The Fuelling Arms
Nothing except wonder you behold,
Sitting among the modifiers of fate,
Radiating warmth, light of faith,
Transmitting through thin thread,
Heart to heart with ethereal link.
They throw you high into the sky,
Like a fettle falcon ready to fly.
Flight takes you to the world strange,
On the landing spots, you often find,
The same sacred hands anxious to receive,
The fueling arms open wide,
Ready to embrace, infuse the power,
For further journey to the higher skies.
Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensation and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them who disclosed some mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A Giant
Often my mind baffles,
And the stock of wisdom ends,
When I think with wonder upon
The amazingly perplexing figure.
I found on the alien ground,
A giant-like being in the size full,
Sitting with graceful posture,
Whose face, each curve and crease,
Resembled mine as if I were,
His portrait small or He were mine,
But much larger, giant-like in dimension.
Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensation and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them who disclosed some mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Suspended Mountain
He who makes understands the scheme well,
The working riddles and amazing mysteries,
But the observers become stunned, tongue-tied,
On finding all rules of wisdom suspended.
Wanderlust led me to the ground of wonder,
Where placed I was a slight afar,
Out of the simple scattered houses,
Built on the uneven hard land of pebbles.
A huge mountain suspended in the air,
Above those silent serene dwellings,
Perplexed me and my sense of logic.
The bulky phenomenon stood above,
Unpropped or without supporting pillars,
In the space not more than miles two;
Seemed all shining, dignified dark grey,
Composed of a single rising rock.
The ceiling plain, the front glimmering rough,
Glistened, reflected dim light to the west;
With no vegetation, trees and swaying tufts.
Elegant peaks rose higher than Himalayan’s,
Invincible, too precipitous to be climbed.
Strolled I and roved about the town,
Fearing lest the lurking object should fall.
On the way I found a few men in the street,
Declined I the offer unknowingly of the two,
Then turned aside and found an old sage,
Mild, gentle with bearings of a saint,
Distributing the passes to each passerby,
Bestowed he me one on which, “Muhammad”,
The most sacred name was inscribed.
Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensations and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them, revealing mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded myself from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Speed
To exaggerate is not the work of man,
I tell you fact, neither more or less
What incredible feelingly I did behold,
When my ethereal self was returning,
From the journey long, during the flight
Rested a while in front of a mansion,
Entered straight into it and saw,
The secret diligent hands busy at work,
The young servants unaware of indolence,
Preparing the records on the scrolls.
In the very spacious hall was a heap
Of books with crippled pages, brown and old,
As the rains had spoiled them all.
Took then I a few to read the lines,
But the ancient words made them mysterious,
And I could not make out a word single.
Then one who seemed to be the master of house,
Looked with displeasure, I put them down;
And finding no reverence I came out of the door.
Then looked I to the sky and wondering beheld,
A huge sun emitting glaring radiance,
Washing the blue of those cosmic spheres.
Then curiosity raised a question in the mind,
And I prayed to God to resolve the mystery,
“What is the speed of ethereal self? ”
While looking up a downward jerk I felt,
The huge radiant sun became a star,
Like a little dot that shines at night,
With remote thin dying gleam of glow.
Another sudden jolt swayed me down again,
Place me beneath on the strange landing,
Wherefrom I found the distant star vanished.
It was an answer to my unabating doubts,
“The distances beams travel in the years,
The fueled souls leap in a span very short.”
Then one who seemed to be the master of house,
Looked with displeasure, I put them down,
And finding no reverence I came out of the door.
Then looked I to the sky and wondering beheld,
A huge sun emitting glaring radiance,
Washing the blue of those cosmic spheres.
Then curiosity raised a question in the mind,
And I prayed to God to resolve the mystery,
“What is the speed of ethereal self? ”
While looking up a downward jerk I felt,
The huge radiant sun became a star,
Like a little dot that shines at night,
With remote thin dying gleam of glow.
An other sudden jolt swayed me down again,
Place me beneath on the strange landing,
Wherefrom I found the distant star vanished.
It was an answer to my unabating doubts,
“The distances beams travel in the years,
The fueled souls leap in a span very short.”
Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensations and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them, revealing mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded myself from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Shambling Fellow
I neither smoke nor drink sippingly,
Nor eat sweeping essence of flowering puppies,
Nor ever tasted the potion of hemp green,
Nor I have cancerous tumors in the brain.
I was thrown from the lofty zones,
Down deep headlong into the dungeon,
Dark narrow subterranean round cave,
Darker it grew at each moment of the down fall,
And journeying against the culminating heights.
Beholding behind nothing except horror I felt,
Only I could see a circular patch of the blue sky,
Then the dark channel began tuning at last,
To the right with imperceptible slow bend,
And I soon came out gasping of the deep tunnel.
In front then I saw the houses small and white,
Painted not afresh, extended left and right,
Numerous congested like a city inhabited thickly,
Smokeless, clear and with no profanity of the noise,
Tranquil like village in the days of harvest.
Like a swallow I darted from roof to roof
With light movements,
Much speedier than the flight of a hawk,
And soon I saw a slim tall damsel standing,
Awaiting, anxious in the middle of a yard,
Beside the two children, playing in silence.
Ah! Then a sable thought confounded my heart,
And irresolute frail mind with weak intents;
Overpowered by immodest possessing lust,
And with overhasty dart, suspending the sense of piety,
I made an instant leap to realize the desire.
Landed in the yard, subduing shrieking voices,
In front of those deep blue inviting eyes,
And red-brown face wreathed with smiles,
I seized her from the arm left; she turned the face aside,
Stretching a thin covering of gauze between.
Then whispered she a secret blushingly,
A thing hopeful, indicating my own woeful follies,
“Be not impatient, restless, no one would step,
Into the yard, though very small,
Immodest longings cause decline headlong,
Spoiling life long endeavours to rise.”
When this broke I felt ashamed on finding,
Stinging serpents and devouring dragons,
Biting into the neck of my shambling fellow,
In rags, drooping with feeble faltering legs,
Wriggling in vain to uncatch the firm grips.
Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensations and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them, revealing mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded myself from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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This is a poem....
This isn't a poem of one direction,
This is a poem about perfection.
This isn't a poem about who won the election,
This is a poem about correction.
This isn't a poem of getting it right,
This is a poem of standing up to fight.
This isn't a poem of being lost like a kite,
This is a poem about trying to find the light.
This isn't a poem of running tears,
This is a poem about chasing your fears.
This isn't a poem of love and hate,
This is a poem of destiny and fate.
This isn't a poem of the end,
This is a poem of a heart unable to mend.
This isn't a poem of cruilty and pain,
This is a poem of a thng i need to gain.
This isn't a poem of shame,
This is a poem of fame.
Thsi isn't a poem of the life i let loose,
THIS IS A POEM OF THE TRUTH.
poem by Tammie LilAimo
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Will Touch Your Heart!
Muse, infuse!
This poem is for you when you read it;
Because, i love you.
This poem is very special and,
It has the ingredients of love than hate;
So, take hate out of you and,
Bring in the light of love! !
This poem is for you because,
I love you;
And, this poem is here to guide you.
It will touch your heart!
Because, it is from my heart;
This poem is the poem of love,
Without hatred that leads to war! !
This poem is all that i have for you because,
I love you.
Smile and, let me see you laughing with the muse of love;
Becuase, i am here to share my love with you.
This poem has the spices of love and the aroma of romance waiting for you!
Because, it is from my heart.
This poem will touch you when you read it;
Because, i specially wrote it for you.
Muse, infuse!
With the joy of your heart;
Because, this is the true love that i share with you;
And, this poem will touch your heart because,
I love you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Poem To Be Heard
A poem to be held
a poem to be fed, with words stronger than the ancient
spirits.
Ti's a poem to be read by all.
A poem that beats the heat of temptation away.
It's power in every single word attracts the moonlight.
A poem, a light in the dark wilderness.
A poem that is just needed and leaves the audience
speechless.
A poem that comforts a sad soul.
Read to me a poem
when I'm cold.
Read it to me till I'm old.
When I'm heart broken, a poem, a love, I'd want.
A poem, a victory through lives endless battle.
A poem an epistle to mine heart, and every written word
in it is heard.
A poem, about royalty, about Kings and Queens
and how they live in luxury.
A poem, a song about sweet heavens.
Read me a poem and slow my heart beat down.
A poem with a tasty flavor, I'd want to hear.
Read me a poem that explains how Nelson Mandela
conquered his fears.
A poem that can describe how Martin Luther Kings
felt when he fought for freedom.
I long to hear it,
Therefor read me a poem,
to be heard.
poem by Marlene Rashidi
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Perect Fit
You lie above me,
Eyes open to see,
You fit into me so well, so right,
I could stay here with you all night,
Your longs slender body,
Perfect for my open body,
I am ready for you, I smile to let you know
How I feel, that you are not foe,
I open my warm brown body to yours',
The sensation of goodness roars,
Tonight I live until it is done,
For you are the hotdog and I am the bun.
(in this poem I am in fact talking about the hotdog and bun that is food not the other ones..just in case you took it the wrong way...)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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There Was A Poem Long Ago
THERE WAS A POEM LONG AGO
There was a poem long ago
A poem of youth and hope
Now there are other poems
Poems of age and sorrow.
There was a poem once
Of love – and happiness in love
Now there is a poem of lovelessness
And sadness.
There was a poem once
Of the long and distant open road
Now there is a poem of the dead end.
There was a poem once
That believed in Poetry
Now there is a poem that knows
Even the most beautiful worlds of words
End in dust
There was a poem once – long ago.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by Aisha Patterson
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by David Carter
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My deep Slumber.....
in the great field that a thousand wonders i lie my
head; seeing of nothing for nobody understand; i
kept on shouting but only a feeling of distress tangle
my heart, as the world of ecstasy wonder to my
deepest blues of my experience, responded to my
inquires that I am not a loser
my tears hope to see the emptiness of my heart,
waking me up to find the real me in this given world;
now that all seems the light is waiting me to touch,
and my eagerness find the star has limit my vision
of looking in the future of my step, i repose and say
to thy Almighty Lord, thank you
leave me not to my deepest blues slumber of my life;
the way i receive is nothing most than a hope of
love and a care that leads me to your eternal kingdom,
as a wishing star of a child waiting the splendid light
to gallops my face, till time i breathe no more in my
soul and passion my call Lord and ask nothing from
your shielded heart of openness
my heart is ready my Lord, and the chariot of your
vessel ride my soul, until i return my precious gift i
receive; the happy life and the joy of my journey
...... thank you
“a poem dedicated to those who receive the gift of
sleepless moment of deep slumber...in Comatose state'
.....please...wake them up by reading this poem near
to their ear.....
poem by Antonio Liao
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Shapeshifter Poems
1
the legend is whispered
in the women's tent
how the moon when she rises
full
follows some men into themselves
and changes them there
the season is short
but dreadful shapeshifters
they wear strange hands
they walk through the houses
at night their daughters
do not know them
2
who is there to protect her
from the hands of the father
not the windows which see and
say nothing not the moon
that awful eye not the woman
she will become with her
scarred tongue who who who the owl
laments into the evening who
will protect her this prettylittlegirl
3
if the little girl lies
still enough
shut enough
hard enough
shapeshifter may not
walk tonight
the full moon may not
find him here
the hair on him
bristling
rising
up
4
the poem at the end of the world
is the poem the little girl breathes
into her pillow the one
she cannot tell the one
there is no one to hear this poem
is a political poem is a war poem is a
universal poem but is not about
these things this poem
is about one human heart this poem
is the poem at the end of the world
poem by Lucille Clifton
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He Walks Without A Poem
HE WALKS WITHOUT A POEM
He walks without a poem
There is no poem in his mind
No poem in his heart.
But the idea of a poem
The dream of a poem
The daily task of a poem
The justification given by a poem-
He stops and writes these words down.
All around him
the morning light sings songs
of the things
of this world.
A poem perhaps?
Perhaps not?
I
poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Poem..
This poem
was about to speak to you
assuming that there is a you right there and now
but
hesitated, a little unsure of itself
this poem
though all ready to be
a bouncy, Tiggerish, extravert sort of poem
is going instead to take a quiet moment for
introspection
this poem
remembers that computers are essentially
binary – built up of millions of yes-no choices
so
this poem
is above all,
yes;
hoping
in still a Tiggerish way, to hear you also, say
yes
this poem
finds that it has
certain hidden desires
which it rightly or wrongly
was going to lay on you
like
this poem
would like to tell you
something new which
you might or might not believe
until some time later
when you’d say
yes!
this poem
would like to touch your heart
(impertinently assuming
you might need aortic massage)
so that when you finished reading it,
you’d say
yes!
this poem
presumptuously
would like to enable you to
see the whole world with fresh eyes,
as if never before,
be the first day
of Creation for the
rest of your life
so that you'd say
yes yes yes
this poem
would love to
be Irish, throw magical, spellbinding words round you
like two hands throwing wild flowers
over you in a summer meadow,
looking into your eyes, laughing, kissing,
dancing over the green hills to blue skies hand in hand
enchanted with a life you’d passing forgotten,
always known, while time
is eternity and
you and I and all things are
yes, yes, yes and
yes
this poem
at this point
introspectively with a touch of humility
thinks
maybe it’s sufficient, purer,
just to want to
pass you in the street,
smile right into your eyes
maybe shake hands, even
kiss both cheeks how ever many times
and know that without necessarily
saying anything
the answer’s
yes
this poem
hopes it’s made its point
without mentioning
love or other well-known,
complicated things like that and
moreover it’s gone on long enough
because
this poem loves
what happens in silence
what happens in stillness
and just wanted to say
yes?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Conversations Of The Heart
the first poem that you really find it hard to write
is to write an image which must tell her
that you love her truly from the bottom of your heart, and then
the most beautiful poem comes from her when she admits that she
also loves you with all her heart and soul and mind,
and then the saddest poem
was not written.
it was when everything ended.
the years passed.
and you do not even know
where she is.
it is always the saddest poem,
when you do not know where to find love again.
you say, not anymore, but
it can be a lie, for how can one live without it?
All corners of the world are looking for it.
They seem not to find it,
and all these corners will only stop writing
and talking and speaking
when love is found
when their hearts are
filled,
when their mouths
cannot utter a word,
because of so much abundance,
bliss, joy, happiness,
all these shall make us mute for another hundred years.
(do we ever reach there?)
honestly in making love, (and be in so much trouble loving,)
words do not have use,
love, you embrace me with so much intensity
all my nerves sing, neurons spark with flints,
i explode, finished.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem About The Poem About The Poem
THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM
The poem about the poem about the poem
Written in dream
And forgotten in sleep
Comes back to me slowly now
As if it had been away on a long long journey
And is reluctant to come home-
I write it
But it really writes me
And when I try to make sense of what it means
It tells me its ambiguities
Are more important and interesting
Than my clarity-
The poem about the poem about the poem
Written now
May not be a poem about a poem about a poem at all
But may merely be my own playing with words
Which take the place in my life
Of really living-
A poem about a poem about a poem?
Surely this is a mysterious thing
If it exists at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Little Poem
Little poem - Lot's of joy
Happiness - A little boy;
Any troubles? - No indeed
Satisfaction? - Guaranteed.
Little poem - Lots of fun
Indians red - Cowboy's gun;
Nothing hurting - Dreaming sweet
Golden days - Life complete.
Little poem - Lots of woe
Complications - To and fro;
Heavy heart - Troubled night
Little lesson - How to fight.
Little poem - S. O. S.
Searching for - My happiness;
Nothing doing - Ticking clock
Beating heart - Heavy knock.
Little poem - Need a friend
Little voice - Must attend;
One and one - Always two
Blessed days - Me and you.
Little poem - Life is tough
Never quite - Had enough;
Many hurdles - Love and pain
Another hand - To play again.
Little poem - How to win?
Silly game - Push a pin;
Wide the ocean - Empty void
Still I wonder - Still employed.
Little poem - Can it be
All that matters- You and me?
Resolution - Deep inside
Little poem - How I tried.
(Written Sept 1998)
poem by John Carter Brown
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