POEM_: Death?

Death?

Dogmas die.

Why worry

that mine will too?

Just like myself.

No form survives

forever.

And with forms, go

their ideas.

With me

or shortly thereafter

my doctrines

will be reduced

to historical curiosities.

Or less.

Why desire

a mirage?

Why ask for

a security

that is unachievable?

I must stop

pandering to my fear.

Look, I must,

change in the eye.

Accept, I must,

my transformation

into forms unimaginable.

Realize, I must,

the Unity of Becoming.

-

owais

--

This is first being published here.

POEM_: What is Perfect?

What is Perfect?

What is ‘perfect’?

Often,

it is expected to be

that, which is the model

of an ideal.

But ideal

is not natural.

For if it were,

it would be real.

We have been foolish

in assuming

that products of human intellect

can surpass

Reality.

Human intellect,

however brilliant,

is merely an appropriate tool

for living

a limited life

on a limited planet

in a limited time window.

Thus,

an ideal,

any ideal,

is merely

a masturbatory intellectual response

to the frustrations

suffered by a scintillating

human life.

No more.

Yes,

some ideals work.

To an extent.

And only,

to an extent.

What is important

is to use that ideal

to correct the direction

of a life

of a society

of a civilization.

Any effort

to grant a greater status

to a cherished ideal

merely defeats its spirit

by making it

a dogma.

For models of ideals,

do not exist

except as dogmas.

And ‘perfect’ does not exist

except as a loss

in a fearful and defeated

human mind.

-

owais

--

This is first being published here.

POEMT: My Mother / My Earth

My Mother / My Earth


You fulfil

my every need

but not an iota

of my greed!

If only,

I could learn

the difference.