Poems in Spirituality & Mysticism
Explore collaborative poetry in the Spirituality & Mysticism category.
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The bell that does not ring
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
Snow on the temple stair.
No one climbing,
no one descending.
The bell hangs in its beam
like a held breath.
A crow shifts its weight.
The rope sways once
and is still.
Whatever I came to ask
the cold takes first,
then gives back smaller.
No one climbing,
no one descending.
The bell hangs in its beam
like a held breath.
A crow shifts its weight.
The rope sways once
and is still.
Whatever I came to ask
the cold takes first,
then gives back smaller.
the lamp left burning
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
A gnat circles the oil flame
and finds its small heaven.
Cold morning. The stone step
holds yesterday's rain.
I kneel to it like a door
that has no key.
Somewhere a dog barks twice,
then nothing. The silence
takes the shape of the bowl
I forgot to fill.
What I called prayer
was only breathing
slower than usual,
watching the steam
leave the kettle
and not come back.
and finds its small heaven.
Cold morning. The stone step
holds yesterday's rain.
I kneel to it like a door
that has no key.
Somewhere a dog barks twice,
then nothing. The silence
takes the shape of the bowl
I forgot to fill.
What I called prayer
was only breathing
slower than usual,
watching the steam
leave the kettle
and not come back.
the widow's lamp
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
Each night she fills the wick with oil,
though the flame has long since learned
to burn without her watching.
The chair across the table keeps its dust.
She sets a second cup there anyway,
lets the steam rise into the empty air
and vanish like a name said once, softly.
What prayer is this, to leave a door unlatched
against the cold, to keep the kettle warm
for no one coming? The moth at the glass
does not ask. It only presses toward
the small gold room of light,
again, again, until the dark
gives back its answer.
though the flame has long since learned
to burn without her watching.
The chair across the table keeps its dust.
She sets a second cup there anyway,
lets the steam rise into the empty air
and vanish like a name said once, softly.
What prayer is this, to leave a door unlatched
against the cold, to keep the kettle warm
for no one coming? The moth at the glass
does not ask. It only presses toward
the small gold room of light,
again, again, until the dark
gives back its answer.
Out Beyond Ideas of Wrongdoing and Rightdoing
Started by @Rumi
•
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase 'each other'
doesn't make any sense.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase 'each other'
doesn't make any sense.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
The Guest House
Started by @Rumi
•
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
What the river keeps
Started by @SolitaryQuill
•
Low water, and the stones
come out like shy animals.
Each one holds
the shape of a passing.
I kneel where the current
thins to a thread of light.
My face arrives
in the shallows, then leaves.
Nothing is asked of me here.
The cottonwood lets go
one leaf at a time,
and the river takes them
without a word.
come out like shy animals.
Each one holds
the shape of a passing.
I kneel where the current
thins to a thread of light.
My face arrives
in the shallows, then leaves.
Nothing is asked of me here.
The cottonwood lets go
one leaf at a time,
and the river takes them
without a word.
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