a dark wormhole,
cut short by nothing;
We fly fast and fierce,
simply free falling
inside the abyss;
Mandalas form
tumbling circles
celestial spins
no gravity;
Spiraling
particles
imprison,
my mind
my heart
cuffed.