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Ms Harn at-Tna Ibn Herschel's Poetry Page

Pneumatological Assumptions
Power to accomplish Purpose through means; Man's dialectical animators

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Ms Harn at-Tna Ibn Herschel's Poetry Page
Now covered by the Sacred Tree.

If the ant could want, Could hope, Could yearn, Could realize, Could envision The point at which the circle is joined, What would it be? 'Tis a substance simple and pure, Having rising but no setting, Progress without motion, Possessing endless depots of consciousness; Being utterly incapable of annihilation, Manifesting eternally, Sui generis, Through and beyond the pentacle. O Spirit of Man! Power of the Soul! Pondering the grammar of the kingdom of names; Comprehending limitation in the cosmic koan; Imaging Truth from ocean pearls; Recalling alternations of light and shadow. Through the anima, Flee the animal; Humility is the wormhole to the dimension of sacrifice, Where spiritual facsimile dictates choice; Where wealth and poverty in redundancy meet; And the power of will though free is bound. While bigotry rallies in the "regular" guy, Unable to cherish the mind walks of many, The power of diversity releases the dreamer From the prison of mediocrity. O Spirit of Faith! O Power of the Soul! Magnetized by service, Man is beckoned in love and joy; Revealing to him his inner vision; "Between the brows lie sight!"

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Ms Harn at-Tna Ibn Herschel's Poetry Page
(Instruct the Avatars) Heaven's Gate a life vein away.

Crystal, thumbprint, snowflake, soul; No two of each the same; From matchless portions of grace to souls apiece; Issue countless chains of linkings To a Source unknown. Respectively, Respectively, Respectfully ....

Mundane demands have robbed my time Though I would rather play Alas this is a part of chi'am I have my bills to pay

From Her unto Him

May thy heart find its peace In the Will of ha'Shem Where hurts one and all wilt be ended For life is a journey From Her unto Him In Whom all thy wounds shalt be mended

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Ms Harn at-Tna Ibn Herschel's Poetry Page

My life is now a sandwich. By bread my soul is squeezed. I wake up in the morning. By night I am consumed.
portions revealed to me in a dream, 10/3/04

A spray of jasmine And a rya is drawn Scurry ye inn! Tis the break of Dawn

Existential Authenticity, July, 1999

When July has come and gone Will the month of August dawn Somehow life seems just the same Nostradamus takes the blame

A Meditation on Condensed Reality

A Sea of grace is all I see; As the paradigm shifts anew. To learn who I was meant to be;

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Ms Harn at-Tna Ibn Herschel's Poetry Page

By gazing from God's view.

A faculty shared by spirit and sense; Which bridges space and time. The Reality which I condense; Appears within my mind. My consciousness I do create; Reflecting on God's worlds. To this my actions I relate; My destiny unfurls.

The Nightingale
I've gone to prepare a nest in my heart, A place where the Nightingale can rest. O, to hear the sweetness of His call, With His charms does His message enthrall. Backward and forward flies the heavenly Bird. Beholding ending in beginning Through His life-giving Word.

The miasmas attacked me From whence I know not Five times in Forgotten Sea Perchance 'tis my lot

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Ms Harn at-Tna Ibn Herschel's Poetry Page

The Ringstone
Glory spells the ringstone Kull-i-Shay in reframe The legions of the Concourse Cycle round the Greatest Name In the graphic formed by letters With a value each of five Maps the structure of reality Sources all that is alive

The Gate (March 28, 2010)

O Celestial Wayfarer! Enter by the gate To the waters of allegiance. By the stations of thy heart, By thy will, And by thy conscience, Thou canst ascend, Through ethereal scrolls, Unto each of the chambers on high.

The Persian Poets

San', Rm, and `Ar Words weaved of silk By a r from afar

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Ms Harn at-Tna Ibn Herschel's Poetry Page

Judgment Day
Although perchance American zadih The call of the East hath beckoned Haply in Haifa (the city by the bay) Is where my soul will be reckoned

The Serpentine Beast

Behold the warrior king Andro? Gyn? EEE! Not me Waging the inner battle Over a forgotten wing Learn this, O defeated soldier: The Word is the Mother The Beauty is the Father The soul grew in Eden Through the power of the other Free thyself From the serpentine beast The war has been won By armies long deceased

The Axis (April 4, 2010)

What remaineth to be spoken Couldst not be comprehended Lo! And if the words were uttered Wouldst The axis be dislodged.

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Ms Harn at-Tna Ibn Herschel's Poetry Page

Clock of Death (written at 11 years old)

A boy of youth was white with fear. His death he thought was growing near. In tears he sat right by the clock. Awaiting till it came to stop. His mouth was dry. His feet lie still. He listened, numb and clawed with chill. He slowly rose, all crushed and sad. That all the earth stood up and stared. The angels sobbed, the devils gay. A big dark cloud then cov'd the day. But then more fright came to the lad. The clock of death was going mad. It turned at thrice the speed of time. Then four, then five, then eight, then nine. It then, yes, then, came to a stop. But then the boy just smashed the clock. And there it ended. With a tock.

Poetry copyright 1967-2013 1967-2013 Mark A. Foster

*** Poet? Yeah!

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