Mirrors stand sentinel in homes,
African homes, where they're often still,
unused, like dining tables turned decoration,
gathering dust, devoid of purpose.
At night, when men slumber, the shadows stir,
underworld spirits manifest, their forms shifting,
observant, operative, unseen by mortal eyes,
yet their presence felt, a whispered rumor.
Ghommid spirits lurk, invisible, yet real,
their existence a mystery, a hidden truth.
Some abhor mirrors, standing tall,
reflecting their horrors, infuriating them.
Their rage unleashes chaos, destruction's path,
frustration and setbacks, a trail of broken glass.
The mirror's gaze, a provocative act,
unleashing fury, a maelstrom of malevolent force.
To avoid conflict with powers beyond our sight,
cover the mirror, shroud it in darkness,
silence its reflective surface, still its gaze,
lest the metaphysical realm exact its toll.
In mystic forest, where human wisdom fades,
A world of secrets, beyond our mortal shades.
The forest whispers truths, we've yet to grasp,
As ancient trees stand guard, with mysteries to clasp.
A mahogany tree, tall and proud,
Became the stage for a supernatural cloud.
A sawman's blade, with intent to claim,
Was halted by a voice, an old woman's refrain.
The slap that followed, like a rock's descent,
Left the operator reeling, his strength spent.
Blood gushed from the tree, a mystic's tale,
A metaphysical son, with wounds that would prevail.
The tree, once wounded, healed with mystic speed,
Leaving us in awe, our footsteps to proceed.
We fled the scene, with hearts that still quake,
A lesson learned, some secrets we'd rather not partake.
In desperate hours, when darkness reigns
And worldly treasures seem forever lost in vain
When power and wealth, like fleeting dreams, dissolve
Leaving me forsaken, with no way to evolve
Show me the path, O guiding light
That pierces through life's plodding night
When metaphysical forces hold sway
And all my efforts end in disarray
My wealth, a worthless trinket, cannot save
My certificates, like autumn leaves, wither and wave
When situations, like unyielding mountains, tower high
And everywhere is blocked, with no escape to the sky
Oh, my creator, show me the path
Lead me through the right way, where love and hope forever last
Let me be a solution provider, a beacon in the night
Let me be great, not in pride or fame, but in the wisdom to guide others to the light
Show me the path, that I may lead the way
And in the darkness, be a shining ray
Oh, my maker, show me the path.
Sportsmanship
Trancend beyond
Athletism.
THE DOORMAN
He announced himself
as doorman pulling
veils of vortices
archetypes tumbled out
there was Einstein and
St Theresa even Blake
and Stalin
Floating like elementals
with elevated subtlety
he blessed them all as
enticing experiences
Excited he widened
a door to expose
emissaries stamping
time and space
Monroe curled
statuesque legs
around his waist
wobbly, said she
only resonated with
his doormanship
Then throated her
red lipped lust
with vapour dust
He closed the
door
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2024
Life is the epithet of extant intermission
I will wait for your soft, curled vines,
The fake cascade causes tiny, unspecified water droplets to flow over it.
I will not wait for you to be a destined no man's land,
Nobody could allow you to be begotten by the tiny spikes.
I will wait for your buttery redemption,
With every penance, there is the rise of a new dawn.
Your sighs and sorrows are a tree full of grey leaves,
Except you, nobody can ever discern how thin the pinnacle of your chin is.
Is the river Life an overflowing drain to you?
Does the water flow like a train passing through narrow tunnels?
Is this river filled with empty sirens?
Or are they merely whispers in the language of our gurgles?
Nobody could define your silky cotton mood so well,
I misunderstood your appearance, as tattooed arms seem to be.
I want to rely on your ever-driven heart,
Just as a consummate river flows, bearing no dirt.
Is this river a phase?
Or is it just a stage?
You are the most inescapable desideratum to me,
And I am certainly conceded as an affluent hoarder.
Errant atoms
Running amok
Colloidal conspiracies
Intertwining
Wandering
Hidden
Behind the opaque
Mysteries
Of their being.
METAPHYSICAL MARVELS
The impromptu ,from another age
down to earth,ingenuous.conceits
..so bittersweet
When ,she and I become we
True love for us,may not be-
'til I love her,who loves me
Can
a poem have
no meaning
apparent
to the eye
do we
love
the
euphony
of a
phrase
cadencing
in the ear
ought we
struggle
to
understand
the
enigma
that floats
in the
landscapes
of our minds
to stop
receive and
let it be
a
moment
of
here & now
never
to
reason
where or why
Can we all communicate and connect on a higher metaphysical level?
Is it possible to agree on existing evils influencing and escalating fear from entities of the devil?
Could we listen more intently with our hearts, not just our ears?
If only we would abolish all weapons of war, eradicate secret silos and eliminate all fears.
Could we try to understand the concerns, sorrows, and joys of our neighbor?
Could we communicate and converse on a higher plane without relying on the rifle or the saber?
Ignore the straight jacket earth-bound concepts of being superior to others, but rather have discernment and empathy for all forms in all realms and dimensions.
The day is near when all over the world, all that roam the plains, oceans, and the sky are unified in spirit with no fears, no apprehensions, or dissensions.
Stripped of self, the soul residing
Ego shorn, here now [to be] reborn,
Searching for new dimensions abiding
From eternal god-presence is torn.
Finding new existence in human form
Resurrected and renewed in purity,
Bringing what it values as a norm
Time and space, another life its destiny.
With a forgotten past ne’er to recall
Embracing the eternal Godhead spirit
In times primeval before the great fall
Listens for the inner voice, to hear it,
While experiencing lessons of truth
Then wills to live in spiritual solidarity
Hopefully, reorienting through youth,
Becoming more prepared for eternity.
Written June 30, 2022
For “Ego shorn, here now reborn” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
I'm sleeping away from hurt and metaphysical chuckles.
I need little time to track my wings and smile back at butterflies.
There are souls in the flower here but they speak of deceit and friction, perhaps i exist in the other side of my bed where bad influence is violet.
See what strings have cost my fingers of.
I have no flesh to wear away the hate and pain around the needle. My guitar is disturbing my peace.
Everything I write, say,
gets into the mind, heart
and soul of the reader;
everything I write or say,
comes from the mind,
heart and soul of the writer:
These are my Living words...
not written to supersede
those of God, but truly a
sincere attempt to emulate;
– I am a selfless nobody...
appealing to let His words
flow through me, encompass
me, be my breath and Light –
I serve as a vessel – not a host.
If Insanity? Then a blessed
one....
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