Darvish Khan Writes

i often think of my favorite actress- god’s own sister;
she possessed a bright wit, and was beauty’s great lover.

as a little girl she was a jump rope champion;
she was the beloved’s mehera’s life long companion.

what a pride she had in pirouetting on a dime!
she was a verbal master, and an excellent mime.

she encouraged me in the study of persian language;
she herself spoke simple dari with great advantage.

her cheerfulness was astonishing and delightful:
immense patience made her remarkably skillful.

“to be god’s sister was not easy”, i heard her once say;
she was a serious student who had mastered life’s play.

mani is a jewel who still sparkles in darvish’s mind;
most of all, my thought of her is of someone very kind!

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the selfsame avatar has had many different births;
the god-man thousands of times has walked this very earth.

the same one glorious sun has many different names;
light is not diminished because of linguistic claim!

how is that jesus has become the one and only savior-
why would one prophet among many enjoy such favor?

christian fundamentalists are such a brainy lot;
the bible as the literal word of god- what total rot!

the same holds true for the koran, to a lesser degree:
the text is not corrupt, but the “reading” is sure nasty!

forget about the books- even the big buddhist canon-
silence is much more impressive regarding the atman!

why are all the lovely occasions of god forgotten?
darvish shouts out, it’s all those books rotting and rotten!

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i am pleased to be ranked with the great poets of old;
i can nod with the best of them, even homer i’m told.

i jingle some of my best verse when in the beyond state-
rarely does a poet receive such a gift as his fate!

believe me, snoring has it’s own special rhythmic genius:
it has a duration that changes brilliantly when cursed.

in fact, i do all my best thinking when fast asleep;
my ideas become vast, profound and quite deep!

the dawn’s cold breeze slapped my face, and i woke with a start;
i became confused and stuttered, then gave out a big shout!

why, i had nothing to say- my mind was completely blank!
and i had no one and nothing except myself to thank!

enough! darvish, your snoring has been most entertaining;
but now your sleepwalking has started me complaining!

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americans love poetry so bloody damn much,
they lovingly collect it and spade it into mulch.

my favorite book is that big fat norton anthology;
it’s made for students of physical anthropology!

the problem is that poetry is not a common art,
but something buried in text, and not recited from heart.

did’ja know that the most loved poet of all time- hafez,
never wrote a line, but by word of mouth became the buzz!

let’s face it- we don’t have the conversational rhythm,
to turn our speech into poetry, and surpass the hymn.

rap might be the answer were it not so crude and violent:
beauty always longs to fulfill itself in soft silence.

darvish cries out for that speech that turns into lovely song-
he hugs the verse of that australian, francis brabazon!

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Some things are so obvious, but somehow remain obscure:
God is infinite and one, and all his prophets are pure.

That we have to think about this is not encouraging;
One feels so important to make remarks disparaging!

The fact is, not only is God infinite truth and love,
But he lives in the heart as one’s very own treasure trove.

Yes, it is true, not every single, bloody aspirant,
Will buy a shovel and keep on digging ’til he finds it!

Few of us fall in love with back-breaking manual work-
Why not pay a Mexican dirt wages, with a rich smirk!

Last night I heard a dog barking at the big, yellow moon;
It was snarling about having lost a bright silver spoon.

Darvish, thank God for your name and that your muscles all ache;
Clearly, these are two things much better never to fake!

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the poet hafez has elegant wit and great humor;
he is always independent and despises rumor.

he is an unmatched existentialist, with diamond love:
the light of his feeling nature shines with perfect resolve.

the friend with long curly hair is his beloved master;
repeatedly, he likens him to the great zoroaster.

he calls himself a rend, for whom only longing exists;
although he knows the koran by heart, beauty is his text.

he plays his game at court with brilliant double entendre;
the patron and the friend are well pleased, but not the mullah!

the rend is drunk on red wine and cavorts with his lover-
perfect like the prophet and who compares with no other.

even now, most scholars and muslims remain bamboozled;
darvish guzzles his bright bottle at this sad shemozzle!

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I have a dream of hoofbeats pounding in the air,
a horse with wings and sword that defeats despair.

The hoofbeat and proud neigh of my lord and master-
my heart jumps a beat, then gallops even faster!

White Kalki is coming to remove filth and ignorance,
and truth and justice all across the earth dispense.

Tenth in line of saviors for this Kali yuga age,
the purity of truth is his compassionate rage.

Kalki has come to re-establish basic honesty;
what now passes for such is perfect travesty.

Corporate Big Fist has his hand in every humble pie:
we have become devoted to the greed of our own lies.

The White Horse avatar has come to fulfill our dreams;
Darvish longs to ride along heart’s living stream.

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the dawn breeze brought me the scent of shirazi wine:
at once, i swore a vow to all other drink decline.

let the world drink gallons and gallons of soda pop,
and clap as the geyser of carbonated vomit drops!

most have nothing better to do than eat and shit;
stock up on super size diapers-  they are a big hit!

this problem is not so funny when in your face;
sometimes, it’s not so easy to avoid disgrace.

my best advice is to practice getting dead drunk;
“live free and die” i say, why pass your life in a funk?

forgive me if my conversation is a bit muddled-
the world is upside down and completely addled!

may darvish recommend the vineyard of hafez;
a bottle of his wine has never not won first prize!

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we never met you, but cry out your lovely name:
our tears wash away each day our lasting shame.

you are the eternal living perfect master;
more than anything, we long to hear your laughter.

all the world’s noise is so much acoustic garbage-
the “best and brightest” amount to stinking verbiage.

the bird of twilight sang to the reticent rose;
my heart broke into anguish, and my mind froze.

we have no hope but in cutting our own dear throat;
our remedy is to repeat nothing at all, by rote!

a thousand wasted lives stampede toward your presence;
a million twisted words surrender in your silence.

in a moment, darvish remembers your promise:
“some day you will hear me laugh and feel my kiss”!

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