Ah Smothering Slumbers                                       

Peter? Paul here. Yas that. One Paul here. That is precisely what I said, do not lay down the game-play of your usual fairybabe of a long tail over me. That is because. Wait wait wait. 
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha smothering slumbers ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha 

Okay say that hoot what you will be ready this time though. This time will be different because I will be because I will be scribing I will be scribing down will be scribing down a be scribing down a precise down a precise and a precise and a precise and a tangible and a tangible a tangible record record of your entirely-entire line of the usual spew. 

Wait I hunt up.
It’s been weeks since then what fool can’t look this over in an hour it were me they’d been off my land by dusk that day. 
I hunt up a.
That day. You know?  Ha ha ha ha. 
Hunt up a writing.
Ha ha ha ha ha smothering. 
Up a writing implement.
Slumbers come over kmaerflentefpohawt. 
A writing implement. 
Whheartf tahtiesr all is ha ha ha.
A suitable writing implement of the necessary.

Ha ha ha is all tahtiesr whheartf.
Sharpness to show up no matter. 
Kmaerflentefpohawt overcome slumbers.
To show up no matter how.
Smothering ha ha ha ha ha. 
Show up no matter how long.
Ha ha ha ha know? You day. That. 
Up no matter how long it.

Day. That dusk by land my off been they’d me were it hour an in over this look can’t fool what then since weeks been it’s. 
No matter how long it lies.
Peter? Paul here.

Peter hey Paul here hey hey hey listen; ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha slumbers smothering ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha which all gets all true no matter how long it lies unread. Hello welcome to Weathering’s Wheelsup-SuperBalanced-storage-acid-fishing-sinkers supply house and brainypup breeding farm. Because it may lie a very long time it may lie a very long time unread may lie a very long time unread and unread, Peter lie a very long time unread all over all under, Peter my lie a very long time unread down under all over its varying selfnesses, Peter my man a very long time unread. 

That’s as if lost in the woods and coming into a pack of wolves. Peter my man, because very long time unread. Peter my man, because there long time unread. Or out in a grove of wild feral beasts, it would not know fear. Peter my man, because there may time unread. We’ve all up to four souls. Peter my man, because there may be Peter my man. Four only no more availably after our last inventationary. Because there may be no my man. A tiny man. 

Because there may be no one more adequate man, because there may be no one with because there may be no one with the urge to wilding down and down and, there may be no one all over this space. No one to step out leading in many more other tinier men. With the necessarily there may be no one with the necessarily strong be no one with the necessarily strong stomach no one with the necessarily strong stomach to be one with the necessarily strong stomach required to be with the necessarily strong stomach to there yell hey hey hey, Barbazee. 

Peter up? Paul here. Yas that—go on.
Okay to be able the necessarily strong stomach to be able okay to necessarily strong stomach to be able to okay okay dispassionately strong stomach to be able to dispassionately review, but when the wrong okey-dote is like a bulge on the throat cross all this house of scale model non-barbary ape people in their big gamer’s village, the stomach to be able to dispassionately review. It would not know fear, lacking the experience and having no reason for fear. The to to to to be able to dispassionately review the red be able to to to dispassionately review the red streak able to to dispassionately review the red streak sinewy to dispassionately review.  

Beforewhich stands that—that—that being there uh! That black pepper! The red streak sinewy steely dispassionately review the red streak sinewy steely and review the red streak sinewy steely and strong the red streak sinewy steely and strong!  Add in green bell pepper, red bell pepper, onion, and mushrooms and red streaks all sinewy steely and strong in its streak sinewy steely and strong in its graphicularity sinewy steely and strong in its graphicularity. Is it because of—but—consider a career as a technical specialist, in Man Vessel’s new citrus house emergency cedar weevil treatment service. Is it because of that business about—to boot! 

Jawohl, steely and strong in its graphicularity and pull and strong in its graphicularity and pull out strong in its graphicularity and pull out the in its graphicularity and pull out the bit its graphicularity and pull out the bit parts. Is it because of that business about tipping the bellboy? Graphicularity and pull out the bit parts. The blood normally harmlessly flooding the body will act as a poison. All and pull out the bit parts. By speaking so softly as to be indecipherable. All needed pull out the bit parts. 

No point the inside. Et et. All needed to out the bit parts. That business about and about and. Inside the outer-side.  Tipping the bellboy? All needed to nail the bit parts. Cook over medium high heat until evenly brown. All needed to nail you bit parts. Tipping the bellboy and tipping and tipping? And know the real secret is that all flameheights are regulated by the single frontwise master control panel. All needed to nail you as needed to nail you as being the to nail you as being the one nail you as being the one—a true innovation only at Bison’s tree service! 

Having as being the one having pressed being the one having pressed me the one having pressed me down one having pressed me down in torment. Down in torment. Down in torment.  We learn of the techniques of illumination from two sources: from uncompleted manuscripts that allow us to observe the interrupted stages of the work and from the directions compiled by medieval authors. Torment unceasingly through this all. Okay? Through this all. Here I am armed. This all this all torment there. Now me I the ready-man. There I found out the guts. Yah readily ready the man all unafraid. To say it. 

Hippo. So say it I’ll scribe it down Peter. Peter pete and repeat eh et ah. Say it now I will scribe it down that’s all as the Kmaerflentefpohawt overcome slumbers.
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha slumbers smothering ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Okay Mack, now. Now you get a turn.

Secondary Light

(ladybug auspicious, ajna awakener, skate the night, the lady guru is around, for she lives in Electric City)

where is the secondary light? I used to have two. by this I mean lamps. no, three. one was green and one was orange and one was blue but with a white light and built w/a stone base. that lighting was better. the world it illumined more mysterious, the hard edges of reality faded, like in certain good dreams or possibly astral, other world lands filled w/feral reeds dancing for a cosmic breeze, and I stand w/canines beautifully alone, seven of them,- and there was, I was thinking, no end to the lands,- they are literally infinite in all directions. we begin walking, and we are happy beyond the world, a fine and wonderful and boundless joy. 

which brings me to the dream. 

but first the ladybug. a ladybug visited me in the middle and midst of the long lonesome cold dreary winter. it just was there on a wall beside a rosary I bought long ago in Mexico. 

decades and the ladybug.

 I think it is auspicious. and the dream is also…

big strange city, lit up at night, many many sections, perhaps miles long and wide, think Blade Runner meets Wizard of Oz meets The Rolling Stones music, and I am skating on roller skates fast and well, downhill, but not too steep a hill, experts following me that see me and it’s my first time but I can skate fast and they notice.

after perhaps five sections I meet the strange lady eclectic who is the leader, a leader in that faraway section of the odd metropolis, she talks to me briefly. I was there to get salt and vinegar chips of all things, for my beloved and the leader lady’s people couldn’t help me but she threw over a bag but it was a strange unknown brand to me. 

these are not the right snack, I tell her. 

she says, oh ya?- and we begin talking. 

she is beautiful and powerful and dressed in business attire a black skirt and white blouse, and asks if I want my third eye, the ajna-psychic chakra,…touched. 

I say yes. 

She touches it.

For about ten seconds. 

I suddenly see rural pastoral scenes like a highly advanced animated art form moving fast, and in one a duck chases after a bike going from left to right on a property and the scenes and the feeling is that it is free spontaneous living alive not contrived and it has a high energy. everything is in green blue and black. 

the lady stops and says to return later. but she speaks. like anyone. doesn’t use telepathy though I am sure she could. 

I go back to where I came from amaz-d,- to find Tara. I find her finally and tell her I have to go back to see again the lady that touched the third eye for she had said to come back again. 

there are people on the outskirts of the city. 

walking. 

talking. 

people being people. 

Tara says ‘If you must-‘

a luke warm response. 

and I go back again. Or try to. the strange lady is halfway there,- waiting, leaning against a wall. she knew I was on the way think. – and smiles and is happy I am on this way- and turns to have me follow her. 

she is somehow a part of my people spiritually but knows much more than I, at least about that strange city of electric light. 

I am skating. 

I yell out w/ joy at the top of my lungs at how fast and free I am going amidst those places, primal great real real real real real joy. I jump and fly through the air for a bit. 

but then I go where I should but can’t find her. I keep looking, scrambling. she is not reliable. but I don’t right off want to admit it to myself. 

something is wrong. 

why does this have to happen like this?

that whole place is hard to navigate. 

a security agent at a check point stops me and says something. I can’t hear him. I 

think I am in trouble though have done nothing wrong. 

He repeats ‘zoom’. 

I ask, ‘Zoom?’

‘You should zoom,’ he says. 

I say, What?- and he says then, ‘…zoom,…it’s what is written on your bag so you should do that.’

I wasn’t really aware I was carrying a

bag, but he was right. 

Like a white duffle bag or duffle bag type thing. but the same route is taken to further off, like an arcade type setting. I see someone I think could be her, that looks like her, but when I get closer it is not.

disappointment. 

no other would do save for she. but she is nowhere to be found that strange gifted chakra lady, that master of third eye manifestation and manipulation. 

though there are many people around, everyone is a stranger. 

I go back. 

I find Tara. 

But it’s not before a long journey, to parts of the night electric city that don’t work- like an escalator that doesn’t function. And the people walk on it knowing it hasn’t worked for a long time and that part of the city is on the outskirts, not as interesting. but the people take it literally in stride. 

Tara wears white. 

we begin to leave, and i steal a glance back. I can see that in many parts there are so many lights that you’d think day was breaking or dusk had barely begun. 

they must hum like a spiritual download but I can’t hear them then. 

and i knew, as in reality, that it was still night. where was the electric city? Electricity spells electric city. that is strange. was it real, was it imagined, or somewhere in the middle somehow?  was it on an astral plane? why did it feel hyper real,- and who exactly was the ajna awakener?

I longed to know the answers even before I awoke. 

then the dream vision ended. 

I remained still. ‘Remember remember remember,’ I told myself. ‘What were the curving streets I had skated down made of?’ some had interlock brick, I told myself,- yes I noticed that. and the buildings?- how about them,- every different design one could think of,- even an architect, I reminded myself,- yet I didn’t remember anything too high, more than say,- five stories. and more- beyond words also- the feeling,- the connection w/the guru, if she was a guru- master of some sort. and the fast skating, a certain freedom even in a strange place. 

and a thought…hadn’t I deserved to skate like that, having skated my whole youth and adolescence in real life from age seven or eight onwards?- nothing it seems, but skating. I had began not being able to hardly stand on skates, and by the end I was usually the fastest skater on the ice. 

‘Remember remember remember, because even when you think you have remembered everything or much,- there is often or perhaps always something recalled that you had forgotten. The bigger the chunks of dream you remember,- the more chance you have of arriving at some other memory within the chunk, around the chunk….’

I even tried to re-enter the dream. a long time ago, I could often to this,- by quickly forcing myself back asleep. I must have done it thirty times successfully through those past years. 

but i couldn’t do it this time. 

some skills you lose.

hopefully others you gain. 

and I breathed deeply then the fresh air from the close open window, air clean and against logic and reason, full of the good and robust and coldish night. I felt a tinge of sadness as the dream slipped away further from me, and more sadness when the FEELING the dream brought began to recede further and further. 

I had always wondered where dreams went when we left one another. 

And I had always had the idea that it would be interesting to view one’s life in dreams from birth to death, a biography and chronology of dreams. 

I stood and looked out the window then. 

some streetlights lit the world somewhat and softly. bits of snow wafted down if you looked a little closer, like some invisible or hidden  someone was up there just a above the electric light dropping handfuls of it. 

I liked the bulbs and glow even if I didn’t love them. 

I guess they would have to do as secondary light until I found a lamp again. 

~~~

“In everyone’s life, at some point our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful to those who rekindle our spirit.” --Albert Schweitzer

The Brink of Summer’s End: Travel Log Celebrating the Authentic Spirit of the Seasons 
By Jacques Fleury

[Originally published in Spare Change News and Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting You Authentic Self]

The noonday sun has mellowed. The laughter of children echoing in the playgrounds has dwindled. Soon, the chilly breath of winter will be upon us, fogging up car windows in the early morning and late at night. Yep, summer is practically over and for some of us, this glacial news is mighty sour. 

Now is a time to reflect on the last few months. Did you keep all the promises you made to yourself back to the beginning of summer? Did you take that vacation you’ve always wanted to take, talk to that cutie you’ve always wanted to talk to, read that book you’ve
always wanted to read, see that movie you’ve always wanted to see? 

Or did the summer days pass by you as fast as a NASCAR race car, drowning you in a smog of dust, confusion and missed opportunities? Well, you’re not alone. I did not get to do all that I wanted to do either, but I sure did as much as I could do and I don’t think it’s necessary for me to be hard on myself for the things I didn’t get to do and neither should you.

Then in late August, I decided to go on a road trip with some friends. We decided to tour some of the states of New England so that we can get to know other northern neighbors, each other and ourselves along the way. 

Driving down the countryside almost always leaves me mesmerized. The quiet dignity of the trees; the wide majesty of the mountains; the boldness and beauty of the sunset and the docile and gleaming offering of the moon. As we drive along the highways and back roads of New England, assimilating Chinese fire drills and switching seats
with one another, we talked about things that we normally wouldn’t talk about in any other circumstances. We spoke of our hopes and aspirations, joys and pains, unrequited loves, past loves, present loves and pondered about future loves that we hope would save us all during our lifetime. Sometimes, we didn’t even speak at all. We just drove and rode in silence or listened to the radio and the music of our hearts.

We drove up to Jeffrey New Hampshire so that we can climb Mount Monadnock, purported to be the second most climbed mountain in the world, second only to Mount Fuji in Japan. Climbing the mountain was both challenging and invigorating. I saw all types of people climb, young and old. But I don’t think I saw even one other Black person climb. I suppose hiking is not “a black thing”, but I was there to challenge this stereotype. I did get some malevolent (what
are YOU doing here?) looks from some of the hikers as well as some benevolent (welcome!) smiles. I decided to concentrate on the smiles.

I was able to find some time to be alone in the woods, to hear the sound of the heart of nature and so that I can feel closer to the creator. Having some quiet time to think about my life to me is
a great luxury. I was able to think about what I’m doing right and what I’m doing wrong.

Behaviors that I need to re-evaluate and behaviors that I need to celebrate. I thought about all the people in my life who contribute to who I am and I could not help but smile. I realized then that I
have a selective group of people around me who contribute greatly to who I am and who I’m becoming. I gladly let go of toxic relationships that threaten my progress and embrace new friendships that can only strengthen me. During my vacation, I also rediscovered the power of
God in my life, which forced me to re-evaluate my spiritual path.

Getting away even for a short time from my day-to-day life taught me something. It taught me that I could find happiness outside of all the “stuff” I have back in my apartment or all the accolades I often get from my community for being a writer, performer and Television
personality. Being away from all of that, generated in me a sudden epiphany. I realized that other than my God, I’m all that I need. I am self-sufficient. I don’t really “need” someone else to make me happy. 

I don’t “need” someone else to give me what I can give to myself: respect, love and attention. I realized that all one need in life is to be comfortable, healthy and happy. How can I expect someone else to give me what I can’t or won’t give to myself? I don’t believe in the
notorious saying “I’m looking for my other half” because I think that one should be a “whole” person first and naturally, if I know anything about karma, another “whole” person will find you.

We often get stuck in our lives when we practice the same behavior but expect a different outcome. Well you may be aware of the omnipresent saying: “Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.” Well, I have two things to say about that! First is “be the change that you want to see” and secondly “when you change the way you look at things, the things you look at begin to change.” 

In other words, if your wish is to see the world as a friendly place then you have to try being friendly yourself. Yes, it is that simple. Because if you choose to see the world as a friendly place then you begin to look for evidence of that. However, if you choose to
see the world as a hostile place, then you began to look for evidence of that. It’s all about the way we think about things. 

My point is this: as the Autumn leaves change colors, you too should try changing your thought patterns by being the change that you want to see, by changing the way you look at things and I promise you the universe will change with you. Remember, keep your hearts open, have good intentions and everything will most likely fall into its rightful place.

Jacques Fleury is a Haitian-American poet, author, educator and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His book “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at public libraries, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…

I Once Read a Book…

And I thought that was the end of it, but it turned out that the book was on the government’s list of banned books. It was contraband. This caused great alarm among those in power—my teachers and the police. It was further surmised that perhaps I had retained some forbidden knowledge from this book, and that simply would not do. And, as a 13-year-old girl, I needed protection, but from what, they never said.

I was interviewed—no, that’s not right; I was interrogated—by federal and state rectors who evaluated my retention of any information which was untoward and at odds with the national doctrine. They said they worked for the Minister of Literary Discipline. First, of course, they asked me where I had gotten this blasphemous volume. I shrugged. At school? they suggested. I told them no, but they scoured every inch of my middle school—the library, the classrooms, even the cafeteria—turning up nothing. One of my friends, perhaps? they queried. I don’t think so, I said.

Regardless, they made me sit at a desk and write down the name of everyone I’d ever known. It was exhausting. They checked every name and at length found one troublemaker who possessed the very novel I did. They displayed with her the same kind of dedicated fervor that they had with me. I never saw her again. During interrogation, I cried and promised them I’d stop reading books, but they told me said as how I’d made my bed, I’d now have to lie in it.

They said that I’d disgraced my father, who was in charge of the Regional Book Burning Celebration that was held every year at the high school during homecoming. Nothing I said made a difference. My father, who like I said, was an officer with the Book Police, had been beyond suspicion but at last they had to question him and my family. Although he denied everything, they found the book, “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” in the bookcase in his den. Thinking that, because of my father’s reputation, they would never look there, I had hidden it away on a back shelf. He was mortified.

My father lost his position; in fact my mother lost her job as well. We’re poor now and when we applied for food stamps, we were told we needed to work in order to receive nutritional assistance. But since no one would hire my parents, we were denied benefits. We had to move from our comfortable home too, and now we scramble from one homeless shelter to the next. We’re allowed inside only after 4 p.m. in order to give my parents an opportunity to search for work. On the streets we’re known as drifters. The food there is pretty grim.

I was expelled from the 8th grade for the remainder of the term and when Mom took me back to register in the fall, they told her I would need “re-educating” first, as I would be a bad influence on the other children, who had not been exposed to the likes of that Satanist, Mark Twain. Mom hasn’t decided yet whether she’ll send me to the re-education facility, but I kind of hope she does. They get three meals a day at Camp Falwell, and I’m awful hungry.

Street Video

These stories almost escaped
from order into dizzying chaos,
with linear cartoon-like panels
in the rows of tenement floors,
letting us glimpse the dramas
inside, without subtitles to read.
The lens took in the flaking paint,
acid-yellow wall-paper strips,
and a woman gazing out at us,
squinting through a bruised eye.

The action moved along from here
to there, inventing a melodrama
of gunshots and alley dumpsters
But we also had seen in the street
the image from a pin-hole camera
a homeless man had documented
from when he was living rough
a block from the stately capitol
where legislators reiterated claims
that no veterans ever slept on grates.
_________________________________

THE SCHOOL MOVIE

Almost as soon as the lights
snapped on as the credits ended
those around me started asking
which character in the film
shot on summer location here
was me or should be me
or why was their cameo cut?
And a few joshing friends
with their cinema radar on
emailed or blogged the same.
Perhaps that sad-sack retiree
who quit, then recanted,
with nothing new to fill a life
spent teaching 37 years,
like a modern Mr. Chips.
("That's Mister Chipping to you")
Or perhaps a gender-bending
version of the straight-backed
harsh female faculty star,
played like, not modeled
on. a former colleague, quick
tongued and creator of quips.
The friends in joking missed
the pathetic theatre of teaching,
the sweaty wrestling with angels,
the jazz of long, dark nights,
the cries of "Help me. Help me."
as we all stepped in quicksand
that we had not seen ahead.
And this film the boy genius
shot was the perfect medium:
the plastic loops of stuff
that will eventually decay,
like our bodies and minds,
the young and old alike,
as the quick, flickering light
passes through and is gone.
___________________________________

TESTAMENT

"Ithaca gave you the beautiful journey..."
                    -- K. Kavafis

His bed table was bare
except for his glasses, propped
up as if being worn,
beside an open book.
Others would later say
outside his poems his life
does not really exist.
The silence here implies
there is "nothing left to give,"
as a darker voyage begins.
His poetry strips down,
exposing itself as prose,
its "double life" is finished.
Later, reading his books
we felt the heat of his work.
 From such a room as this,
with oriental carpets,
a black desk with gilt,
a velvet armchair,
such conventional pieces,
he inhabited his pasts
like bits of arcane clothing,
and he allowed the secret lives
of those who were not consistent,
unsurprised by their faults,
those undone by misfortune,
bad-timing, and knowledge
imperfect in source and expression,
or the crowned goddess of luck
who rules even the gods.
And now he sits alone
in this room without a light,
recalling nights that were endless
in brightly illumined cafes.
He heard a figure at dawn
enter and sit on his bed,
the place where the fortunate die.
Once when asked to write
his farewell, he took a pen
to a drawn circle's center
and placed a single dot.
The glasses he left aside
were for me an empty mirror,
looking at myself
looking at myself.


Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught classes in global religions for almost forty years. His poems have appeared in several literary journals. He lives now in rural Ohio.

HAWKED AND DOVES

Love is hawked from every ad,
is sent likes doves from all our arks,
is aimed at every easy mark,
is scribbled on every poet’s pad
Through it all we keep in mind
what we, every one, know is fact:
that what we seek is really Sex

ORDER AND ENGAGEMENTS

I thought love’s inherent anarchy
erodes the institution.
I my co saw the situation starkly,
imposed institution,
and then, to defend love’s covenant,
fortified all my redoubts.

But I abandoned my battlements
and witnessed my army’s rout.
Too late, enlightenment came darkly;
the armistice was troubling:
I learned no lover’s a monarchy,
all lovers are republics.

AMAZING FANTASY #16

To locate her elongated man,

an invisible girl
hoisted her green lantern.

Her archenemy – that scarlet witch! --

countered with a dark spell
hidden in a shadow

that would blind any moon knight’s vision.

But concupiscence stirred
this lightning lad to flash.

Firestorm-sparked, my tinder kindling breached
her lonesome miracle:
I’m now her human torch.

CONQUERING LOVE

With hope my single ideology, innocence my only weapon,

I rose out of the nursery and went to conquer Love.

I passed all the girls in cellophane, said No to the ones in bows.

No purpose found I in frivolity: I was out to conquer Love.

And Love was a Virgin in a Pershing tank, a saint in burnished chain mail.

And I was Bubba in a pickup truck, an Eskimo in underwear.

Still, no purpose found I in frivolity. I was out to conquer Love.



So: I fell on Love with my Weakness, and I fell on Love with my Hope,

Fell on Love with my Purpose – was all-out to conquer Love.

But my belief blunted to memory, and my arms were battered to guile.

I fell back into my hatchery – I was out, oh! conquered by Love.

‘Cause Love’s a Virgin in a Sherman tank, Guan Yin in a steel nuptial veil.

I was a hick in a beat-up truck, an Eskimo exposed to the bare.

Though I found no purpose in frivolity, I was downed, conquered by Love

MY YOUNG SELF:

Your many ghosts haunt these my yellow years,
they still shout because I cannot speak.

The center of your infinity constricts to dimensionlessness. My unstable molecules made me your atomic traitor from the start.

I bartered your generous energy for this my degenerate austerity,
your oratorios and vision for these my parrots and mirrors.
I traded the fire and the wine for diet coke and ash, your altars of sacrifice for a sepulcher and some artifice.

That elusive wholeness I was to complete reduced to incoherent ruins.

Somewhere along the line a promiscuous warrior traded guts with a riskfree prayer
who avoids your fruit for fear of the rot.
Somehow an artful scientist of metaphor
transformed into this jester of awkward gestures.

Perhaps,
in time,
that I I now condemn
may become
the I I understand.

Vacuum  ( ii)


The insatiable hunger engulfs vast expanses,

Conquering oceans, deserts, and forests in entirety,

No remnant remains, no liquor to imbibe,

Yet a pervasive emptiness pervades in all environs,

A constant, haunting presence persistently lingers near,

Within resides a chasm, an abyss of profound depth,

A gap impervious to material abundance,

A palpable absence yearning to be traversed,

A darkness akin to the nocturnal expanse,

An infinite chain of flames of consuming fire,

Each touch evokes an ephemeral ache,

Everlasting is the ravine of craving, unyielding and deep,

Boundless and omnipresent to pacify this vacuity,

Roaming in search of eternity's elusive elixir,

Still no saturation, still erosive burning,

Chasing visions that ripple like eternal flames,

An introspective tide surges forth to submerge this hollow,

A radiant self, emanating from the depths of inner sanctums,

Embarks on the quest for completeness,

In pursuit of the elusive source of contentment,

A self-discovery of solitary inward remittance,

Empowered by an insight of self-searching,

Echoing solely the reverberations of personal contentment,

Demises this voracious hunger of vast void,

Navigating the inner expanse, finding serenity eludes,

The gulf pulsates with flickers of filling,

Within insight's embrace, a tranquil reservoir resides,

Emerges as a wellspring of serenity,

To Illuminate a bastion of enlightenment,

No longer a barren expanse, but a fertile terrain,

Within the depths, a sacred ember glows,

Infusing the space with celestial beams,

Illuminates the chasm with eternal intuition.





2. Soul explorer 


An ingrained texture imparts a shade of agony,

In every manifestation, I spot its torment,

A wish that saturates me in an instant,

Its touch lifts me to the pinnacle of my excitement,

A flame aspires to untouched summits,

An eternal bloom of its showers,

Casting the shadows of those I have lost,

At the zenith of my sought destination,

Each step toward the horizon is a testament,

To the enduring pursuit of the sublime,

Every note reminds of paths of past journeys ,

To beacon the soul's yearning with each  passing blink,

Which peeps through the layers of secrets,

With each stride towards the receding horizon, 

 Chronicles emerge of the anecdotes of bygone trails,

Resonating the unyielding quest for melodic note,

Steering the soul's yearning amidst fleeting sparks,

To penetrate the shrouds of enigmatic concealment.

The venture strides forth with resolute elegance,

Unraveling to the veils of reality for the intrepid seeker,

In celestial communion delving into enigmatic mysteries,

I unravel the vast expanse of my inner cosmos.





Donned the Guise of Friendship


They adorned the cloak of camaraderie to pierce the soul,  

A tempest swirling, igniting the seeker's dole,  

With the ashes of masked confident's scorn, I depart,  

To weave sorrow into the desolation of my heart,

To embroider memories into the fabric of my night,  

A flame that ignites the soul's hidden part,

From the debris of my heart, beauty I chisel,  

A silent torrent of lamentation in pain's vast ocean,  

To bedeck the fortress of my heartache,

Enriches the dwelling place of melancholy,

Every scar whispers tales of love's erosion,

Lost in the labyrinth of our shattered dreams,  

In twilight's embrace, our memories gleam,

From the ashes, I rise and fall anew,

Amidst the chaos, a phoenix ascends,  

From the depths of despair my spirit finds amends.  

Where the coverts' betraying shadows bristle my heart.  






3. International Friendship

 

Unfettered by boundaries, takes flight of solidarity,

Having unrestrained grace, soaring beyond the confines ,

Friendship's canvas colours blended with love,

Across the globe we stand, intertwine hearts .


In the vibrant mosaic of human existence,

 Diversity crafts bridges of empathy and  trust,

Embellishing collective aspirations with intricate patterns,

Celebrating eternal bonds of global kinship in majesty.


In each thread, dormant dreams stir cultural riches,

Within soul's sanctums, an inward lexicon transcends,

Voices of epochs merge in celestial symphony, 

Undivided in the hush of universal theme .





Dr. Sajid Hussain, born on February 1, 1969, in Morgah, Rawalpindi, Pakistan, is a distinguished poet, educator, and advocate for literature. He holds memberships in global literary organizations and has received numerous accolades, including the Shahitya Pata Award and the Rabindranath Tagore Memorial Literary Honours. He has authored acclaimed works and contributed to international anthologies. A senior Chemistry teacher and Master Trainer in "Low Cost and No Cost Science Material," Dr. Hussain is also a homeopathic doctor and former principal. His poetry, often focused on humanity and nature, is widely published and translated. Dr. Hussain is a committed advocate for global understanding, cultural exchange, and social justice, using his platform to inspire positive change and foster dialogue.

Dr. Sajid Hussain is the author of several acclaimed books and has co-authored numerous international anthologies. His notable works include:

1. Acquits of Life
2. Parlance
3. Cloud Nine Fantasia
4. Oceanic Upwelling
5. Waves and Rays of the Life

He has also contributed to and co-authored various international anthologies, including:

1. Flowers of Love
2. Arabian Nights
3. Poets for Peace
4. The Candles of Hope
5. Poetry Collection
6. Poetry for Ukraine
7. The Silk Road Literature
8. Ancient Egyptians Modern Poets
9. Mediterranean Waves
10. Peace and Love Make Society
11. Rhapsodies
12. Dandelions: Multiverse of Poets

Additionally, he compiled Pakistani English Poets Prodigy, which was published in the USA.

Dr. Hussain's books and anthologies cover themes such as love, peace, resilience, and the human condition. His works are known for their profound empathy and eloquence, reflecting a deep understanding of the human experience. His poetry has been featured in prominent international magazines and websites, and he has penned over 1400 poems, published in more than 200 world anthologies and magazines, translated into several major languages.