Love said to me

by RUMI

Last night
I lost my grip on reality
and welcomed insanity.

Love
saw me and said,
I showed up.
Wipe you tears
and be silent.

I said, O Love
I am frightened,
but it’s not you.

Love said to me,
there is nothing that is not me.
be silent.

I will whisper secrets in your ear
just nod yes
and be silent.

~ Rumi

Dawn breaking

~~~

She looked at herself in the mirror
and shimmied a little, smiling at her
wan face, saying, “you look lovely!”
As though in apology to her own
reflection that didn’t smile back.
But replied in her head, “you liar!”
Her heart dropped into her belly,
that sea of tremulousness. “I love you,”
she cried in desperate defiance.

“You sentimental fool!” Old, hazy
voices rose from forgotten graves.
“You are not real.” She railed at
their fuzzy persistence. “Who do
you think you are?” Old shame
surfaced like dirty foam. “You’re
lies I believed for far too long.”
“Don’t delude yourself.” “I am
truth. I am light. I am pure love.”

She leaned toward her reflection
blurred through the tears, kissed
it. Her lover, her eternal friend.
It glowed and grew. It smiled back
through the misty glass. The sun
rose from the sea of grey, lifted
her heart, gave it wings. Light
pulsated through her veins, “Hello
Sunshine!” Her eyes twinkled back.

~~~

dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Victoria this week asks us to write a poem in conversation style.

Creative February 27 – My various selves

I glance at the mirror
on the way to the next chore.
Is that a stranger?
Forehead furrowed,
focussed face, grim,
a burdened Atlas.

Then I catch
the twinkle in the eye
the smile lurking at
the corner of the mouth.
As if caught out in the game.

A catch-me-if-you-can
grinning gamine
hiding behind a tired facade
breaks through.
A cheeky, intrepid sun.

I wonder then,
about my outward self,
the one that others see
that bears little likeness
to the inner me.
Montages that dwell,
and morph and grow
in others’ minds.

So varied, so unalike
as though in each of them
dwells a different me..

~~~

This being human

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be cleaning you out
For some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from the beyond.

~ Rumi

The bleating sheep

the river flows placid
clattering over the pebbles
as cicadas tone down
their fervid cadences
and quieten for the night

on a tiny patch of farm
across the road
a sheep bleats into the night
I worry about it,
is it thirsty? is it hurt?

it strikes me as odd
that I worry about a sheep
while in parts of the world
people die of hunger
and children get robbed
of their souls
bit by bit day after day
by abuse

I keel over with helplessness
by the enormity of it all

“answer me, you answer me”
I beseech an unseen God
“surely there must be a reason”

‘you tell me’ he retorts right back
“why human beings are so intent
on hurting one another.
why do they lock up the love
that is their real nature
and embrace fear, you tell me”

I keel over in defeat
silenced into submission
by the stark truth of it

“maybe your creation is flawed
maybe you wired us all wrong”
I use a rallying point

“maybe you prefer to be blind
else why would you court darkness
when you are in reality
nothing but pure beings of light”

“so how do we begin to see?”

“stop thinking and just be
realise who you are really”

I am floored by the simplicity of it

The sheep has stopped bleating
the cicadas are quiet
a resplendent full moon
admires its shimmering image
on the singing rippling water