Long Khalil Poems
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"Yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream. By Khalil Gibran"
I'm going over yesterday for meaning.
Due to the wind, the tall grass may be leaning.
A ray of light shone through the shadow.
Some vigil plus a sunlit moor or meadow.
Don't waste time testing events of yesterday.
Pinpoint the now and find happiness today.
Hold the door ajar; it's not over for the day.
Yesterday currently owes me tomorrow's pay.
I sinned and should be ashamed to the bone.
An absence of noise framed the eerie tone.
A fresh day has dawned with the fresh sun.
Don't allow past faults to slur you and run.
Raise a glass to your own reflection on the wall.
Drink quickly; you may be the past spirit to fall.
Our love is the only thing that will not decay.
It does not have a tomorrow or a yesterday.
Time isn't something you can run from or halt.
Your age will fall with each day of your default.
Yesterday's hands spite your past years ago.
It is, however, a specter of your tomorrow.
Is closing a door akin to unlocking a novel one?
Hold the door for a while! Show me tomorrow.
A minute before I waste today on casino fun.
As I gaunt it yesterday, it will be lost to sorrow.
My peers viewed it all throughout the years.
Endpoints and starting paths, as well as tears
In times of grief, they were an oasis of solace.
and I provided comfort at some time and place.
Time appears as if sifting through an hourglass.
Relying on a clock can show a date or time, alas.
It involves becoming an adult and getting older.
a way to feel fierce joy or grief on the shoulder.
The sand gradually trickles at a sluggish speed.
It leads one to opine that its flow will last indeed.
This plethora of free time makes input feasible.
Relish yourself with your friends when possible.
Written: May 05, 2023
Writing Challenge - 'Y 'Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
A man came here to speak today,
students did not like him at all,
egged of by professors, quite enraged,
with no decency at all.
They claim we should ‘hear all sides,’
but when this man dared to speak,
they rioted and the police arrived
to end their fit of pique.
How delightfully tyrannical.
A man knelt down in quiet prayer
outside, during his break from work.
A coworker cried,”Can’t do that there!”
and proceeded to go berserk.
Yet when Khalil did the same,
facing east to find Mecca,
coworker said,”Respect their culture!
You have too, it’s the law!”
How delightfully tyrannical.
A boy applied to university,
his scores were of highest rank.
but his skin was too pale, you see,
and the admissions team, it stank.
It dropped him for a darker hue,
so it could claim it was ‘diverse.’
the poor boy was completely screwed
by academics quite perverse.
How delightfully tyrannical.
A businessman forgot to check
a small box on his tax returns.
Little then did he suspect
that this would get him burned.
Others, he knew, had been let go
for making such a small mistake,
but he did not have ‘correct’ politics,
and down came the weaponized state.
How delightfully tyrannical.
A newsman made Reifenstahl proud
when he targeted a small café,
who’s owner had said out loud
that his faith wasn’t keen on gays.
So that ‘objective’ media man
spread this guy’s private views around.
Protestors beat him till he couldn’t stand,
then left him lying on the ground.
How delightfully tyrannical.
They all come with smiles, big and broad,
they say ‘history is on our side,’
but if you do anything but applaud
they’ll crow that you should die.
Try to explain freedom to them,
they’ll proclaim you’re a fascist fool.
Try to explain individuality
and they’ll declare you racists too.
How delightfully tyrannical.
Sic semper tyrannis…
DOUBT ME IF YOU WILL
_______________________
Sun will cease to shine.
Twlight she looses her blush.
Moon she losses her sheen.
Stars have lost their glitter.
My face has lost its smile.
Hope elopes with darkness.
I have no where to hide.
My vision conceives Mirages.
My feet feels like a ton.
My life moves in slow motion.
Meaning and Words they no longer hold hands.
Mankind perishing around me.
Intoxicated by sadness.
Fear is mocking at me.
Mortality is calling, with open arms.
She just wants to hug me once.
She seems to be lonely.
But I will not concede.
Trees and plants are naked.
leaves have divorced them.
Fumes of desolation fills the air.
My lungs have forgotten to breathe.
Like a convict who longs for freedom,
my heart pounds my chest.
There will be no butterflies,
bees or Humming Birds.
No nectar for them to sup.
No flowers will bloom.
Pollination becomes extinct.
Bird will cease to Exist,
They find no insects to feed.
Herbivorous creatures perish.
No grass or plants to graze.
Carnivorous predators wither,
no herbivores creatures to sustain their life.
Vulnerable Humans are their only prey.
When sense abandons the mind.
Ecology has lost its balance.
Sea will rise, since evaporation ceased.
As the sun, he lost his crown.
The earth will slowly disappear.
Waters will rise and embrace this sphere.
Life has lost its charm.
Because of doubt.
A pigment of colourful mind.
Fundamental, humane flaw of this mortal race.
Like my friend philosopher and guiding light.
Late, KHALIL GIBRAN, says.
Quote:
DOUBT IS A PAIN TOO LONELY
TO KNOW THAT FAITH IS HIS TWIN BROTHER
Unquote.
And further amplifies, by saying.
Quote :
LOVE AND DOUBT HAVE NEVER BEEN ON SPEAKING TERMS
Unquote.
I hope DEATH embraces DOUBT.
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.
“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.
“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.
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.”
"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
“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 other day, in a new town and with some time to kill,
I wandered into a used book store. It smelled wonderful..
dusty and well loved. The proprietor was more than happy
to lead me to the poetry corner, and a corner it was..snug
and cozy, with an entire wall of old books. In heaven, I
settled in for some browsing, Pablo Neruda love poems,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Khalil Gibron ,and many,
many poets that I was not familiar with. The minutes passed..
and then my eye was caught by The Penguin Book of
First World War Poetry, .published in 1979...
edited by Jon Silkin, London, England.
By the end of the next hour the tears were brimming.
The stories of unimaginable pain and horror, death ,
and yes, beauty, touched me deeply. And the final glory..
On page 85..In Flanders Fields ", between the crosses, row on row.."
In spidery script, someone had written.."In 1933, Poplar, Montana-
I recited this on Armistice Day, and I can still do it today..."
An ordinary day, became an extraordinary day..
Barbara Gorelick
Inspired by the poem...Old Books..., written by Constance~~ A Rambling Poet
For the contest --I Am Sending You a Gift of Poetry, Dear Heart..