In the Spirit of Rumi-17
I said to My Beloved
Who is dearest to You, O My Beloved –
those who seek to know You
or those who seek to love You?
My Beloved said
Those who seek to know Me
must first know themself;
look deep into themselves
to know that which is not themself,
to discard that which is not themself;
then when they have found themself
so deep within themself
they shall find Me there
Those who seek to love Me
must first love themself;
look deep with love into themselves
and discard that which they love but
which is not themself;
then when they have found themself
so deep within themself
they shall find Me there
and those who truly know themself
shall love themself and Me,
shall love Me in themself;
and those who truly love themself
shall know themself and Me,
shall know Me in themself;
two paths lead all to Me:
some love knowledge,
some know love,
the treasure lies
where these paths meet
in Me
poem by Michael Shepherd
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0182 Parents (2)
OK, you don’t have to believe this;
but it’s worth thinking about.
Here’s the theory – it’s as beautifully
simple, and as subtle in its implications,
as any mathematician would enjoy:
In the succession of our lives,
leading by so many, many rebirths
to our perfection, each life
is shaped by our actions
in the previous life
and, deep, deep in our soul -
which wants only the best for us,
while we live through what’s laid down
by our past – some sublime reasoning
sets up the handicaps which we must
transcend in our next life; that is, this one
rather as if a jockey or a show-jumper
sets up the hedges, fences, walls, and water-jumps
for themself, so that they themself
may test themself to ride a greater course,
maybe a perfect round..
I’ll cut the moral, here. It’s all
beyond acceptance, and personal forgiveness, though
that’s a start; just a lifetime of
opportunities to ‘make something of yourself’
knowing in your heart that ultimately -
that is, right now -
it’s for the good
so, for a nice friendly family start:
you yourself chose your parents..
OK, you don’t have to believe this;
but it’s worth thinking about?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Poet
He — or was it she?
was a child who said little
but walked, endlessly, just looking
or stood still for minutes, hours,
and became what they looked at
was from a large family
but still people said, you’re an only child aren’t you
was it seems very happy in themself
but no-one asked, so never said
kept themself to themself, which annoyed
other children, who bullied them
and then were even more annoyed
when they didn’t play the victim
failed examinations and yet
was always wrapt up in a book
occasionally did things like cutting themselves
and was told off but never questioned usefully
wrote poems secretly but was unconcerned
whether people read them or not
was good to be with as long as you
didn’t expect anything of them
was secretly loved by some
who never liked to say so
because what they loved somehow
didn’t have a name
years later, some of them read the poems
and knew what they had loved
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Love as self: self as love
We do not have to seek for love
nor fear it ever go:
but simply, rest within ourself;
then, love perforce must flow:
for who’s the sweetest company,
as parent, sister, brother?
Those restful ones, always themself;
as one who knows no other..
*
[This came after watching ‘The Big Sing’:
every seat in the Albert Hall taken
by those singing their hearts out
to fine words; while simultaneously and
in unsought parallel, love flowed..]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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To That Guy Towards the Back of the Class, He'll Know Who I Mean
Yes you,
the one who’s noisy when
he’s here which isn’t so very often -
you’ll never believe it but
I know you better than you’ll ever know…
oh yes I do and
maybe I could tell you but
the one who I don’t know is
the you that stands in front of you,
that writes your name, and not much else, that sits in class,
that looks at me as if
we were born into two different tribes
sworn to enmity
sometime in your life
someone told you you were nuffin
maybe they didn’t say it, just assumed it
maybe they said it when they were feeling foul
maybe they even said it when saying
the very opposite but
the way they said it meant
they didn’t quite believe it themself because
they felt themself to be like that
know what I’m sayin?
yes I know you better than you know
I know it from that great great place,
that great great space
that’s the same in you and me
and maybe we’ll get a chance
to talk about this some time
maybe meet accidentally in MacD’s
you’ll be embarrassed by the intimacy of that
as if you’d been captured by the other tribe
and you have to bribe your way out but
maybe we’ll chat and I’ll try
to hint to you about that great great space
which somehow doesn’t get
into the classroom... targets etc
that’s if, I don’t change schools first
or give up teaching, it’s a near thing; maybe
we’ll both be glad of the chat, it
could be the start (but keep it quiet)
of something new for you
you’d better believe it; with your life;
(‘bettuh bleevit’)
so try to attend more often,
know what I’m sayin?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Democrats and Republicans are the same guy admiring themself in the mirror.
quote by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dark blue
It won´t forgive me
Everyone eats and feasts while I don´t
It won´t stop!
Everyone smiles and laughs while I don´t
It hurts! !
Everyone enjoys themself´s and it´s warm
I´m sorry, I´m sorry, I´m sorry, I´m sorry, I´m sorry, I´m sorry.
Mother...
poem by Makie Natsumoto
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Either accept people for what they are, or don't. So, in other words, man, if people don't know me, I think they do themself an injustice. Because, as a whole, I think I'm a good person.
quote by Ike Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Be Yourself
Someone falls to pieces
sleepin all alone
someone kills the pain
spinning in the silence
to finally drift away
someone gets excited
in a chapel yard
catches a bouquet
another lays a dozen
white roses on a grave
to be yourself is all that you can do
to be yourself is all that you can do
someone finds salvation in everyone
and another only fame
someone tries to hide themself
down inside himself he breathes
someone swears his true love
until the end of time
another runs away
seperate or united?
empty or insane?
to be yourself is all that you can do
to be yourself is all that you can do
to be yourself is all that you can do
to be yourself is all that you can do
even when you've had enough
been pulled apart
or been in love
every single memory of
could have been faces of love
don't lose any sleep tonight
i'm sure everything will end up alright
you may win love
but to be yourself is all that you can do
to be yourself is all that you can do
song performed by by Audioslave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A saint is a person who gives of themself without asking for anything in return. That's how simple it is to be a saint. Try it! Try being a saint.
quote by Edward James Olmos
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Is it dead—Find it
417
Is it dead—Find it—
Out of sound—Out of sight—
"Happy"? Which is wiser—
You, or the Wind?
"Conscious"? Won't you ask that—
Of the low Ground?
"Homesick"? Many met it—
Even through them—This
Cannot testify—
Themself—as dumb—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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They Shut Me Up in Prose
They shut me up in Prose --
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet --
Because they liked me "still" --
Still! Could themself have peeped --
And seen my Brain -- go round --
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason -- in the Pound --
Himself has but to will
And easy as a Star
Abolish his Captivity --
And laugh -- No more have I --
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Without this—there is nought
655
Without this—there is nought—
All other Riches be
As is the Twitter of a Bird—
Heard opposite the Sea—
I could not care—to gain
A lesser than the Whole—
For did not this include themself—
As Seams—include the Ball?
I wished a way might be
My Heart to subdivide—
'Twould magnify—the Gratitude—
And not reduce—the Gold—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Brighter, Deeper, And More Alive.
Our feelings are ends in themself, and they serve our soul, that is our unique ways of unfolding our unique self in every instance, as soul strives to reify it self in the stratum we call reality, intimacy, culture, society, family, work. Love and intimacy free us from such confinements, such roles into universes within our reality that is much brighter, deeper, and more alive.
poem by Michael Kavuoti
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The Months have ends—the Years—a knot
423
The Months have ends—the Years—a knot—
No Power can untie
To stretch a little further
A Skein of Misery—
The Earth lays back these tired lives
In her mysterious Drawers—
Too tenderly, that any doubt
An ultimate Repose—
The manner of the Children—
Who weary of the Day—
Themself—the noisy Plaything
They cannot put away—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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You, to whom I am myself
O You Who Are - the formless, nameless One,
more real than all forms and names can speak:
You for whom we seek to find a name
and yet who has no name, who needs no name;
You for whom we seek to shape a form
and yet who has no form, who needs no form;
Yet whom we name in every name we speak,
and whom we see in every form we seek:
is there some name bestowed for nameless name,
a form imagined for a formless form,
by which all hearts today that seek themselves
may shape their search as if for One unknown?
may kneel in front of their own golden throne?
Should we approach you as the Lord of Hearts,
who’s spoken of in heartfelt praise of glorious human brilliance,
endeavour, art, achievement and discovery;
the Lord who gave us hearts to know we love?
Should we approach you as the Lord of Self,
whom we all know when we relax, become
more our known self, in silence, rest, or company
that sparkles round a table built of happiness?
Should we approach you as the Lord of Consciousness
in whom we live and move, and be; yet never see
for you’re the seeing in ourself; to whom we wake
and know, and stand securely, watching all?
I ask You for the sound of some new yet eternal name;
that sound by which all quickly know themself
and talk once more from hearts forever free,
of what we are, and know, and love to be.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Wisely Love The Wise
The wise love wisely.
It’s said, that when the truly wise
surface from their sleep,
they see nought but heavenly blue
in which the world then gently, slowly shapes itself
as if this whole created world were but
a single act of love; and within that love,
their love is wisdom, knowledge, law;
as they emerge from their wise sleep,
this is what they are.
The wise love wisely; when they look at you,
(you who maybe meet them for
the first time; offer them perhaps
a flower from too hot a hand,
a fruit, a handkerchief…
or meet them by some heavenly accident,
they, like a comet through your life)
and their first so wise glance at you
sees nought but your perfection;
they do not doubt that you are they,
that they are you; and while they’re here
you share all this with them;
you’ve met yourself; for this
is what you are..
The wise are careful lovers
for love is care, and care is charity;
and yet the wise are widest, wildest,
most romantic lovers:
they throw, they strew their love
on all and every one and thing without a further thought,
offering simply, lawful freedom, happiness;
bidding love well as it flies away,
wishing you themself;
wishing you, yourself;
The wise love wisely;
for they know the secret law of love:
the more it’s given, the more there is
to give.
The wise love wisely;
so, they wear a wise disguise;
they look like you and me; because
we are that same disguise.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Such Activities
One day they are going to need,
Updated and refreshened explanations.
With a new set of excuses,
For their misguided deeds.
No one can repeatedly shot themself in the foot,
To hop around in self inflicted sorrow...
And blame others for criticizing their efforts.
Or not showing them support for consistently being,
Redundantly incompetent.
Although STUPID would be an appropriate word to use.
Loyalty begins to wear thin,
When those who follow such activities...
Are made to appear to be the bigger fools.
With the excusing of blatant ignorance,
As an element of routine.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If i die?
If i die will any1 miss me?
If i die will i be remembered?
If i die will they cry because im gone?
If i die will my best friend be there?
If i die will she care?
If i die would people change the way they think?
If i commit suicide will people judge the person that I was?
If i commit suicide will I get to see my sis because shes in heaven?
If i commit suicide will some1 blame themself?
If i commit suicide will my parents be embarresed to call me their son?
If i think of these things constantly should i commit suicide and take the easy way out or should i fight and pray to god for the best?
The Xmas Cad'nt'Bury Tales
I wish you were a chocolate truffle with a galliano centre,
I wish, I wish, I wish you were a chocolate fudge oozing with caramel,
Your essence sends shivers down my spine,
A feast for my sences so devine.
I'm intoxicated, hypnotised, mesmeriised with your strawberry fragrance,
Whom a field of orchids could not compete,
I want to taste you,
I want to eat you.
Hurry while it's cool, away from melting moments,
Let's go to the Praline ball, I want to waltz you in my arms,
I wish, I wish, I wish.
Xmas time is nigh,
I could lose you to some greedy bod, who with timeout
To reward themself with indulgent gobbles
Punctuated with -mmmmmm!
Forget the flash
You could be gone in a chew.
What would I do?
Without you.
Come my little fudge
l et's consume each other,
Melt into my arms
From your lover boy who into a soldier grew,
With love, and remembering,
I'm a chocolate too.
poem by Ken e Hall
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They Flee From Me
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.
Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small;
Therewithall sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, 'dear heart, how like you this?'
It was no dream: I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my gentleness
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness,
And she also, to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindly am served
I would fain know what she hath deserved.
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
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