‘Made (by Imprisoned Falun Gong) in China’ and Other Poetry by Khalid Mukhtar The Society February 14, 2014 Beauty, Falun Dafa, Humor, Poetry 1 Comment Made (by Imprisoned Falun Gong) in China It’s mass production everywhere I look, From toys of plastic hope to airplane parts, And after all the livelihood you took, You’re pressing mass production upon hearts By binding hands that never meant you harm, And feet that never trampled on your dreams, As tears part from eyes in cold alarm To join the pools of blood beneath the screams. But know… A heart’s a forest flushed by hope that springs, And though you burn down every single tree, The waters gush and split the seed that sings The song of life proclaiming it is free To ever serve the faith to which it clings. A Spark and a Fire I often set to wonder why We take the stands we take; What makes us rise from where we lie, And stirs our hearts to wake When forth, the ever silent, speak To light a tiny spark That burns a flame by which we seek To drive away the dark; Like planters of the olive tree, They never taste its fruit, Which, like the one who eats from it, Knows nothing of its root. I think the answer might well be The courage of a few Whose grit, resolve, tenacity, And other virtues too Deliver us to light again This fire that will burn In honor of their service then, An honor we return. Winter Submission Float, little snowflake, Come, rest on my hand, Soft as the mercy That sends you to land; Tree, tall and mighty, Surrender your leaf, Bare all your branches To frosty relief; Meadow and hill, spread Your carpet of white, River, shine diamonds In silver moonlight; My heart is silent, Asleep with the grass, Patient submission Till spring comes to pass; Wake me to sunshine, Eternal and sweet, Winter is over, My spring is complete. Hidden Order As I indulge the prairie, sipping tea, I spy my book in insect company, For trudging through the plain of open page Is but an ant an eye can barely see. I wonder how the letters must appear To one who is to them so very near, Like patches of the earth about the snow, Irregular and varied in area. But crawling so, my little friend can’t tell That every page is framed in dual el, All bound into submission by a spine, All born and cut from one material. I swallow all this prairie with my eye, These golden, yellow flowers swaying by A stream that seems to stop, then flow again, To mirror well the canopy of sky Where floats a fleet of clouds upon a breeze, Some gray, some peach, some white of foamy seas, Some left behind a soaring eagle’s flight To humbly bow and kiss the tops of trees. I find my crawling friend is much like me, Admirer of versatility: He cannot see the order that I do, And someone sees an order I can’t see. On Sonnets To forge a sonnet is an art supreme; It begs a certain clarity of thought To court a shy yet unrelenting theme And groom it in apparel that is brought By aptitude and skill with written word; To gaze into suspended space and time And trap a flight of fancy in a bird That preens its wings to alternating rhyme: Three quatrains, then a couplet at the end To tenderly and mercifully wean You from the shady branches that extend A dozen roses from the fertile green Imagination of a sonneteer, More captivating than the subject here. One-Dream Child My son, he thinks he sees a dream Each night, always the same, It does not change, not ever; so Is his sincere claim. It starts out with a slowly growing Darkness, vast and dense, That swallows up his sight as well As every other sense; There is no place where he is at, And no time he is in, There is no company without And not a soul within. Then as it comes, does it recede, This darkness, vast and dense, And wakes him up to wonder Where it goes, or came it whence. He tells us of this dream he has At breakfast every day, Relating every detail in A most fantastic way. Someday he’ll know his nightly dream Is not a matter deep; We just don’t have the heart to tell Him all it is is sleep Khalid Mukhtar is a software engineer and poet living in Illinois. Featured Image: Charles Lee, a Falun Gong practitioner, shows a pair of “Homer Simpson” slippers like the ones he made while incarcerated in a Chinese labor camp. (Courtesy of NTD Television) Related Post ‘Darkness’ and Other Poetry by Christine Lawson Darkness No longer did they see the need For things called books they used to read. Music—no longer symphonies, But simple tunes composed with e... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail One Response Titanfall Patch May 3, 2014 Touche. Outstanding arguments. Ҝeep up tɦe good effort. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.