Yahweh my Shepherd : May 2014

Sunday, May 25, 2014



In the blue of the sky, in the green of the forest,
Whose is the hand that has painted the glow?
When the winds were asleep in the womb of the ether,
Who was it roused them and bade them to blow?
He is lost in the heart, in the cavern of Nature,
He is found in the brain where He builds up the thought:
In the pattern and bloom of the flowers He is woven,
In the luminous net of the stars He is caught.
In the strength of a man, in the beauty of woman,
In the laugh of a boy, in the blush of a girl;
The hand that sent Jupiter spinning through heaven,
Spends all its cunning to fashion a curl.
There are His works and His veils and His shadows;
But where is He then? by what name is He known?
Is He Brahma or Vishnu? a man or a woman?
Bodies or bodiless? twin or alone?
We have love for a boy who is dark and resplendent,
A woman is lord of us, naked and fierce.
We have seen Him a-muse on the snow of the mountains,
We have watched Him at work in the heart of the spheres.
We will tell the whole world of His ways and His cunning;
He has rapture of torture and passion and pain;
He delights in our sorrow and drives us to weeping,
Then lures with His joy and His beauty again.
All music is only the sound of His laughter,
All beauty the smile of His passionate bliss;
Our lives are His heart-beats, our rapture the bridal
Of Radha and Krishna, our love is their kiss.
He is strength that is loud in the blare of the trumpets,
And He rides in the car and He strikes in the spears;
He slays without stint and is full of compassion;
He wars for the world and its ultimate years.
In the sweep of the worlds, in the surge of the ages,
Ineffable, mighty, majestic and pure,
Beyond the last pinnacle seized by the thinker
He is throned in His seats that for ever endure.
The Master of man and his infinite Lover,
He is close to our hearts, had we vision to see;
We are blind with our pride and the pomp of our passions,
We are bound in our thoughts where we hold ourselves free.
It is He in the sun who is ageless and deathless,
And into the midnight His shadow is thrown;
When darkness was blind and engulfed within darkness,
He was seated within it immense and alone.

This is a beautiful reminder of Spirit, the reformation of our minds and lives set on the awareness of Him who always was. A certain sense of entanglement is provided in this artist piece of work. Past vanity you can see the poet climbs a sense of being so foreign to our lives, yet so close. A master of the word, this poet has my attention.

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Check out our poetry AD on the Candle Lit

The Seekers
“Let’s talk about it all, this single world, this infinitely small, yet infinitely big region of infinite regions.
Let’s talk about all excuse are over, the knowledge is available for any who seek it,
We are in a period of seekers
Seekers of what you may ask?
Seekers of Truth                                                                                                    
As one of seeking, as you the reader must be, for if not would not
Have arrived here,
We wonder,
About the people who do not seek
This is an illusion,
All beings seek Truth,
Some are not aware
Those who are, are said to have enlightenment,
And become the entirety of peace”
-          Kody Ray Dibble

The Pavilion

When we name this pavilion
And tell the world of our squables with the wild field,
The air tingles away from the blames made by our guild
Separating the stumps made for our reunion.

During our dark moments in marshes and mud,
A light had pursued 'Her'; glinted away from famines:
Fondness of the hungered hearts of past steps and promising comings.
And this left us pilfering akin souls when our hearts were glad.

If the world still had anything new from 'Her' four corners
She would have wounded this pavilion at the ends across
Leaving the squealing men to also wallow in their mighty loss
But 'She' had sadly given out all 'Her' honors.

Our treasures lost through causes also lost
Linger on in this pavilion not well from hence
Like serpents in a field of serpents
So we wait haplessly from our own doors.

-          Emmanuel Acheampong


Tuesday, May 13, 2014

A Poem by Kabir

Tell me Brother
 Tell me, Brother, how can I renounce Maya?
When I gave up the tying of ribbons,
still I tied my garment about me.

When I gave up tying my garment,
still I covered my body in its folds.

So, when I give up passion,
I see that anger remains;

And when I renounce anger,
greed is with me still;

And when greed is vanquished,
pride and vainglory remain;

When the mind is detached and casts Maya away,
still it clings to the letter.

Kabir says, ‘Listen to me, dear Sadhu! the true path is rarely found.’

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

A Poem for Today

Having Already Invented the Greeks

Nothing much left to talk about 
beyond the iron law the hero butchered 
on the battlefield pierced through the tendons 
ankle to heel no different now

       an outcrop of cloud a sense of place 
       of carnage descending in parabolic loops 
       the war horse drags the hero round

Are we any the wiser are we so inclined 
at this late hour to drop a jot of ichor 
on the memory stone and twilit leave 
the hero in the dirt have done with it

       and what would we be if we did 
       (these are the questions we ask ourselves) 
       less lyrical surely vast tracts of time ahead 
       nothing to say about taking ourselves so seriously 
       washed in the blood of this not that

In the meanwhile something within foresees 
not even the end will end with us 
the taking place won't end in time 
the pages turning eternity on its round 
stage turning forever only one day more

      if only in seeming so 
       surely it ought to bring us closer 
       call at least our feelings back 
       the original of us telling it over 
       the story we hurry to begin again 
       to explain ourselves as best we can.

April 2014


Poetry like this is vivid, and brings a certain sense of personality, otherwise untouchable. The picture it creates is one of superior understanding, and devotion to the craft of poetry.


Monday, May 5, 2014

Be With Those Who Help Your Being





Be With Those Who Help Your Being

Be with those who help your being.
Don't sit with indifferent people, whose breath
comes cold out of their mouths.
Not these visible forms, your work is deeper.

A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.
If you don't try to fly,
and so break yourself apart,
you will be broken open by death,
when it's too late for all you could become.

Leaves get yellow. The tree puts out fresh roots
and makes them green.
Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow?

       Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

Mind Blown!


All Again

by Dibbs

What is the watchtower? A home for broken souls and people of the sorts. Are we all just uncanny transceiver unwinding their timely death. I was a shadow, my friend. More frankly a phantom, of a past pattern. Why am I working so late, on organizing things that I first wished mysterious and vague yet full of attention and detail. Maybe a freak monkey in a suit, I can light candles myself you devilish heartless **** child. Use your damn mind, stop just waiting for a brat to need saving from deaths hand and the preview of sickness.

Are you fascinated with your lion den? Have you figured yourself a loony or a rickshaw an old western tune stuffed up the barrel of magnum.

Always continue on

A universe section #85



Excerpt from Fireflies 

"I have thanked the trees that have made my life fruitflul,
but have failed to remember the grass
that has ever kept it green.

The one without second is emptiness,
the other one makes it true.

Life's errors cry for the merciful beauty
that can modulate their isolation
into a harmony with the whole.

They expect thanks for the banished nest
because their cage is shapely and secure.

In love I pay my endless debt to thee
for what thou art.

The pond sends up its lyrics from its dark in lilies,
and the sun says, they are good.

Your calumny against the great is impious,
it hurts yourself;
against the small it is mean,
for it hurts the victim.

The first flower that blossomed on this earth
was an invitation to the unborn song.

Dawn—the many-coloured flower—fades,
and then the simple light-fruit,
the sun appears."

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Kubla Khan

Kubla Khan

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1798

 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
 A stately pleasure-dome decree:
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
 Through caverns measureless to man
 Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
 Floated midway on the waves:
Where was heard the mingled measure
 From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
 A damsel with a dulcimer
 In a vision once I saw:
 It was an Abyssinian maid,
 And on her dulcimer she played,
 Singing of Mount Abora.
 Could I revive within me
 Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 't would win me
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

- This poem is beautiful one of the best poems / stories I've ever read.

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Visions and Such

Select visionary retreat
a gliff node wildabeast melting storm furnace
if just answers become something
your broke heart is enthroned in jealousy
my ownership and destiny 
in a cauldron of helpless hope