Long Mandalas Poems
Long Mandalas Poems. Below are the most popular long Mandalas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mandalas poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
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!
Ghost lace as thin as invisible souls from aude la
attached to heavenly doors the only color is white
in this corridor of no return, symmetrical mandalas
"We are being informed by specters of the light "
Gubernatorial tablets of gold on governed seats
Hosting judgement on those not yet opaque
Oracles of Grace ethereal, with perfect assonance
Salve for the inflicted just before their passage
Telepathic messages from the aude la ...
Ghost lace un-texturized soft against the eyes
matching the shape of their molecular pure vision
in this tunnel of light, airy volumetrical devices
"We are being reviewed, by specters of the light "
October 11, 2021
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.
She placed the small embellished table
Beside the open window igniting its red glow
As the natural light poured through
Spurring witness with exquisite detail
That begged for hands to caress and touch
Its spiritually ornate expression and artful fate
For It Was
Crafted by the peasant master's hands
In the spirit of the Berbers nomadic karma
The unforgiving wood was promised by prophesy
Taken from the Thuya Tree in ancient Agidar
On the shores of Socotra in the Erythrean Sea
East of Somalia and south of Yemen
To Become the Consecration
Its facade reflected in carved mandalas
Of symmetrical symbols of absolute portrayel
Inlaid with bone spirits unearthed from the desert
And the prized gold of ancient mariners
Left behind in their exit from this unwelcome land
Found and exhumed by thieves and tribal warriors
Taken to the Alter of Prayer
Religiously enacted and crafted by the Shaman master
Revealing the story of his people's search for eternal peace
Where these hard skinned tribes of the arid land
Were the mystic travelers and nomads
Living for the consecration of their souls
To pass into the eternal bonds of heaven
Given to God
Stained with the spirit of crimson marrow
From the communal blood sap of the Dragonblood Tree
Its fire came alive and glowed with this holy passion
As the inheritance of this light of ages passed one to the other
Bequeathed without royalty and foretold to bear its keeper
The keys to the kingdom
May 20, 2020
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.
In the cathedral of night, a new phantasm rises from the incense smoke of burnt rules,
Altars of therapy crumble under the weight of our unspoken prayers,
Our steps, like lost pilgrims, are swallowed by streets paved with tears of stars,
Where locusts of prophecy weave their sonorous mantle in the temple of our weary ears.
Silence suffocates us, binds us with chains of light, and steals our flight towards the empyrean,
But we are called to plunge into the primordial sea of divine chaos,
To dance with shadows of fear in the sanctuary of the unknown without reserve,
For only thus can we hear the echo of our soul in the cosmic cathedral of existence.
Reality unravels like an ancient scroll, leaving behind enigmatic hieroglyphs,
And we are the mad alchemists who transmute these symbols into spiritual gold,
With each verse we break the seals of isolation and pour into the streets like a river of light,
Our incantations intertwine with the whispers of eternity in a choir of mystic rebirth.
In this realm of smoke and magic mirrors, we are summoned to be more than spectators,
To hurl ourselves into the fray of life like fallen angels with burnt wings and illuminated minds,
For only thus can we weave the tapestries of a future yet unborn,
Where our wildest fantasies become cosmic mandalas, and rules are but fleeting shadows.