|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
Truth is clear and One, but the veils of belief
hide outward constructs causing spiritual grief.
The Word is Truth, in reading some comprehend
but the heart’s intuition does not transcend
the Spirit’s intent, so, afraid to awake
and slumbering ‘til death, His truth still opaque
revealing dirty mirrors of illusion,
but still espousing pride’s hidden confusion.
The Truth is eventually diluted—
the fruit bearing tree becoming uprooted
with truth’s seeds being cast in Love’s wind waiting
for Allah’s planting of rebirth, creating
fresh hope and flourishing gardens of His Will
always reborn, Truth never becoming nil.
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
Do you search for deep wells? Dry desert land, is that your soul?
Rushing waters through underground caves, in hidden door soul?
Arabian master, the women are all the same without the drink of life,
you perish chasing after wind, a bored soul?
They offer you their bodies, leaving you wanting much more
than just sex, a little satisfaction empty whore soul?
Submit your passion to Allah, beloved and be filled
with the offering of sensuous delights, restored soul?
Life with meaning is sanctified and satisfied, blooming
in the desert sun, do you need spiritual amour soul?
Fulfillment is stimulation of body, mind and heart,
let me capture your passion, you see what you yearn for soul?
The Prophet moves between heaven and earth, so the sensual
must be consecrated to be enjoyed, an open door, soul.
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2017
|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
seeing each other
hearts stopped for a moment--
soul’s recognition
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
Allah is in the meadow; let nature rejoice
Am I not your Lord? Yes, we give witness to it.
He moves down the mountain in tumbling clear, fresh streams
Am I not your Lord? Yes, we give witness to it.
He delights in His Creation’s joy—the fish jumps
Am I not your Lord? Yes, we give witness to it.
The clear dark night reveals His sign of twinkling lights
Am I not your Lord? Yes, we give witness to it.
He Creates paths on the spread out earth back to Him
Am I not your Lord? Yes, we give witness to it.
“We worship Thee! …the garden’s prayer in wintertime.”
Am I not your Lord? Yes, we give witness to it.
The tree has produced plenteous fruit, dripping juice
Am I not your Lord? Yes, we give witness to it.
The encased soul sings Your Praise day and night O Lord
Am I not your Lord? Yes, we give witness to it.
All Creation proclaims His Glory, Alhamdulillah!
Am I not your Lord? Yes, we give witness to it.
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
All is alive and living, rising to light
civilizations peak in power’s full might
kingdom building, making self’s endeavors right.
Jackals searching for water in desert sand
dried streams and thorns in wilderness’ empty land
Allah’s Truth lost and too blind to understand
The dry seed waiting for Allah’s perfect time
life contained in dead shell, nature’s paradigm
hidden in dark waiting for light and springtime
Resurrection is happening every day
all things must rise and be reborn a new way
for the soul must be transformed within earth’s clay
Creation sings of His Glory, to Him Praise
for the goodness of all, new life in Time’s phase
cycling movement, eternal rebirth always
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
Dark gray metal and bullet holes
and you can’t walk on the streets,
the wailing and moaning
and the mothers cries,
the soldiers laughter as they smoke another cigarette.
And the rape and the slaughter
just another day in a genocide.
And why does the mournful mother cry?
Her young son has too much bravado,
and it will be just another bullet to the head.
And see the broken bodies piled high
just another day in a genocide.
The blood soaked ground cries out its stench,
life doesn’t matter
just another day in a genocide.
And the money pours in, its a death trap
and the slaughter grows—blown off limbs everywhere
while the tears flow down wrecked faces
and they wonder where God is
in all the broken down mess.
And just another day in a genocide.
Will her milk run dry while she looks into her starving babe’s eyes?
And a little bit of her dies each day,
its a messed up world
and just another day in a genocide.
Why doesn’t anyone hear their cries?
Take a walk in their shoes through hell, and pain, and darkness,
and tell me its not just another day in a genocide.
But one day, one day, my suffering brothers and sisters
the flowers will grow between broken shards of glass,
and the light will shine at last,
yay, the light will shine
through those broken pieces of glass,
and the ground cries out their names to Hosanna in the Highest
as He gathers them home into His loving arms,
and its just another day in Paradise.
And milk will flow once more
and there will be children’s laughter on the streets
and they will smell their mother’s cooking again,
and love will flow like a river down paths paved with gold,
and those tears, those tears will grow abundance in the land,
there will be no more pain and sorrow,
no more staring into a soldier’s cold eyes
as he rapes his litter sister with a gun pointed to his head
and he wants to explode
WHY!?
And it’s just another day in a genocide.
#FreePalestine
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
Dedicated to the suicides of lost dreams…
What is this dream that leaves me with baited breath?
Waiting, always waiting for hope unfulfilled,
the dark tortuous tunnel just gets longer and longer
running and running to catch the light;
an elusive firefly always out of grasp.
How does the soul spill out its pain
to those who don’t understand
and minimize, always minimize hope unrealized.
It is said “hope deferred makes the heart grow sick”
and cold, and tired, with sleepless nights
and sorrow filling up all the empty spaces,
look deep into my eyes, the well of others uncaring
filled to the brim with stormy waters,
and drifting, cast out on life’s endless seas
with no shore in sight, and the lighthouse
has gone dark in the night.
A Book says, “hope deferred makes the heart grow sick”
and hardened from hurt unable to trust again;
with arrows shot from judgement’s bow
as if you know what it takes to be human again;
when being human is knowing when to love and care
when reaching out a hand to pull someone up
is not a trick to let a victim fall again,
but the real illusion is the careless heart
thinking it resides in the light
when there is no understanding that “hope deferred makes the heart grow sick”
because the calloused heart never suffers, so turns away
from hope suspended into some identified time
endless train tracks through life’s wilderness
with valleys of darkness and edges of grief,
tottering on the cliff’s fine mortal line
unable to fly, soaring and aloft into love’s light.
Understand! “Hope deferred makes the heart grow sick.”
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
Little ant where are you going so busy
digging tunnels through life’s dust and living easy?
Chasing after the wind of lost mortal time
a meaningless meandering through world’s grime
Weak kingdoms of dark earth with shadows of death
hiding the truth of destruction with God’s breath
For the thundering hooves of Solomon’s force
with his host of jinn and birds show not remorse
But thrones of earthly kingdoms shall pass away
for God’s kingdom is only that which will stay
Delusions of earth’s grandeur and riches fine
bind hearts to dust according to His design
Little ants running to and fro choosing dirt
as your abode in far wilderness desert
The Kingdom is up and not down in shatan’s lair
He hears earthly cries and your pleading prayers
You were not meant to have empty, forlorn lives
but feel the touch of the Spirit’s love and rise.
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
Seeking the flower--
the flowing nectar of God
tasting its goodness
masculine essence its fruit
delighting in creation
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Sheryl Martin Poem
Islam’s rose has many petals
but the fragrance is one,
yet the sweet gift of my heart is many.
He has planted the White Lily
whose bloom has been spent, but
Islam’s rose has many petals.
O Your thorns pierce me Lord
as the rose begins to bloom,
but the fragrance is one.
He gave me a gift of His many flowered bouquet
and the fragrance was love,
yet the sweet gift of my heart is many.
Copyright © Sheryl Martin | Year Posted 2018
|
|