Love & Silence

Crystalline silence,
the heart a dewdrop
melting in the sky.

~

Cadence of silence –
A flock of butterflies
Burning through my soul.

~

In your simple glow
my life flows
you jasmine flower.

~

Twilight silence,
my life shining
in the first evening star.

~

Vessel of silence,
The empty heart waxes
Wider than the sky.

~

As the dawn
Coaxes the flower
Your breath in my heart

~

Resonant stillness,
The last voice of dusk melting
Winedrops in the sky.

~

Soon to vanish
these moving clouds,
twilight silence.

~

Morning sun,
every dewdrop
a flower.

~

Carefree butterfly
amid the white flowers,
one cloud in the sky.

~

Your scent
With the dawn breeze
Calling me home

~

My eyes –
two stars doused
in the sea of Your fire.

Wandering Thought # 22

Of all values and spiritual disciplines purity is the one at which all others converge. Purity is the kernel of love and truth, the very fire which flames must spread through the body and its inward layers, cleansing, if we are to be raised to God’s sacred altar, the dome of the dawn sky. Ultimately, to have one’s pulsing heart flowing with a water so pure that it is worthy to reflect the endlessly metamorphosing face of the divine—to become the vessel of the divine flame and wine.

She –

Her petrichor skin
a primal soil,
Her watery curves,
hills, fields, gardens,
hidden groves and sunlit openings,
Her eyes,
pristine ponds and clear skies dewing,
Her lips,
sickle moons shaping mists and dreams,
Her collarbones,
mountain ridges honing winds and clouds,
Her dark hair
a birthing womb of stars,
jasmine flowers, basil leaves,
lavender seeds, and rosemary needles –
She –
a transcendent being,
a limitless forest
where the poet, wandering,
goes deeper and deeper
and is forever lost,
vanishing, with no hope of return,
in the immensity of Her mystery.

Running Orders, by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha

“They call us now.
Before they drop the bombs.
The phone rings
and someone who knows my first name
calls and says in perfect Arabic
“This is David.”
And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphonies
still smashing around in my head
I think “Do I know any Davids in Gaza?”
They call us now to say
Run.
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of
war time courtesy.
It doesn’t matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and there are more human lives
packed one against the other
more than any other place on earth
Just run.
We aren’t trying to kill you.
It doesn’t matter that
you can’t call us back to tell us
the people we claim to want aren’t in your house
that there’s no one here
except you and your children
who were cheering for Argentina
sharing the last loaf of bread for this week
counting candles left in case the power goes out.
It doesn’t matter that you have children.
You live in the wrong place
and now is your chance to run
to nowhere.
It doesn’t matter
that 58 seconds isn’t long enough
to find your wedding album
or your son’s favorite blanket
or your daughter’s almost completed college application
or your shoes
or to gather everyone in the house.
It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Run.”

— Running Orders, by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha