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Bring Me a Poem


Bring me a poem from somewhere, bring me a poem well done.
I hope it’s about the woman, folding her shirt in the sun.
Let her be standing and watching the fox with the crooked grin,
While saying, “Nothing’s the matter that cannot be cured by sin.”
She hands her shirt to the vixen, still grinning there in the sun,
Wondering why she bothers to do work that is never done.
This is a poem from somewhere, perhaps from the watercourse,
A poem no person can sing right, only the spotted horse.

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #229

Magical


A poem’s a magical thing;
To feelings and thoughts it gives wing.
And if you’ve no song,
You’ll find it’s not long
Till your empty tongue starts to sing.

 
Limerick © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Midweek Motif at Poets United: “Of Poems”

Poem

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Perhaps this artist is painting a poem: detail from a mural in Artists Alley, Ajo, Arizona
 


making a poem
not for profit or power
but to balance life

 
Haiku and photo © 2017 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Macro Monday 2
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #101

Poem

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Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, Southern California
 


the distant mountains—
in my left hand a poem
to read on the way

 
Haiku and photo © 2016 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Blue Monday
 
More Haiku Horizons: “Poem”

Bread and Broken Dreams

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~~ 1 ~~
 
tangled old orchard
filling her with fear and dread—
the fruitless plum trees
disguise themselves as women
spilling vowels from their tongues
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
first calligraphy
written in the wilderness—
foxes sniff the lines
of a swart poem, wanting
to brush dark things of their own
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
In the dusty streets
she stabs the tip of her cane,
dotting her way home—
beside her hobbles a crow,
who imagines it’s her child.
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
She hears a drummer,
and then with new clarity,
understands her call:
to live among the poorest,
sharing bread and broken dreams.
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
Uncanny vision—
she smothers it with cobbles
lifted from the street,
where dreams run down the gutter
over broken bits of glass.

 
Tanka © 2015 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Poetry Pantry #267
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #22

Timeless Tales

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~~ 1 ~~
 
feeble old woman
attempting to bathe herself—
soap slips from her hand
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
finding a table
where we can sip tea and think
about the next steps
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
in his little shop
the sharpener of razors
stropping the last one
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
outside her window
the tinkling of bronze wind chimes
as darkness descends
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
bowls on the table—
in the azure one a storm
brewing in the broth
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
a wicker hamper
filled with sweet and sour dumplings—
lovers’ picnic feast
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
humming to himself
as he reaches for the hose—
thirsty gardener
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
longing to partake
of sweet and juicy gossip—
the famine women
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
a bowl of olives
alarming the residents
of the nursing home
 
~~ 10 ~~
 
A bag of poems—
the apple seller hides it
behind the last bin.
 
~~ 11 ~~
 
I share this secret
with you and with the north wind—
autumn is coming.
 
~~ 12 ~~
 
An almond wafer—
if it could speak my language,
I would not eat it.

 
© 2015 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Poetry Pantry #256
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #11

Whirling with Rumi

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Each vignette begins with a phrase culled from The Essential Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks.
 


 
~~ 1 ~~
 
The orchard in spring—
apple blossoms fly away
when the old men call.
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
Come to the orchard—
it is time to name the fruit
clinging to the trees.
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
From the other world
comes one whose speech grows orchards
hung with tempting fruit.
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
where the two worlds touch—
faint signs of degradation
smudging leaf and light
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
a grain of barley
doing double duty as
an earthy poem
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
the speechless full moon
filling ten thousand goblets
with unuttered words
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
the one who brings light
this frosty autumn morning
broken in his chains
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
puddle that freezes
making no sense to the drunk
sloshing his vodka
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
For what needs no food
there are no sheets of music
to help guide the dance.
 
~~ 10 ~~
 
little hanging lamps
connected to the plum trees
with frayed bungee cords
 
~~ 11 ~~
 
ancient manuscripts
with vital information
cast into the flames
 
~~ 12 ~~
 
a sugarcane flute
wrapped in strips of red and gold
for the nuptial feast

 
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Poetry Pantry #221
 
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 181

Birth Pangs

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Detail from a mural, San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, México
 


birth pangs at midnight
the poem in my belly
kicking to be free

 
Text and photo © 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
More Blue Monday
 
More Haiku My Heart at Recuerda Mi Corazon

To Build a Poem

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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.

 
 

© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
More Sunday Scribblings: “Poem”