What Remains?
What remains after a man dies?
What will bring him joy to behold in the realm beyond death?
First, is profound faith in The Absolute Truth: The Supreme Being ~ Allah
The One, the Unique, the Singular; He begets not, nor is He begotten, and there is none co-equal to Him—nor any likeness or counterpart ~ Real God.
And second, his righteous deeds, good intentions, virtuous character, honesty, and love for humanity, nature, and all of creation!
As for his evil and diabolical deeds, words, and intentions, he shall feel a depth of remorse unlike anything he or she ever experienced during their earthly life!
Their earthly life is a test set by God; a test that is fleetingly brief when compared to eternity!
Everything other than that seems is gone,
After everything is gone, your deed is/are what remain after "everything" is gone!
That's what remains as seems to me as far as I knew, I believe.
What happens, whilst of that fear-rush
Face-blown, if fleetingly, when this
Front door opens?
The mind broadens!
Whose threshold's gain I too weighed.
Inner, outer, secure, insecure
Where, that distant
Worlds meet; two. Pant.
I am but a paltry pebble
washed upon the lakeshore.
A tumbled piece of agate.
Simply that and nothing more.
I am but a mere grain of sand
raised from the seabed floor,
sodden from an ocean wave.
Simply that and nothing more.
I am but an insignificant human,
a dinky speck of dust; an eyesore
fleetingly alive upon the Earth.
Simply that and nothing more.
Upon a silent night, the snow descends,
Each flake a wonder swirling from above,
A lattice frail, a dance that never ends,
Pure art bestowed by winter’s tender glove.
I lift my hands to sky in eager love
To snare a crystal marvel, chill and bright,
It lingers soft—a whisper of a dove—
Then melts to water, vanishing from sight.
How swift the moment, how elusive light
That glimmers in a frozen filigree!
We grasp at beauty, only to invite
The proof that all is passing, fleetingly.
Yet in each drop, a memory remains:
The joy of snowflakes dancing down the lanes.
Have you ever made a connection despite adversity, or at a time when emotional warmth is especially cherished?
A connection based on Jung's concept of synchronicity:
Occurrences that are linked by meaning rather than cause?
A fleetingly moment maybe in a challenging time, where meaningful contact that seems both accidental and profound.
Is needed?
A brief pause with a stranger that felt overflowing with meaning?
An unsaid unity formed in a profound silence between new or old friends?
Or just someone appearing into your life at the right time that almost felt like fate?
So, have you ever felt this sensation with someone?
Title.
Synchronicity
(A lone voice whispers)
We came together
Like two autumn leaves touching
In winter's weather
(575)
#Senryu
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Senryu, like haiku, has three lines with 17 or, but unlike haiku, which focuses on nature, senryu tends to center on human nature.
Moonlit moonrise over a moony moonshine,
Starry-eyed stargazers beneath a starlit starscape,
Wandering wanderers wander in wonder,
Until fleeting hearts no longer fleetingly flutter
A crystal clear imprint this life,
Still, true story’s false hint this life.
Life of great possibilities
Lived only ten percent, this life.
Sheer look that murders and gives life,
What a romantic hint this life!
A beauty spot--her soft black mole,
Yet, no less than a flint this life.
It lets a thousand flowers bloom
Ah with a distinct tint this life.
A flip of eyelids and all gone,
Of fleetingly short stint this life.
What karmic imprint still this life
That keeps its print succinct this life!
______________________
Ghazal |17.03.2025 | life, philosophy
forbiding forever forbes to fly forward flawlessly foruitously
falsely fascinated by five fools following fleetingly frantic
flipflops fervently and furiously.
Don’t refuse the muse, she might not come again,
Though if she does, you’ll know not how or when.
As flighty as they come, here once, but too soon gone,
You must embrace the muse, however long she’s come.
Know the muse might stutter with her wily words,
All many-winged and flying, like the birds,
But what she says you must obey, you must take heed.
Respect the muse and she’ll inspire you at your need.
She comes and goes to open eyes and broaden thought,
Inspiring every artist with the spell she’s wrought.
Her beauty might be missed, though, by the untrained eye;
However hard it works, take notice, lest work die.
With open eyes and only then the muse you’ll see,
Though she might make you chase her, fleeing fleetingly.
If you ignore the muse when she runs through the fire,
She might not ever come again, there to inspire.
Don’t refuse the muse, her stay won’t last too long;
However sweet and good, short is her song.
But when she comes, with open arms welcome her back
And she’ll provide the inspiration you so lack.
Bubbles
Everywhere
Shimmering spheres
Iridescent air
FLEETING FANCY!
Rainbow's glare!
Fragile dance!
Delicate snare!
Fragile and bright
Reflecting light
Shimmering sight
Playful flight
POP!
BURST!
Fading light
In the air we see
Ephemeral beauty
Fleetingly free
Echo of dreams!
Fleeting decree!
Fragile reflection
For all to see!
Bubbles... bubbles...
A whispered tale
Transient beauty!
A whispered wail!
Illusion shattered!
A fragile sail!
Fading...
Vanishing...
Without...
fail.
My secret dream,
It was always about being a firefly,
lighting up the world,
brightening life,
even if only
a little and fleetingly...!
there are
merciless
words that shatter joy
falling with tears of farewell
as sorrow’s wayward ghosts come fleetingly home
Beneath the inscrutable sky, blinded by divided eternities,
We are islands of yearning, adrift in fate,
Each bearing a mysterious longing, a desert within the chest,
And with every heartbeat, my sorrow robustly grows.
Fate, the ancient dramatist who in astral maps has decreed
That we be star-crossed lovers, struck by the curse of the falling star.
Painfully sweet is our allotment, a share of shadow and nectar,
Tasting fleetingly, in profound flight, from the sweetness of ephemeral intimacy.
This is the light we endeavor to clasp tightly,
Like Odysseus, shipwrecked in an epic of froth,
Clinging to the beam that thrashes amongst the violent and caustic waves.
You remained locked in a loveless alliance, you've watched too long.
Belatedly, we discovered each other, drawn by a sublime magnet,
Which seemed, in its ephemeral moment, too intense to be contained.
And thus, nature staged its wild banquet,
A cruel show, unintelligible to hearts, stealing away our happiness.
Slow flakes,
Shaken from a starry sky,
Floating through the air
Like tiny fragile ghosts,
Settling on black branches
Glistening with spectral frost.
The great silence of falling snow.
Each flake unique,
As delicate as old lace,
Pure and white as an untroubled soul.
They brighten up the gloom
Of an early winter afternoon.
Each flake insubstantial, transient,
Their lives, like ours, are brief,
Their beauty a passing moment of radiance.
In the light of a street lamp they fleetingly transcend,
Only to be seen no more.
Years are piled in slouching display.
Dust bobbles on a sunlit window,
yet the small ragtag shop is dingy,
without and within.
Its second hand put downs,
left to clutter;
emblematic of one life with another.
There are other items, trinkets and
baubles, fleetingly made attractive,
in the glint of a few golden rays.
I see the ivory handle of an umbrella,
its shaft and canopy half-hidden beneath
a jumble of garments.
Could it be that its grasp
is old genuine ivory?
I see a slight surface crack
on the u-shaped hilt.
Yes, not a faux simulation,
almost definitely elephant tusk.
Shall I go in,
buy this half-buried treasure
for a paltry amount,
or should I walk away,
ecological principles intact?
Today, in the hallway
it is leaning against a small table.
It is raining.
yet I hesitate to be seen with it.
"My precious,"
I mutter to myself.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.