Tag Archives: poet

Hafiz – Poem 5

January 21, 2026 rebekahjmarshall Leave a comment

All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.

I am reading Hafiz’s Little Book of Life, poetry by Hafiz-e Shirazi. He is challenging me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I will share his poem and some of my thoughts on his poem (sometimes with the help of experts when the concepts are too hard for me), followed by a poem and some art inspired by his poem.

Hafiz’s Poem 5:

Be in harmony

With the spring clouds

Some thoughts:

This little poem is packed with meaning, like a cloud full to bursting with spring rain. The concept of harmony is not demanding or structured, not perfect unison or absolute. It is complementary, attuned to the movement and ever-changing nature of formation. A cloud is by nature evolving endlessly. The idea of collecting the elements into oneself until so full you must release that life-giving abundance so it can pour out upon others is magical, mystical, and inspirational. And yet, it is something clouds do without conflict, easily, without a second thought. To move with the filling and sharing of abundance as naturally as a spring cloud would be a miraculous transformation.

My Poem 5:

Gathering, shifting unpredictably
Carrying shade, rain, promise
Teachers of impermanence
Arriving gently
Leaving unapologetically
No clinging to shape
No rushing of purpose
No fear of change
Moving inside time
Dissolving as necessary

Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.

Poetry, Writing

Hafiz – Poem 3

January 20, 2026 rebekahjmarshall Leave a comment

Image created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompt using AI on Gencraft.

Hafiz’s Poem 3:

To cut off my desire for life
Would be easy, next to cutting off
Dear
Friends

Some thoughts:

If the desire for life in mystical philosophy is wrapped up in ego, renouncing the world, releasing ambition, etc., then Hafiz is saying that surrendering control is a piece of cake compared to severing relationships with dear friends. And the contrast he is setting up implies that he has no intention of severing ties with those he loves for supposed holiness or spiritual advancement. Perhaps he is even critiquing some of the spiritual asceticism some practices require of their members, like abstinence from human relationships and connection to others. Detachment does not mean abandoning those we love. God is love, so intimacy with others must be sacred.

My Poem 3:

Dissolve the untrue.

The last thing standing is love,

for love is not false.

Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.

Poetry, Writing

Hafiz – Poem 2

January 19, 2026 rebekahjmarshall Leave a comment

Hafiz’s Poem 2:

Everyone
Drives by
While I
Walk on alone

Some thoughts:

I can only relate metaphorically to this poem because walking is difficult for me. With my joint degeneration and chronic pain, driving is much more my speed. However, I respect the deeper meanings that might be of the walking-to-the-beat-of-your-own-drum sort of metaphor. If “I” am doing something that seems to be different from “Everyone,” but I believe it to be what is best for me, I must persist, despite the aloneness. Perhaps because of the aloneness.

Sometimes solitude is the best way to connect to purpose, find center, ground. The harried rush of this world can sap our energy and distract us from the quiet inner contemplation that can connect us to our better selves. We cannot be of service to others if we are barreling through life so fast we have lost our own ability to reflect, to ponder, to get to know the quiet of our own minds. It is only here that most of us can hear the still, small voice.

I’m not sure what kind of drivers were racing past Hafiz on his alone walk in the 1300s, but I assume they were carts pulled by horses and people on horseback mostly. Faster than the pace of a walker, but nothing compared to the 80mph drivers on Texas highways. My, the poems he would have written about the rush of life we live today.

My Poem 2:

My H.E.B. has electric shopping carts
for people like me to use in their store.
They are slow, so as not to endanger
other shoppers who could be run over.

They beep loudly and embarrassingly
if I need to back up for overshooting.
They are awkward for direction changes,
and can be the cause of traffic jams.

But I no longer feel anything other than
thankfulness when I drive them to shop.
The lack of pain while choosing for myself
provides autonomy and independence.

I may drag the cord behind me like a tail,
stall and get stranded by a depleted battery,
and back into the occasional display or wall,
but I move at a pace that is mine alone.

Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.

Writing, Poetry

The Shadow

January 17, 2026 rebekahjmarshall Leave a comment

The shadow loomed

closer to where

I sat cast by the trembling tree

in the light of the moon

I felt a chill and found myself

shaking in unison

Wondering if the fingers

reaching out from

the branch

Might

scratch

my skin

if they

got

too

Poetry, Writing

Baby’s Asleep

January 17, 2026 rebekahjmarshall Leave a comment

Shhhhh, baby’s asleep
hard time settling in
fan’s abuzz
darkness dim

Done with snuggles
sung the songs
baby in blankie
found stuffed frog

Blinds drawn down
night light switched on
doors closed softly
baby sighs once.

Poetry, Writing

Childhood

January 17, 2026 rebekahjmarshall Leave a comment

TRIGGER WARNING: This poem contains references to childhood trauma, gun violence, animal death and desecration, and disturbing imagery involving cruelty to animals. It reflects lived experience and may be distressing for some readers. Please read with care.

Apparently, it is not most people’s
experience to be shot at on a
summer morning before the heat
forces children indoors to rest.

I guess we thought it was a mostly
fair fight, since we were lobbing
rocks and they couldn’t hit moving
targets if their lives depended on it.

Two neighbor boys teamed up with
their boredom and a whole summer
of scheming to counter our riotous
fun they were not invited to join.

But they took it too far when they
unburied Daisy Bo Kay, our freshly
dead basset hound, and strung her up
in a tree hoping we’d find her corpse.

She didn’t do anything to deserve
such treatment, just sit and sigh,
howl when we got too rambunctious,
witness the strangeness of our survival.

Poetry, Writing

My Son Trey

January 17, 2026 rebekahjmarshall 2 Comments

My son Trey, short for Trajectory, lives in a parallel universe. With my whiteness stirred in, he is a lighter-skinned miniature version of his father, right down to the little glasses that he’s needed since he started reading at the age of two. He stands in the driveway waiting for the school bus, swishing his skirts back and forth, and my heart aches because I know the teasing he will endure. He is a queen for the Living History Museum whose merits he and his father talked excitedly about while I made the costume, torn between pride that my son’s favorite person is a woman and the compulsion to pressure him to pick a man. This morning as I sip my tea in my present universe, tears spring unbidden at this memory. Here, my history-loving husband and I chose not to have Trey or any other children. Oh, how I miss my sweet boy.

Poetry, Writing

You Ever Wonder?

January 17, 2026 rebekahjmarshall Leave a comment

You ever wonder how we keep from flying off this giant muffin when it’s going over 60,000 miles an hour? Like, a spaceship made of dirt and water, it’s outer skin nothing more than a layer of air holding all us guts in while screaming through space at 60,000 miles an hour. And any second another chunk of rock could slam into our bowling ball hot air balloon and we could shoot off like fireworks spraying out of a soda bottle at 60,000 miles an hour. Unless we’re more like a frisbee ‘cause we’re flat earthers and this giant paper plate planet is flinging and boomeranging around the sun at 60,000 miles an hour. Maybe the whole way to survive in this solar system is to keep moving as fast as you can, ‘cause if we stop, we die, and nobody wants to die, well, some people want to die, but not like that in a crash going 60,000 miles an hour. And think about it, these doctors are trying to slow us down with all these meds, making us walk around like zombies eating our own brains, drooling in our sleep, and slurring our speech ‘cause that’s supposedly better somehow, even though they should be smart enough to know that we have to keep the wheel spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning at least 60,000 miles an hour, or we’ll screech to a halt and scream forever like that Munch painting where the squiggledy guy is slapping both hands on his face like the Home Alone kid all because Krakatoa blew and burned and bled.