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Of Holding On And Letting Go

  
 
   
1: Only from the heart can you touch the sky.  
 
You think that water is the color blue  
That ocean currents imitate the wind.  
 
And where it ends beyond the height of clouds  
That’s where the sky of me will turn to black,  
 
Where neither air nor astronauts may live;  
Yes, I’m the sky and all the rest is air.  
 
If not for me there’d be no atrium  
To hold within the weather and the rain,  
 
From where the cumulus and stratus play.  
The teaming life that feeds on coral beds,  
 
The orca pods who prey on lesser whales  
As dolphins with their echos guide the young.  
 
The snow on summits where no birds can reach,  
The forest at its base, bears hibernate.  
 
The sockeye who return from whence their birth,  
And beneficial run-offs where they spawn.  
 
The tribe who grazes stock & gathers fruit,  
And nomads follow zebra to the stream.  
 
The fishermen who cast their nets afar,  
The children who run naked in the surf.  
 
This is the bounty given with both hands.  
Remember, everything relies on this,  
So none will turn to ash and be forgot.  
 
🌜☀️🌛  
 
2: I want to sing like the  
birds sing, not worrying about  
who hears or what they think.
 
 
a light blue cloud  
singing in your hand  
folded once  
then once more;  
the wings of  
your origami crane  
 
I breathe in deep  
the flesh-like tissue  
uplifting me  
through  
fluttering lids  
to a corner of sky  
 
all to myself,  
lighter than birds  
kiting through  
the draft and rush,  
reaching  
for the sun  
 
I have no voice  
with which to sing.  
No feathers I,  
still I bank and soar  
trying to  
remember you.  
 
🌜☀️🌛  
 
3: Be like a tree and let the dead leaves drop.  
 
This Rowan tree in bloom I rest beneath,  
Whose berries filled her boughs in ruby red.  
That ever spread its legend ‘cross the heath,  
To giving pause the rising of the dead.  
 
Protector from the devil’s evil sway,  
This Rowan tree in bloom I rest beneath.  
Whose leaves are from a living bird of prey,  
And ne’er a welcome sight to witch’s meet.  
 
I lean against the sav’ry of its wreath,  
In dappled shade that quivers in its arms.  
This Rowan tree in bloom I rest beneath,    
Sprigs of it in my hair keep me from harm.  
 
Which also includes charms against my will;  
I keep a bower on my mantle piece.  
What turns to honeyed wine, not bitter swill?  
This Rowan tree in bloom I rest beneath.  
 
🌜☀️🌛  
 
4: The whole universe is contained
within a single human being – you.
 
 
Near a sleek interstate of New Now  
Of Today’s city glass towers’ gleam,  
From the day’s perfect rise of Know How,  
And Tomorrow of manicured dreams:  
 
Laid the sprawl of an old shanty town  
Where lush trees & green grass never grew;  
Shown no mercy; a dry trodden frown,  
Like the tough shanty dwellers it drew.  
 
But for all of a dirty-faced soul  
Passing time in the cardboard & shake,  
Moved an odd, mystic child of the shoal  
Picking mussels & shells for the take.  
 
And the name, Periwinkle, or Jill,  
Who's dark days of childhood were all spent  
On the fringe of the city’s landfill,  
Gather’d pebbles & weeds as she went.  
 
No one paid her a mind to collect,  
Not a button or bow worth a cent.  
 
And there never were colorful blooms;  
Not a daisy, nor rose or a glad.  
With bare feet in the mud many moons,    
Not a violet or mum to be had.  
 
But no one who knew Jill believed her.  
She saw rain puddles each as a pearl    
 In re-flected sky drifting over,    
And the specialness that was the girl,  
 
Who could trust in the dump where she play’d,  
That to walk in the sky’s dappled air  
Brought to life buddings from seedlings raised  
When she wore the bright blue in her hair.  
 
And her mother would smile & then teased  
How her “Jilly” did just as she pleased.  
 
🌜☀️🌛  
 
5: You are not a drop in the ocean. You are    
the entire ocean, in a drop.
 
 
It’s still not too late  
as she rises by a hearth  
to a knock at the door  
this early evening,  
 
carefully wrapping  
herself in a long robe  
from the night air,  
and whoever is there,  
so they will think her  
a respectable whore.  
 
Yet she sees no one  
from a soft light  
at the threshold  
in the thin clean air  
of the Chilean Andes,  
with a scent of  
cordwood for a fire.  
 
Steps onto the porch,  
cane chairs are stacked,  
brought to her by men  
who buy them from  
her as payment.  
 
She is handsome,  
still a young woman  
but not too much.  
She remembers it  
like this and no other.  
 
She sits to wait for the  
first moon’s light, and  
forgets the cigarette  
that she lit indoors as  
it dwindles & goes out.    
   
And a new memory  
tries to surface, for  
she has no memory  
of being born, or the  
one who bore her.  
She feels she’s died,  
but loses no sleep.    
   
She’ll never weep  
for burnt wood  
long turned to ash  
& knows not why,  
but she likes to try  
imagining the scent  
of the night  
she was  
born.  
 
🌜☀️🌛  
 
 
 
Quotes by & ispired by Rumi:  
* Real name: Jalāl ad-Dīn  
Muhammad Rūmī  
* Nickname: Molānā  
* He was a 13th-century Persian poet, faqih,
Islamic scholar, theologian, and Sufi mystic.    
Written by Jade-Pandora (jade tiger)
Published | Edited 22nd Mar 2020
Author's Note
For Jennifer’s “Human Nature”.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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