Stopping at Incense Storing Temple

I did not know the incense storing temple;
fragrance percolating through the walls,
a floral note, hints of jasmine or rose since it’s smoke
not scent which is significant
in conveying the prayers of those faithful to gardens of Paradise,
I close my eyes
and meander through the cobblestone path,
come clouds, blue violet, fissures of brilliant light that enlightens—
embrace your wounded, put a flower in hair
and instill sword of faith in bosom so we may be warriors.
In the end, it will be belief in the eternal scales that will be life,
words floating seamlessly,
I am in constant awe of breath that flows in and out with reverence,
I weep, not because I am overwhelmed
but because the wind carries with it long and deep sighs,
it’s all messy, the world, the strands of hair, the thoughts, the heart;
I said to myself, conscious breathing is key,
so breathe, breathe, breathe until you feel the air running down
your throat,
close your mind and let not dolor, let not despair step foot into—
let them all float away, let them dissipate,
listen to the air coming through you and then back out,
taste the atmosphere serene surrounding you,
the very alchemy of meditation, the very alchemy of meditation.
The mind can go to a thousand different places,
my senses now aligned, right here, right this moment, I am whole.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Alex Azabache, “white and maroon templenear body of water,” pexels. Fair use.

Laura hosts at dVerse and invites us to select one of the poems,using
the same title and imagine what the Poet has painted, bearing in mind

the impressions which have been conveyed.

I chose, “Stopping at Incense Storing Temple,” by Wang Wei.
Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “China– Kingdom of the Poem,” @ dVerse Poets Pub

Briefly it enters, and briefly it speaks

Poem inspired by the title of Jane Kenyon’s poetic masterpiece, “Briefly it enters, briefly it speaks.”

Bothersome;
they come to me like midnight jasmine,
syllables moody-saccharine,
like crickets singing in slow motion,
when I write of him—
framing a face of exquisite symmetry is
the moon, lustrous;
far away and yet, it feels like
I can reach and capture, completely.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Bar-tending for the lovely De, the word tonight is “Bother.”Come join us! 💝

Posted for Quadrille #126 @ dVerse Poets Pub

Either a Panacea or a Pandora’s box

There is such a thing known as too much or too little;
chalked up
to an over focus on word-play and belief and an under focus
on concept and intuitive emotions,
do they really think we would be accustomed to following rituals blindly?
Empty jars line the counter awaiting this year’s yield
of berries, honey infused, homemade preserves— I am learning
how each bite, that instills gratitude, tells a story.
As the curtains open, the deep gold of the room becomes blue violet,
almost as though the clouds conspiring to tear us away
from the hypocritical claims of this world—a person’s mind,
it’s said has the ability to unleash either panacea or a pandora’s box;
threads of charcoal sketches and petals,
tell me about the space it inhabits, the place your memory
goes to when you are with it alone with your eyes closed.

Religion is the sum total of deeds, a series of events where people
before you exchange smiles in return;
it’s more than prayer, more than the divide currently prevalent.
For only when use of language is directed toward healing
of the wounded, depicting unfiltered truths, can we hope
to become sophisticated cultures—outside the hills of the valley rose
with the jubilant sound of spring filled stream.

How many forests reside in your soul, sweet child?
How many whispers go unheard?
If the emotions of one in need are equivalent to a hurricane,
then religion needs to be such so as to create a space
to slow it down—
anyone who states otherwise is either an extremist or is selling something.
This callous, apocalyptic wraith like doleful screams in the ether,
chrysanthemums forgotten
inside a journal and hushed insanity; it’s tragedy after tragedy
after tragedy.

Come sit with me under the trees, that’s how they think they can accomplish
their agenda, with a smokescreen;
I am sorry, do they really think we wouldn’t use our minds accordingly?
There is a political undercurrent as well,
though this is less explicit—but gives us neither hands nor feet.
We do not make this light, but drink in the relief that true faith gives us,
vague some days
and upon them the art of steer and nudge;
ode to Poets, to the words begging to be said— I am convinced
that it’s forsythia flares from the corner of my eye;
it’s time we pose a question—sour mashed notes and cosmos
soaked poems that make more sense when the night and those during it
are quiet, why?

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: “Green Room,” painting by Jim Holland, Pinterest

Join me, as I host the Open Link LIVE on dVerse at 3PM EST 💝

Posted for Open Link LIVE #290 @ dVerse Poets Pub

Untitled (a lioness in every sense, displays)

And so it is, the way it always has been
since ancient times,
the air, thick with grey smoke and unspoken words and exhausted
clichés;
it’s her eyes that captivate me the most, stoic and somber
the gaze of a lioness
in between ravine of possibilities and homeland possesses a confident,
and unhurried grace—cloaked in longer sultry days.
Comforting myself with the idea, I try and envision myself right there;
when things hurt, let them hurt,
we are refueling ourselves to become a better version,
new day, new sky, the ocean and the hills, ever the same, ever evolving—
embodiment of the moment and eternal combined.
In quietude, I sensed something shattering, but wait, it’s not the glass
from the table,
nor is it from the lounge, what is it then?
A serene detachment, a lioness in every sense displays an endless variety of moods,
lonely and majestic, the right side of the brain is her domain
from where she presides over the left side of the body;
she embodies creativity, imagination, vision and resourcefulness, and
just like that
the source from where the noise came presents itself, the deepest of doubt
will fashion the strongest of believers, give not your goldenrod soul to it.
Like infinite pages of a book,
her paw prints make their way into the subconscious,
digging meticulously; the rest is merely an illusion, melting.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: “The Love Letter, 1883” by Auguste Toulmouche,
Pinterest

Kim hosts at dVerse and invites us to write in the first person that
compares some trait of ours with something animal. She says the
title should be the same way Marjorie Saiser chose “The Print
the Whales Make.”
Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “The print the whales make,” @ dVerse Poets Pub

Adulation of his softer than soft lips

Lips are just tinted to serve as portal into the human soul;
rosy-brown and intimate,
I have never quite been able to figure out if softness of his lips is more
than that of association with the words that
he speaks—
my wings in raptures
about the ridge of his upper lip, glossy
and thin,
fluent in deciphering rainbows in the dark,
a sensual fluidity
synchronized
in mind and movement— my breath hitches at mere thought of them.
Warring with sleep, I listen to their song;
as syllables fall like cherry blossoms

spiraling downwards
on my one, my lone trembling sigh,
making a Poet out of me.
Upon these lips a sacrament,
a liturgy,  a confirmation, a rite is found; seeing something deep
within
the other’s soul and recognizing it
as their own,
wet orchids
clothed in spring rain,

there is something undeniably eternal  about them for they too
are a passing point
of deeper communication—some of the most worthwhile moments
on this earth are when lips travel down to
the collarbone,
persistently as the moon glimmers on the waves; trust the vibes
you get from them, for energy doesn’t lie.
This is my confession, my adulation of his softer
than soft lips as clouds overhead immerse themselves; it rained all night.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Jarek Puczel “Lovers,” Painting Pinterest

An early unveiling of the April Poem-a-Day Challenge, Day 9 🥠

Grace hosts at dVerse and asks us to write a poem about bodyparts (e.g. eyes, hands, feet) as a metaphor and/or story 💝

Posted for MTB: “The Body and Poetry,” @ dVerse Poets Pub

Spiritual Olive, Man devoid, Extinguished Moment

Spiritual olive,
man devoid, extinguished moment. Allure of the sea, whispers haunting
and scent of invocation;
what reason is there, then for pungent yet original statement?
I should ignore the stains of hot-pink profanity;
cries of a thousand hordes, saying  this is not the way it’s meant to be,
who are they to decide the potential of our voice?
In my drunken state
the darkness takes a chance and stops the clock,
from this land,
a great axiom of archaeological heritages begin to be evidenced,
any comparison
that is not strictly factual runs the risk of being interpreted as subjective;
cobbles spattered with chai and wreckage of flowers,
what have we come to?
Karachi, Karachi, on this same square the henchmen killed
the only woman
courageous enough to talk,  how did we let that happen?
At times the wind from the burning would take
dark kites along
and riders on the carousel would be seen catching petals in midair;
but on that day I thought only of the loneliness of the dying,
of how the trees whose fruit
contributes positively to the economy, began
to feel anguish,
anybody who predicts the death of a city must be birthing galaxies of their own—
the prologues are over, it’s a question now.
Karachi, Karachi, violet dreams replace woe in the shades of our minds;
what once was lost is gained
when the blue wind boy and white horse girl met, the first fall of the awakened
they named it.
It takes only a fleeting moment.

 

 

 

Original poem: Carnal apple, woman filled, burning moon
by Pablo Neruda

Photo credits: Alvaro Castagnet Watercolor City, Pinterest

An early unveiling of the April Poem-a-Day Challenge, Day 7 🥠

Lisa hosts at dVerse and asks to choose one of our favorite
poems and ‘flip the script.’ Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “Flipping The Meaning,” @dVerse Poets Pub