Wanderer, painter, or potter—which role is the best for me?
A clay pot follows the end of a straw into the roiling sea.
All who are guilty cause chaos; things without names cannot be;
Mercy comes in small doses to sinners who sin without glee:
Number them, mercy’s particles, number them One, Two, and Three!
From darkness create something of light and savor the mystery.
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Sunday’s Whirligig #232
More Poetry Pantry #494 at Poets United
~~ 1 ~~
shrines along the road
where six pilgrims fall at dusk
pleading for mercy
~~ 2 ~~
it is not easy to guess
the hidden dangers
~~ 3 ~~
ferocious noon sun—
murderous midday assault
on weary pilgrims
~~ 4 ~~
ten years down the road—
list of lumpy double beds
still disturbs her sleep
~~ 5 ~~
inns along the road—
a certain type of pilgrim
will not spend the night
~~ 6 ~~
at the holy site
memories fuel prayers—
her warm devotion
~~ 7 ~~
a red cricket cage—
from behind the bamboo bars
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Carpe Diem #412
More Poetry Pantry #191
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 150
Bougainvillea, Yuma Quartermaster Depot, Yuma, Arizona
To build a poem, you need stones—
some call them words—
and you need the right ones.
Some, like seditious and tremor, are not suitable;
they will crumble in your hands like old mortar—
it’s no use trying to build with them.
Set them aside and choose something else,
something simple, yet sturdy and enduring,
something you will still be proud to hold
twenty or fifty years from now.
Choose words of granite.
In building a poem, you undertake a sacred task,
let no one hinder you;
no stigma can be attached to those who choose
each word with care.
Remember: The nether regions are filled with those
whose work is shoddy and sporadic—
cast in plaster, not carved in stone—
be not one of them.
Pledge to me—or to yourself, at least—
that you will not enmesh your work in words
that waste away to dust at the merest touch,
but that you will choose words that dance and chant and sing of all that is holy.
Then you will be able to show us the single tuft of grass gracing the desert wash,
and the fire of mercy blazing down from ten thousand-thousand stars.
More Sunday Scribblings: “Poem”