Darvish Khan Writes

Big fist packs a punch with a plan to scare:
keep the people afraid with ugly hot air.

Politicians love fear because it works,
to fool the people into electing jerks.

The chauvinist loves to stand brave and tall,
by making the voice of reason look small.

The jingoist loves to stomp on your face,
when the wrong religion is an odd race.

When the war machine gets into high gear,
the corporate man markets with a sneer.

The pastor does his part quoting the Word,
which somehow always praises the sword.

Love and truth are rumors from the past;
Darvish hears a snarling mad dogs’ breakfast!

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Rain, wash away fear and revive our lives;
we need to lift our feet past tired, old lies.

We have come to believe in our own doubt:
we chew on rage and stifle spirit’s shout.

The mind desperate to proclaim itself,
denies the stillness that nourishes health.

May the sun of royal love rise at dawn,
to our high praise of his radiant crown!

We are lost without the mercy of Meher’s light-
where is the grace of his compassionate sight?

The sound of his name is soft, caressing rain,
that invites his love to wash away all pain.

Darvish thanks the gracious earth for support,
and walks on with the friend’s name for comfort.

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the breaths count down to the appointed time;
gasp or aria, the number remains the same.

shut up, my friend, and prolong your quandary;
maybe, sir, you have time for your laundry?

go watch your fate spin past your careful stare;
meditate on sock chasing your underwear.

you think you control your unruly mind-
can you really your lost pajama’s find?

let your thoughts tumble after each other;
don’t be so mad with your absent mother!

let it all go in the sky’s gentle breeze;
don’t chase anything- remember breath, please!

sir, darvish has just one more thing to say:
breathe in with ba, breathe out with ba, to pray.

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The theocrats are appealing as fragrant shit;
The smug and self righteous are always a big hit!

Politicians who preach in the name of their God,
have fat cheeks full of foul crap instead of the Word.

The dull and stupid believe god is always right,
especially when the believer is told to fight.

God help us all when the religious become inspired;
We will by stinking chapter and verse be reviled.

The holy infidel is really our kindest friend-
may compassionate god send the great Khan again!

The Eternal Blue Sky is a fair and brilliant lord;
Either pay allegiance, or face the nomadic sword!

May all of our ugly rhetoric go up in flame:
Darvish longs for the pure breeze of the Beloved’s name.

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Freedom is just another word to break our teeth upon;
Mouthing such marble slogans insults the downtrodden!

We are so thoroughly brainwashed of all intelligence,
Politics has nothing at all to do with common sense.

We must admit we have no agenda greater than greed;
It pays so very well, we delight to watch spirit bleed.

Thirty pieces of silver buys a cross to hang the Christ;
Bloody good deal for the son of man at such a price!

Mowlanna cried the long night to see his lost, divine sun;
All became blackness until heart’s longing began to spin.

The deepest and most terrible anguish is full of gold,
Even when the Friend for this rotting world is cheaply sold.

Darvish does not have the tears to placate God’s burning ire;
The sweet cool waters of love’s mercy will dampen the fire.

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We are crying to our lord and master without peer:
all but his long curly hair is small and cheap beer.

We have lit a candle to his blazing presence,
and written many a ghazal about his essence.

We can’t help but sob a big puddle yet again:
whatever we have to say ruins paper and pen!

We have nothing at all to say that can exalt him;
our best praise bumps along like a bloody hymn.

We mumble to find a phrase that doesn’t quite snarl;
it turns out our loving is nothing but a quarrel!

We would shut up and forget all about such love-
if we didn’t think someone else deserved a shove!

To be sure, Darvish is inspired by two buck chuck;
but we have to say, all but the beloved bloody sucks!

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we yearn for the right to decide our political fate,
but can we resolve who we are in our philistine state?

one man one vote amounts to nothing for the ignorant:
numeric democracy does not promote the elegant.

when our diet is salt, sugar, and chemical junk,
we ogle and sigh with a flaccid and diabetic dick.

our impotence is not a pharmaceutical affair,
despite half the nation desperate with private despair.

machismo is rage strutting with imploding desire:
we love our guns with a passion until spirit expires.

freedom is just another word for our terminal greed;
industrial farming does not believe in living seed.

darvish votes with his feet and starts to whirl and dance;
the life of spirit begins and ends with the beloved’s glance!

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The eternal beloved lives in our hearts and minds;
his body lies entombed in his samadhi shrine.

We go there to prostrate before what lies within:
we find his presence when we surrender all sin.

When the beast that snarls within is given a voice,
we have the chance to surrender out of free choice.

God help us to forget everything in his remembrance-
and find the skill to pirouette with a flip in his dance!

We have no luck but in accepting our daily pain;
then we have a chance- barely, of not going insane!

Majnun is my mentor in all things lovely and jinxed;
love must lay its sweet neck before the beloved’s ax!

Darvish took darshan, then started looking for his head,
but he found the Master laughing and laughing instead.

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