Long Mingled Poems
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In a teacup's embrace, a tale we shall unfold,
Of two colorful frogs, with stories to behold.
One painted blue, the other a purple hue,
Their minds intertwined, in a world askew.
The blue frog whispered, "We're tea thieves, you see!
Stealing each drop, a wild heist to set free!"
His thoughts danced swiftly, like ripples in a pond,
Believing the teacup was where they abscond.
The purple frog hopped with a joyful smile,
"We're on vacation, an oasis in style!"
His mind painted dreams, a tranquil retreat,
Finding solace and peace in this teacup's heat.
They conversed with flair, the teacup their stage,
Voices mingled, a colorful dialogue engaged.
But as the tale progresses, a twist will be revealed,
For the frogs were figments, illusions concealed.
The veil of perception cast an intricate spell,
Conjuring the frogs, the stories they'd tell.
Yet in truth's gaze, the reality unfurls,
The teacup stands empty, devoid of their twirls.
For the frogs were imagined, born from the mind's eye,
Whispered by whispers, like a whimsical lullaby.
In the teacup's silence, the truth becomes clear,
Their existence ephemeral, vanishing near.
No mention of illness, no shadows of the mind,
Just a whimsical tale, with surprises intertwined.
The frogs never existed, their presence a guise,
A mirage, a fragment, like dreams in disguise.
So let us ponder this tale with open hearts,
Where teacup fantasies took their vibrant parts.
Imagination's realm, where perceptions may roam,
Creating tales and illusions, finding places to call home.
And as we sip our tea, in cups large and small,
Let's cherish the magic, the stories that enthrall.
For in the depths of imagination's gentle grasp,
We find hidden wonders, where reality may clasp.
lonesome and lonely I walk
bore in and between every strand of life
as figures of gesture now pulls me to the stream of every reason
left unanswerable in this miniseries of love
within and without any careless reason of its own
yet no slogan to say
loosing my mind another exercise with no shame of stupidity
as everything becomes anything
in skepticism of telling you the truth
unbecoming i become mingled with the fear of coming up to you
for the love I feel and re-feel to certainty
fearing an irrefutable no from you
and in all,
I truly and madly fall deeply and sincerely for you
regardless of no courage of mine.
No bougainvillea here,
Wind and wave-tossed shores
Know no such blossom.
What blooms next stormy seas
In western outposts far removed,
Unknown to sun-soft living ?
When silken purple drapes
The open sky, and folds of grey
And pastel blue hang mingled,
Dark-mirrored in the land below,
The daily reckoning may be heard,
Another storm from off the ocean,
Or might the sombre grey dissolve,
Transformed with silvered promise
Of brighter lengthening days ?
For when the earth relents,
As now it surely must,
A universal sigh is breathed
Across the waiting dormant land.
As expectation stirs, the great unveiling.
A curtain raised upon a glorious stage,
As now the islands of the west
With wondrous spectacle are blessed.
To my mind, and for what it's worth,
The flowering of the machair
Is the greatest show on earth.
Does it Matter?
Does it matter today
If a cross stood high
On a hill
Two thousand years ago?
Does it matter today
If there
A man hung dying
In company with criminals?
To most,
Long years have faded fact
To history books
To lie like fragile threads
In ancient tapestries,
A mingled pattern
Of some fertile tale
Construed to build a church
On empty gullibility.
Self-freed,
Our media age
Needs no such creed,
No faith,
No God to reckon with,
No concept of beyond
To analyse and capture
By some smart device.
Our media age,
Itself held captive
On those screens of imagery,
Projecting violence
On a fragile world,
Disfiguring,
Slow-motioning to death
In the focus of a godless dream.
But a vacant cross
Still stands,
Calling lost sinners
To a life in glory!
His lines he always wanted to shine
With éclat and style mingled fine
To bedazzle and strike with awe
Those who bothered to read a line
For hours on end, would he ponder
On how he could rive you asunder
With some poetic turn of phrase
Perfectly pointed sans all blunder
Listen to what he learned at last
Content when he was with his writing cast
Easy on the ear, loud and clear
Words were raining down somewhat thick and fast
A maestro, he remembered one day
Had told him of some versed in display
Who sadly think have a lot to say
Yet, their dead words at the moon but bay
Flowing, flaying, flaming, fighting
Blowing, playing, blaming, biting
Loving, loathing, baring, clothing
All this juxtaposed in your writing
Fails to offer what it does take
To pregnant poetry make
Poetry boils from within
Insight absent, it will not take
Soulless words will never congeal
The pest of pomp, you can’t conceal
“Good wine needs no bush”, said the poet
The wise take not the fruit for the peel
The epiphany shook him to his sense
His lines now seemed a pile of nonsense
From here to Timbuktu, he thought
Ran the serpentine to eloquence
Poetasters push the pen too hard
They throw a wheel if you would regard
Literary knowledge is not enough
It takes more wisdom to be a bard
(Response to Mr. Lamoureux "Tell Me")
You say "Tell Me" "I really want to know"
Tell you what Richard? Really?
About a God sitting on a throne in high heaven
And you down below whining and fretting?
So...I thought, well...why not?
Let's go find you "a God!"
Sought I Him in places high
Sought Him I down in the abyss depth,
In places sacred, in distant shores,
In scriptures, history, science and folklore,
In rites and rituals, in customs and creed;
Is He a God, really or a Phantom, indeed?
Or a figment of our imagination, I plead?
I saw within me and saw the light!
Oh yes, I have seen Him
with the eye of my heart,
And Him I asked, "Who art thou?"
He replied, "Thou"
"My spirit is mingled in thine,
Like water with wine,
Lo, in every way we are one."
"I in truth am He" ~Isa Upanishad 17
"I am He whom I love,
And He whom I love is I,
We are two spirits in one body,
If thou seest me
Thou seest Him,
And if thou seest Him
Thou seest us both." ~Husain Ibn Mansur (Al Haqq)
"Why should I seek?
I am the same as He.
His essence speaks through me.
I have been looking for myself." ~Jalal al-din Rumi
"Let him by wisdom his doubts dispel,
Let him be himself,
And then he sees The Self in all beings,
All beings in The Self,
The same in everything he sees"
"Even as a mirror with dirt begrimed
Shines brightly once it is well cleaned,
So too the embodied soul
once it has seen Self as it really is (tattwa)
Becomes one, its goal achieved,
from sorrow free" ~Svetasvatara Upanishad, II:4
"As much of heaven is visible,
As we have eyes to see" ~William Winter
So, Richard, here's your answer:
"Who sees Me everywhere,
Who sees the All in Me,
For him I am not lost
Nor is he lost for Me.
I am never nowhere." ~The Bhagavad Gita, VI:30
For "Tell Me" contest by Richard Lamoureux
Igba Irunmole,
These armies in bright blinding splendour,
Arrayed in unfathomable beauties,
Winged being from beyond the galaxies’
Tracking the blues skies unnoticed,
They walk this earth, unseen by mortal eyes,
Igba Irumole,
Sparkling in beauty, I marked their glowing gaze,
In radiance beyond sunlight,
Watching the sons of men day and night,
Though as servants attending,
Yet as warriors in readiness,
They weary themselves unseen by mortals,
Igba Irunmole
They cover the winds in clouds,
Sprinting through sunlight unhurt,
They mingle in lights with glorious enthusiasm,
Constrained by frequent grandeur
Parading this widening landscape
Igba Irunmole
Is this His beauty? a delightful sunbeam,
Buries my gaze in a blindfold of horror
Well nigh to the end of life,
This frame so frail mingled with pains
A strength not mine imbued within,
There I saw my fickle frame.
footnote . Igba Irunmole translated into English Are myriads of Angels
Igba is number count in Yoruba Language,
Irumole, Iru awon oni Imole, the bearers of Light
Flow River flow
Flow from the serene mountain tops
Amid the lush green trees or barren rocks
We know you will never stop
While grinding those stubborn rocks
Which always tries to hinder your flows
As obstacles like rocks tries to stop our life
But confidence and our faith breaks them and grinds them fast
Flow River flow
And never wait to grind them in pieces
Always continue your non stop watch
To provide us nectar like water and life
Not only to humans, but to the whole world lot
Including the fields, forests and plants
Without forgetting animals, birds and every single insects
Which are your darling children, you always give us a lesson
Not to get tired like a River and continue our strife
Till our journey ultimately get mingled and lost
In the vast sea of life
Ravindra
[email protected]
Entered for Flow River flow contest sponsored by Brian Strand
Kanpur India 6th January 2010
Ebullient emotion, the designer of dreams,
searched for the sense of the futile feeling.
As it mingled enthralled
with the aura of my twilight zone,
my mind merged with the notion of obscurity,
with the impulses ingrained.
The pearlescent path I had paved
to the remote realm of retreat,
along the contorted contours
of the desire of deserted desolation.
There the roses bloomed
amidst the thorny cactus,
the scent took me with the mirage
to the oasis of effervescent reverie.
At the fringe of yonder splendor
sprouted the verdant foliage of fervor,
the canopy cast the colors of the dusk sky
on the canvas of the poet’s heart.
As twilight sequestered at the edge of night
the shape of silence in the static time,
the poetry of life flowed boundless
under the star studded bejeweled sky.
As the mesmeric moonbeam sprinkled
the sequins of silver dust,
my muse floated in the rhythm of dream
with the tinsels of longing,
drifted onto your fervent firmament
on the wings of lyrical zephyr.
Just because it entranced me,
I wrote a poem for you.
"A rose thorn pricked my finger as I laid it on the grave.
Tears mingled with blood, staining my love's headstone."
~ quote by poet
I often write of tragedies and woes that darken life
Those tenebrous times that cause sorrow and strife
They bring heartache and grief of their own accord
I brandish them with words as if my pen is a sword
Ink spots drip with my tears upon parchment pages
Bloodstained splotches I pay to life as costly wages
My sonnets should tell of love and sweet romance
but no one dear to me is left to hold in a dance
I often wake in the night from dreams of the past
in the hour of gloaming when shadows are cast
and feel I'm drowning in a river, caught in a flood
where the current flows red, stained from blood
I've felt life leaving my body when I wanted to die
On bloodstained sheets, my soul prepared to fly
From emotional wounds I bled, and I blame villainy,
the cruel fate that took my loved ones so dismally.
January 30, 2023
Writing Challenge - B Word Contest
Sponsored by Constance la France