To show His love,
Our God did send,
His one and only Son,
To save from sin,
We mortals hear, that,
"This is not the end."
Yes, We offend,
Our God above,
Yes, we were born in sin.
Please, God forgive,
We’ll make amends, since,
"This is not the end."
We travel through,
This life we wend,
With Son of Man as Friend.
We have no fear,
Since He is near, knowing,
“This is not the end.”
And we have learned,
Faith, Hope and Love,
Of all our fellow men,
Must be secured,
On these Life depends, for,
“This is not the end.”
This life on earth,
With such few years,
Know death it will attend.
Yet we have Faith,
And Hope is dear, that,
"This is not the end."
And when the veil,
On life descends,
And closes out our case,
We'll know for sure,
That Truth endured, and,
"It was not the end."
* * *
Darrell Simmerman © 2025
You see them rise while still in the suburbs,
the rings of hills, the wilderness buffer;
smaller, more round than what waits further on,
some sport cabins atop with views quite long.
Down on the road some houses still pop up
for folks who hate the concrete, noise, and trucks,
and at crossroads, small stores with country themes,
selling jerky, t-shirts with wild scenes.
Then small motels folks claim on the weekend,
cars with kayaks, across the ponds to wend.
Just down from that, a smallish petting zoo,
with local critters strutting in plain view,
the kind you wish you could see in the woods,
but they all hide, and that’s for their own good.
Then a small lake, stubbed with second homes,
the kind that you hope someday you might own,
weathered docks and fishing boats on the lake,
could the trout here be big enough to take?
But now the peaks are stretching for the clouds,
buildings thin out, the road the forest crowds,
the foothills gone, these mountains your escape,
a wild land, the kind owned by the state.
I wend my way
to Tamarisk Bay.
White sands glow
beyond the foe.
Amid pink trees
and whispered breeze
I hear the lilt
of haunting guilt
as pipes intone
a strangled moan
for sacred things
ripped from kings
while throngs gazed
at beauty razed
and cowered mute
when fear did suit.
Through the past, winding
Its housed streets do wend.
Apt then, as the year ages
Track down, while descend
Autumn, its charm-enhancers
Sunday romancers.
Air, whose mouldy tang
Appeals! Kerbed; wall-hung.
Faint hazed, whilst smokily breathe
That to Time's own clung
As wood burns, up and down there
Old world's atmosphere.
melbourne suburb
Silence………A solemn hush
except
for
insects
running
amongst the jade green grass
and the large invasive vines.
Large cypress trees,
stately and tall,
throw shadows around me
as I wend my way
along the lonely lanes
of moss-covered, musty-smelling tombs
careful not to touch the poison ivy
or admire the wisteria vines.
People do visit here,
for look, bunches of flowers
adorn the place,
emitting scents to try and nullify
the staleness of the resting place.
Headstones obliterated by the wind,
makes me wonder who lies beneath.
Was she beautiful and tall?
Ugly and short?
What does it matter now?
For all I care she could have been
beautiful and short.
But some things do matter
in our personal short earthly time.
All that matters is
what we do with our life.
Death holds no sting, really.
But
don’t
touch
the poison ivy.
Samhain approaches, the mist falls low,
Where worlds divide and shadows grow.
The veils grow thin, the stars turn pale,
And whispers ride the autumn gale.
The hearth burns dim, the candles gleam,
Each flicker births another dream.
Through silence deep, the spirits wend,
Old blood, old breath, the ages blend.
From hollowed earth to moonlit skies,
The dead return with ancient eyes.
Their laughter dances through the leaves,
Their sorrow sighs where darkness weaves.
In mortal halls, we feel their tread,
A chill that walks beside the dead.
And in the night’s consuming seam,
All that’s left are screams—
to feed the fright, to wake the dream.
By supervision to me a sight have been shewn
Sultan with a green starboard have been shown
I am telling you what my eyes have known
Sultan with a green starboard have been shown
He opened his starboard and walked through
My heart inside its oil has molten down all
Light of Muhammad covered up the throne
Sultan with a green starboard have been shown
His starboard was white converted to green
I woke up and hit myself with every grain
Dear divine show me again once more by dream
Sultan with a green starboard have been shown
He opened his starboard wend to his road
Lots of thousands of pilgrims at his sidelong
Come dear sinner servant pray for pardon
Sultan with a green starboard have been shown
Dervish Jonah truthfully worship to you Lord
Ones who don't worship deviate from straight road
Dear Allah save us from all sins of old
Sultan with a green starboard have been shown
Written by Dervish Jonah (Yunus Emre)
Translation Onur Ünlü
Long and winding is the trail
slickened by a slimy snail.
Through life he does wend,
wondering how it will end:
"If I might beg your pardon,
little snail in my garden -
is your day going well,
little creature in a shell?"
The mollusk replied in fright,
"I beg your pardon if I might",
said the snail whose skin was wet
with nervous beads of sweat.
"I'm God's creature just like you",
said he as he eyed the shoe,
and, "My, you're looking good,
glad you're in the neighborhood."
But those words were too late,
for the beast of sluggish gait.
It wasn't how he had wished,
his life stilled by being squished.
On the road I try each guise,
Today I’ll meet them with new eyes.
Life has left me time to spare,
I bring some idleness to share.
Some may perish in this flame,
I live on gladly, all the same.
A boundless show, yet sweet refrain,
Their voice keeps singing out my name.
Are these feelings just in vain?
Still alone, to them I wend my way again.
to wend through golden grasses of my past
with chill winds at my back from o'er the hill
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last
thus far behind me stands that boy, miscast
while just a jester, much too bright and shrill
to wend through golden grasses of my past
the latter lad, thus pressed to love too fast
so saved his heart to burnish, soft and still
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last
he stumbled into manhood, loves amassed
with wisdom gained from tragedy and thrill
to wend through golden grasses of my past
encumbrances and burdens grew too vast
while finding warmth in darkness and a pill
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last
so now I cross the fields of time, steadfast
renewed with all the love one heart can will
to wend through golden grasses of my past
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last.
Till seen, to see her be the sole wish, which
Once fulfilled, to embrace her is the itch,
That done, there’s still no end,
Ways of wish far do wend,
Never to part then be passion’s new pitch.
____________________________
Translation (Limerick) | 26.08.2025 | desire, wish, women
Note: Here is a verse (in Upajati meter) from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). Once a man is drawn to a beautiful woman, a world of desires unfolds, it says. You satisfy one and soon another one crops up. Here is the transliteration:
a-darshane darshana maatra kaamaa,
drastvaa parishvanga sukha eka lolaa |
aalingitaayaam punah aayata akshyaam,
aashaasmahe vigrahayoh abhedam || 23 ||
around
about us wend
spiraling fates,
treading sills as lame cats
or children unsure of fruit
wink at chance
eds are deadly dangerous
more people die there
no matter young or old
than anywhere
else in the whole wide world
(or so I've been told)
and if it's not too late
someone should legislate
to outlaw
and recall them all
then instead we'll sleep on the floor
so before you go
up the wooden hills to Bedforshire
and wend your weary way
to the land of Nod
if you wish to see another day
(after you brush your teeth and prayers say)
take care the place you rest your head
(a bunk-up in a hammock's best)
as the dreaded bed's where even angels fear to tread
This is the day
We break the bread
Cup full of wine
To numb the head
This is the day
When truth reveals
The veil of lies
A mind conceals
This is the day
We knew would be
That thorny cap
Of destiny
Awaits the king
Of hearts and minds
Releasing all the
Chain that binds
This is the day
A final feast
Then walk to face
The mighty beast
A farewell toast
A hug goodbye
Of knowing me
You will deny
We pivot now
Towards the end
Death's lonely path
My feet to wend
A different way
Would be so nice
Now suffering
To sacrifice
This is the day
We eat our last
So I can save you
From your past
So, go I must
My words they stay
New life awaits
This is the day
As she drinks nectar from a flower, sweetness from heaven falls like dew
anointed with a gentle rain amidst sun showers she appears as if on cue
Lifting her wings she lands on a Zinnia beneath a tinted sky of April blue
flight of fancy fanning fast, fabulous marvel, she is beauty true on true
Tis the vernal hour when nature's luster peaks and winter dirges no more wend.
Airy notes from feathered breasts, dutiful drones, bejeweled butterflies ascend.
Upon the indigo daze of an afternoon, my angel in lepidopteran disguise
danced along this florid patch with plush pirouettes, calling "Rose, arise!"
"Still here, a bloom to seek and hold." Groggy, dolt, my petals of discontent...
quiet cold stole my blush, then by cruel degrees, I learned snow's resentment.
But in a sun-lit-breeze ballet, God as big as the butterfly, weighing like nothing
revealed the signs of a world renewed, and ushered me thru the rite of spring.
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