En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A Sufi life

Pen in hand, and pensive…
sitting by the open window,
the curtains moving gently in the breeze,
listening to the spontaneous liveliness
of the fountain whose joyful drops
the sunlight plays with as they fall;

catching the scent of a rose
which comes and goes to the nostrils
as if it has its own intentions;

watching the sunlight moving round
the courtyard garden;
remembering with an inward stirring,
it’s the earth which moves…

words passing through the mind;
in this golden stillness, all things
are a metaphor for all else;
it’s beyond the tender tying
into lines of poetry;

just a light touch, these words;
nothing to prove; no-one to convince;
more like a hand unfolded towards life,
an acknowledgement;

as when you join the dervishes in turning,
and as the mind-free centre grows more strong,
more established (for this centre holds) ,
the thoughts spin off…

the poem too, spins off:
one arm upward which remembers,
palm open to receive in wonder;
one arm outward, palm open, offering all to all;
take it, while it’s warm with life.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the spirit of Rumi - 67 - To Rumi

I’m not too proud to say
please write a new poem through me
and I promise not to claim that
I wrote it myself…

or if that’s too much to ask,
just a line somewhere, that I’ll watch
as it writes itself and know
that you, not I, write it

or if that’s too much to ask,
open an old book at
a page that smells just faintly
of attar of roses, and know that
Rumi read this page too

or sitting quietly waiting for a poem,
or after a poem, and there’ll be
a slight breeze for a moment
carrying the memory of a rose
from an old Persian species
mixed with the faintest scent of wild herbs
after desert rain

or if that’s too much to ask,
just the occasional memory
that you lived, and wrote,
and a poem comes to mind
as if you’re reading it first to a friend

and I’ll smile and look at
the rose in the blue and white vase over there,
neither of us caring about time
while your book lies open by the window,
the breeze turning the pages gently
as if it knew which poem to choose

poem by Michael Shepherd
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When You Define A Thing

when you define
a thing, you limit it,
it is like fencing
your garden
the garden becomes
a set of exclusive
flowers, and anything
not like it becomes
a weed, and anything
that moves
becomes a pest

it is not that you
do not define, we do
it sometimes
only to understand
the limits of
understanding,

but we must be open
to other possibilities
of a garden,
a garden of stones
a garden of sand
of mud, of water
a fountain, a garden
of winds, of clouds

a garden of memories
like a poem
for instance, a garden
of words,
words with arms open
to the magic
of further creation
words still trying
to define themselves
in the garden
of the unknown

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Pigeon

I've picked up your name from the floor
and held it for long on the palm of my hand
watching it gently peck its lines
until there remained nothing not a single crumb
and your name well fed slept for a while
in lines of death in lines of life
in lines of the head and lines of the heart
in intricate patterns that sealed me for too long

there was a lullaby I wanted to sing
but I was not able to open my mouth
for fear you'll wake up and disappear
and I promised myself I would never dropp you again

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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In The Palm Of Your Hand

In the palm of your hand
you hold my heart.
Cradle it gently, my love
so it will never fall apart.

In the palm of your hand
you hold my love.
Carress it tenderly forever
and always place it above
everything that you touch.

Hold my hand
in the palm of your hand
so that I may always feel
that the sifting grains of sand
in the hourglass of time
will never be able to steal
these precious moments away.
Let them be able to stay
always in the palm of your hand.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Dont Let Go

Words and music: mike reno, brian macleod
Does anybody out there
Ever want to stand up
And shout it out
Tired of going nowhere fast
Gotta turn your world about
You know you have to keep on tryin
Cause sooner or later
You get what you want
Show em what youre made of
Ohh, its just a matter of time
So tell me can you feel it
Can you touch it
If you feel it in the palm of your hand
Dont let go
Aint it funny how the gross looks greener
On the other side of town
Dont you ever get tired of feelin
Like the whole world is bringing you down
Nows the time to get things movin
Follow what youre feelin
Prove that you can do it
Show what you believe in
Ohh, its just a matter of time
Tell me, can you feel if
Can you touch it
If you feel it in the palm of your hand
Dont let go
Tell me, can you feel if
Con you touch it
If you feel it in the palm of your hand
Dont let go
I know where you con get it
If anybody wants if
I know if made you feel so right
All you gotta do is stand up and be counted
Show me that youre out there tonight
Can you feel it
Can you touch if
If you feel it in the palm of your hand
Dont let go
Come on
Can you feel it
Can you touch it
If you feel it in the palm of your hand
Dont let go
Tell me, can you feel it
Can you touch it
If you feel it in the palm of your hand
Baby, dont let go
Dont let go
Dont let go
Dont let go
If you feel it in the palm of your hand

song performed by by Loverboy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You lay naked on the bed

You lay naked on the bed,
stretched out on your back,
with the room’s window open wide

as if you are trying to catch the breeze,
while the sun is touching the mountain top
the last time in the late afternoon

and I see your breasts moving up and down
while you breathe, where you lay with legs wide open
where sunlight is falling on the little hairs

totally unaware of your shame,
so as if you are only a little girl
while you sleep on

and I draw a light coverlet over you,
before the dusk catches you
with a sudden chilliness.

poem by Gert Strydom
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There Is No Poem To Begin The Week With

THERE IS NO POEM TO BEGIN THE WEEK WITH

There is no poem to begin the week with
Emptiness is the beginning
I try to think
I try to listen to some internal rhythm
I write words down
My thoughts are simple and self- referential
The green- yellow light is there outside my window
The world is moving
Am I writing a poem or simply writing whatever sentences come into my mind?
I sometimes think poetry never stops being written within me
At other times I believe I am just ambitious and pretentious
Today this is the beginning
These lines these words
A poem to begin the week with?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Letting Life Serve You

when you write
some words
you always have someone in mind

someone that you wonder
because you cannot control her
because she has become
too unpredictable

as she
like a worm grapples with the slowness
of her movements
upon the
indrawn lines of the leaf

seeping time
like tea

soon things happens by themselves
without our knowing

how the cocoon's silence
breaks and
gives way to life

how wings grow from
arms
how minds open like parachutes
of morning glories
along the untrodden paths of
this earth

you decide finally that sitting down
is the best thing to do
watching has become the wisest
philosophical option

things unfold like letters
that we have failed to read
chairs open their plain smoothness
for us to be there

tables are always ready with food
shoes get inside your feet

life becomes a banquet
and all those that it had given life
is always there to serve

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Open with you

Open your heart and eye's
Open your mind and hand's
Open your life...

Open to any thing and any time
Open it...
Open is the life...
Close is the finish of the life...!

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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The Great Curve

Sometimes the world has a load of questions
Seems like the world knows nothing at all
The world is near but its out of reach
Some people touch it...but they cant hold on.
She is moving to describe the world
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She has messages for everyone
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She is moving by remote control
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
Hands that move her are invisible
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
The world has a way of looking at people
Sometimes it seems that the world is wrong
She loves the world, and all the people in it
She shakes em up when she start to walk.
She is only party human being
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
She defines the possibilities
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
Holding on for an eternity
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
Gone...ending without finishing
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
The world moves on a womans hips
The world moves and it swivels and bops
The world moves on a womans hips
The world moves and it bounces and hopsu
A world of light...shes gonna open our eyes up
A world of light...shes gonna open our eyes up
Shes gonna hold/it move/it hold it/move it hold/it move it hold/
It move it
A world of light...shes gonna open out eyes up
She is moving to describe the world
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She has messages for everyone
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She is moving by remote control
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
Hands that move her are invisible
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She...has got to move the world...to move the world...to move
The world
A world of light...shes gonna open our eyes up
A world of light...shes gonna open our eyes up
Shes gonna hold/it move/it hold it/move it hold/it move it hold/
It move it
A world of light...shes gonna open out eyes up
Wanna define...so say so, so say so
Divine to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She...has got to move the world...to move the world...to move
The world

song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Those Things Solely Defined

Concave convex prisms slips of mind
Easily forgotten shadowed slowly creeping
Sometimes in a tear sometimes in a smile
Prerequisite vague visage coloured
Sprinkling window panes
Of eyes both closed and open
Things navelled in the centre of the womb
Boiling in passion rendered into a word
The call themselves unwritten poems
Writing a lightening upon a palm

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Eagle Will Rise Again

Lead vocal: colin blunstone
And I could easily fall from grace
Then another would take my place
For the chance to behold your face
As the days of my life are but grains of sand
As they fall from your open hand
At the call of the winds command
Many words are spoken when theres nothing to say
The fall upon the ears of those who dont know the way
To read between the lines, that lead between the lines, that lead me to you
All that I ask you
Is, show me how to follow you and Ill obey
Teach me how to reach you I cant find my own way
Let me see the light, let me be the light
As the sun turns slowly around the sky
Till the shadow of night is high
The eagle will learn to fly
As the days of his life are but grains of sand
As they fall from your open hand
And vanish upon the land
Many words are spoken when theres nothing to say
The fall upon the ears of those who dont know the way
To read between the lines, that lead between the lines, that lead me to you
Show me how to follow you and Ill obey
Teach me how to reach you I cant find my own way
Let me see the light, let me be the light
And so, with no warning, no last goodbye
In the dawn of the morning sky
The eagle will rise again

song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Live Your Life Be Free

Live your life be free
Live your life be free
Open up your mind and you will see
You should be with me baby
You should be with me
I see you walking with her
I see you all around
But you don't seem very happy now
You seem very down
I know you feel an obligation
To her emotional state of mind
This is the time in your life baby
When you should be having a good time
And if you want me I'll be there
To run my fingers through your hair
And if you need me its alright
Come on over baby, and see me tonight
You got to
Live your life be free
Live your life be free
Open your mind and you will see
You should be with me baby
You should be with me
You know that I'll be waiting
You know my heart is true
I will be your everything
And give everything to you
So if you want me baby I know
Don't have to knock knock down my doors
Her heart was meant to be broken that day
You got a lot of love to live
So why dont you
Live your life be free
Live your life be free
Open your mind and you will see
You should be with me baby
You should be with me
You should be with me baby
You should be with me
Live your life be free baby
Live your life be free baby
Live your life be free baby
Live your life be free baby
Live your life be free baby
Live your life be free baby
Live your life be free baby
Live your life be free baby
And when you free your mind
You will leave your past behind
Live your life be free
Live your life be free
Open your mind and you will see
You should be with me baby
You should be with me
Live your life be free
Live your life be free
Open your mind and you will see
You should be with me baby
You should be with me

song performed by by Belinda Carlisle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The House Of Poetry

there is a house where
i am not wanted

but i keep telling myself
i belong here

the lady of the house
snobs me

the others keep their
abhorrence in silence

but i have the stars in my
hand
and so their nights are
dark

i have the moon in my mind
the sun in my heart

my heart is burning
my head is gentle and cool

the house is lonely
and so i must come and live there

i have the right
the lines of my palm
are the maps
of my claim to keep on
living

the house is telling me
about rules

i am silent
the Goddess says

the rule is the Heart
it is open

always open
always open.......

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Catching Snowflakes in the sun

It's amazing what people do
When snowflakes fall on top of you
Some run and hide from the falling snow
Whilst others make balls to throw
Life is weird that way
Catching snowflakes in the sun.

As they drift slowly down and fall around you
Look up and open your palms and let land a few
And try to catch their silence and serenity in your hand
Before they quickly melt and disappear
Leaving drops like those from an emotional tear
Catching snowflakes in the sun.

Open your mouth wide and let them land on your tongue
And try to taste the essence from where they have come
For if heaven really exists and is the place to be
Then you could be there in a dream alone floating free
Magic aerial crystals dancing through the air
Catching snowflakes in the sun.

Lie on the ground and you'll be covered from head to toe
Like everything around you in a blanket of snow
Pretend to guide them towards you to the ground
By slowly moving your arms up and down
For a brief moment a snow angel you've become
Catching snowflakes in the sun.

Stand up and brush away the snow
Then build a snowman for you to enjoy
For as the season changes - as it surely will
No longer will you suffer from winter's chill
Instead enjoy every moment before it disappears
Leaving sounds of silenced snow whispers in your ears.

poem by JeanJacques Evendon
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The eyes of impressionism

Saints.
Like swans, gliding untroubled so it seems
to us, lazing on the river bank
of a Seurat summer Sunday afternoon,
gliding over the surface of the waters
as love perhaps, on that first day;
they as floating symbols
of the beauty beyond beauty;
their work, invisible to us who watch

Painters.
Like waterlilies, resting in perfection
on the surface of the waters
as love rests, sure of their own beauty;
painting just the sunlight
falling on things, moving on
more slowly than we see;
the depth of the waters
in the painter’s mind and heart;
his work invisible to us who watch
his dabbing at the canvas
as a dabchick bobs in the water, his mind
moving as time moves;
for him, sitting at the canvas,
always time present,
in the water-garden already on his palette

Cataracts.
How far a word from
the stillness around him as he sits,
his beard a little yellow from the nicotine,
seeing the waterlilies as if for the first time,
but each year the water seems to tell
more about time itself… like Proust;
where is time going in this painting?

Eyes.
Cataracts, yes; but perhaps over time
they too have sought to serve him,
become themselves, impressionists,
presenting him with images
prepared like canvasses are prepared;
gently watering inner gardens
between the eyes and mind

yes, that’s Monsieur Monet over there;
don’t disturb him; but if you stand
a little way behind him, you just may
enter the stillness around him,
enter the stillness of his mind,
see with his eyes, that work
invisible to those of us who watch
which swans and saints and artists know.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Second Coming

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of i{Spiritus Mundi}
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at laSt,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

poem by William Butler Yeats
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The New Light Has Come From On My Jalousie Windows

the first thing i do in the morning is write my new poem
borne of the night
too weary to dream
but this poem keeps on stalking
always wanting to be written

write,
stare to space and let that stare linger for a while
like gathering some dust in air
or spraying the air with your shower of thoughts
speak
to yourself
like reminding yourself with words that have become too unfamiliar
because they are not spoken
words too get impatient and jealous
because of unuse
and furious too because of abuse
words too have lives of their own
and even feelings of their own
so you are telling me

be cautious be too patient and considerate
be compassionate
be strong
be happy be prayerful

i write the words again
on the positive side of things
the happier
hopeful categories

i open some shutters
slide some thoughts
inser my gaze and
spread some scrutinies

i am seeing a new light
from the jalousies

it is the soft morning light
and i really like it

i stand still and look
above this room
down to the things
below me

i see people moving
wearing the uniform
to their offices
they go

i almost forget,
it is a working day also for me.
the morning light has enticed me again,
i repeat, my friend, i still like it

here.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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80

the new light has come from on my jalousie windows

the first thing i do in the morning is write my new poem
borne of the night
too weary to dream
but this poem keeps on stalking
always wanting to be written

write,
stare to space and let that stare linger for a while
like gathering some dust in air
or spraying the air with your shower of thoughts
speak
to yourself
like reminding yourself with words that have become too unfamiliar
because they are not spoken
words too get impatient and jealous
because of unuse
and furious too because of abuse
words too have lives of their own
and even feelings of their own
so you are telling me

be cautious be too patient and considerate
be compassionate
be strong
be happy be prayerful

i write the words again
on the positive side of things
the happier
hopeful categories

i open some shutters
slide some thoughts
inser my gaze and
spread some scrutinies

i am seeing a new light
from the jalousies

it is the soft morning light
and i really like it

i stand still and look
above this room
down to the things
below me

i see people moving
wearing the uniform
to their offices
they go

i almost forget,
it is a working day also for me.
the morning light has enticed me again,
i repeat, my friend, i still like it

here.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Farmer of Stars

I scoop the stars
Into my palm
In waters gathered from the storm
Each star
a world
Slipping slowly from my palm.

I wander
With the receding star
See the light
From afar
I reflect on
The moving light
Of what just might have been
Dreams swept by that moment’s delight.

Loss, always loss
Of the star
That was never mine
Each
A desire
Spawned by a passing wind
That moves the clouds
Which can but hide
A star
I thought was mine

Beyond reach
Cupped in my palm
Lingering for a moment
The twinkle so near
I try to hold them
A prisoner of my mind.

Copyright 2006 Baru Gobira

poem by Baru Gobira
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