The circle of humility is small
And only those who cannot see it, enter,
For such an entry makes the humble fall
Into a spot where circle is as center.
You cannot then become it overnight,
Or over weeks, or even over months
Like mirror that reflects a mirror sight
And on, till all reflections come at once.
To mock and shun the virtue is a vice;
To give it up an even greater flaw;
Embrace it till you make it your device
And practice like you want to make it law.
We’ll be upon this journey till we see
There is no circle of humility.
Busy
Good is all I feel
I don’t think I’ll die
Do what I desire
As the days go by
Say whatever words
See whatever sights
Hear whatever tales
Tasting all delights
How I love to dance
To the tune of joy
Mirth is my religion
Passion is my toy
Seconds roll to minute
Minutes roll to hour
Hours to the day
Until I climb the tower
Lonely up above
Here upon my bed
Satin feels like bramble
Tearing through my head
Every blink’s a year
Every breath’s a storm
Every burning tear
Fails to keep me warm
Busy, busy, busy
That’s all I was to me
Busy, busy, busy
Is all I’ll ever be
Longing
How pure the object of my love
That makes my hapless self envy
A mist of floating cloud above
And down in meadow swaying tree.
How sweet the object of my praise
That makes my wretched self envy
A spider in its webby maze
And pigeon nested peacefully.
How blest the object of my song
That makes my sorry self envy
A frazzled rug that runs along
That patch of Garden eye can’t see.
Garden
Every season
Has a reason
Hidden somewhere
No one knows
Dig it up where
Faith is constant
Love sincere
Patience flows
Let the seedlings
Of remembrance
Leave your lips and
Find a home
Let your tears
Fall as water
Let forgiveness
Press the loam
Lush and tender
Grows your garden
Paths of fragrance
Bright as day
Long the journey
To your garden
While you’re standing
In your way
Prejudice, Lost
Lost prejudice,
like a misshapen
jigsaw puzzle piece
that snaps in and
imbues you with
that wafting-petal sensation
of sad, silent beauty.
Missed Chances
A fistful of joy
I didn’t get a hold of it
I could have and now that’s
A thing to miss
It may seem superficial
But the real reason why
This feeling makes me cry
Goes like this
I once knew a face
The closest thing to grace
And I had a chance to give it
One more kiss
But the kisses came too late
For the faithful dance of fate
Washed the room in perfect crystals
Made of ice
You may think the story’s done
Should’ve done it on the run
But that’s not the way you read
The fallen dice
Every chance you missed is not
Everything you lost is got
All just waiting where the wait’s
Eternal bliss
Be the wind
Be the wind that shakes off leaf
Or be the leaf and fall
Or be the stalwart steady tree
That stands to see it all.
Into it
Reason keeps you out
To follow your heart you must
Just go intuit
Searching
You’ve got your way of doing things
The more you rest, the more it stings
You’ve seen it all before a hundred times
You’ve loved all sorts of folk there are
You’ve written songs and traveled far
You’ve forced the meter into empty rhymes
It’s lost down in the darkness there
Where frosty shoulders chill the air
It’s warmer to look for it in the sun
They’ve looked before you too, my friend
There’s nothing out there in the end
This quest is nowhere near being done
The seeker and the found must become one
Rohingya
I know, little one, your fear is real
You’ve heard the screams and you’ve seen the pain
The cuts are deep, no time to heal
For the wolves are hot on your scent again.
Lady with child, babe to your breast
You’ve lost your love and you’ve missed the train
You find the shade but no time to rest
For the wolves are hot on your scent again.
Your tears have dried on the face of your bride
In her shallow grave on a grassy plain
Have to save that kiss for the other side
For the wolves are hot on your scent again.
Too old to run, too weak to walk
Everything they burned lives on in your brain
You can tell your tales, but you’ll break the clock
For the wolves are hot on your scent again.
Get drunk, my dear, on this patience sweet
Time is dead; it’s time for the truth to play
Let the dew on the meadow wash your feet
As the angels hunt and the wolves are prey.
Featured image courtesy BBC >> http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-41585864