Water seeks its own level...

A glass of water
sits in front of me.

I can choose
to look at it,
or through it,
or just look away.

I can choose
to see it
as half full
or half empty.

It is my choice.
Not yours.

For you are
yourself -
just water,
in many forms.

What I cannot see
with my mind,
I can see with my heart.

Water seeks its own level.
I see you in me.

What is home?

Have you for once,
stopped a moment to think -
"What is home?"
for the birds, 
butterflies and bees,
that cross over 
miles of emptiness,
to survive, sustain and seek?
Have you for once
wondered and asked -
"What is home 
for you and me?"
Is it what we leave behind? 
Or is it what we seek?

Dreams

I often write my dreams
upon wispy clouds floating by,
and on distant stars
twinkling up high...
I wonder why?

I don't write my dreams
on steadfast trees,
or on mountains that rise
from the ashes beneath...
I wonder why?

Do I know that each dream
is born in a space,
where longing and faith
mate in silence and grace?

Or do I love the adventure
of looking up into the sky,
to behold with wonder
the beauty that Life reveals and hides?

Lost

suspended in
the inky black,
I don't know
where I am,
or where I go;
a surge of fear
rises inside;
I flail around to grip
anything I can find;
but there's nothing
to grab on to or ride;
and so I hold on
to myself a while,
and make peace
with the space
to not know;
it's the best place to be
as I find my way home.

Cutting Cabbage

I used to struggle
for a long time,
with cutting cabbage.

The knife,
the position,
the rhythm,
the space
between cuts,
was just not right.

Until
I figured
the best way -
to go with the flow;
learning
to hold myself
and the other,
and the space between,
until I finally got it right!

Life is like cutting cabbage.

Travel Light

Take away everything
I hold on to with fear
that binds self to self,
not wanting to let go.

Take away everything
I cling on to for life,
as I climb to the peak
that beckons up high!

Take away everything
so I can travel light,
to the Light within
the darkness tonight.

Take away everything
that I think is ME -
my thoughts, my poems,
my passion, my beliefs.

For each is but a foothold
to rest on for a while,
to catch my breath,
as I watch Life go by.

The Thousand Balloons

I had a dream.

I had a dream about the moment when a little girl (who was blind) just got back her ability to see. She opened her eyes for the first time, to see a thousand colourful balloons floating around her. They were on shiny strings.

She smiled and watched them in awe, for she had never seen so many colours before! "They are really pretty!", she thought and stood for a moment just watching them float by. Time seemed to stand still. Then her gaze caught one pretty little balloon which had all the colours of the rainbow. It glistened in the warm, morning sun.

She suddenly felt a strong urge to catch that one. She wanted to hold on to its shiny string and watch it as long as she liked. She wanted it for herself because it had ALL the colours; it was the brightest, the prettiest one of them all. She wanted to take it home and show everyone her very special balloon. She started dreaming of how she would tie it to something near her bed and watch it everyday as she opened her eyes and before she went to sleep every night. She really wanted that one. Only that one.

Lost in her thoughts and dreams, the little girl stopped watching the balloons before her. She was watching them in her mind. And before she knew it, a strong gust of wind blew across and lifted them further away. Now they were all way up high, floating along with the clouds in the sky. There was no way she could reach any of them now.

She watched her special balloon go up too, along with the others. Teardrops fell silently, in a stream, to her arm and to the ground below. Yes, she was so close to getting her special balloon. But now, it was gone. A deep sadness filled her heart as she looked up.

 "I was so happy when I just watched them simply floating by", she thought. And then, she looked down at her feet. Right beside her tiny feet was a small pool of water. In that water, she saw a blur of colours...the thousand colourful balloons, including her very special one!

In the Eyes of the Beholder

I stand
on the edge,
with the wind
on my face -
blue waters, 
painted storks,
green patches,
and pelicans' squawks;
a pretty picture
comes alive
in the eyes
of the beholder,
while they carry on,
and sing their song,
unfazed, untouched,
basking in the glory
of the glowing sun.

Beliefs

If only
beliefs
were fragile,
transient
sand castles -
built with love,
not hate,
on the sunny beaches
of time and space;
to be washed away
slowly and gently
by timeless waves,
that speak to us
of what is
real and alive....

Viswaroopam

Driving to nowhere,
yesterday and tomorrow
merge into oblivion;
I begin to trust,
I drive,
but I am not the driver.

Driving to nowhere,
I surrender
to the infinite space
in the tiny gap
that binds thoughts -
where fear
becomes love, and
pain becomes joy.

Driving to nowhere,
I make friends
with the paradoxes
that drive me,
on an eternal quest
of exploring myself -
the ant on Mount Everest,
and David and Goliath;
when each can see
itself in the other;
each reveals
the true Viswaroopam.

Farmers - Our Unsung Heroes

I watch you with reverence and gratitude.

I watch your bare feet touch the red carpet. Feet that dance to an old, familiar rhythm, like a well-oiled machine, now drag themselves in an overwhelming, foreign world of plastic men and monstrous machines, that doesn’t feel like home.

You come as a visitor, but leave as a hero, touching my life for but a moment, with your innocent joy that speaks a forgotten language of simplicity and undiluted hope.

Your starched white dhoti cannot hide the earth that still clings to your feet with a love that is but mutual. The towel that you wear over your shoulder is the only symbol of celebration of a much-awaited outing to some place outside of home.

Your unassuming cloth bag which hangs from your arms is filled with new knowledge and “goodies” that you have gathered here. It has a space like your heart, that is giving and unassuming, that speaks of a love with the soil that spans centuries. You will do anything for that love it seems, just like a parent would for a child….But I silently hope that you will not forget that inherent instinct of a parent, in the flurry of “goodies” that a new and fast-changing world taunts you with. I pray that you will listen to your heart and do what you know is best for your child. For that I believe is the way out of this mire – for both you and me. And so I wish that your little bag and heart be filled with love and abundance. I wish the same for the rest of your tribe.

You give of your heart and soul, toil in the sun and rain, pray with all your heart for fair weather, raising each plant like your own child, only to give them away without holding back, to a stranger you have never met. I salute your trust and compassion for all of life.

Today, when I see my morsel of food, I will give thanks to you.....for I can smell your sweat in it. I can smell the sacred soil that gave life to both you and me, for we are one.

I can feel your heavy breath blow life into each mouthful, as you worked tirelessly against all odds, even when you were on the verge of giving up. I can feel your chapped fingers grace me with their unconditional love.

I can hear the sound of your feet against the moist earth as you ploughed and tilled day after day with a complete surrender that I struggle to understand and make peace with even today. I can hear the songs that you sang as you worked from dawn to dusk, that spoke of your joy and passion for living, and your tireless spirit.

I can taste the love and joy that you infused in it with your whole soul, as you sank your feet and fingers into the fragrant earth. I can taste the salt in your tears while you lay down to rest on a cold mud floor after a long day's work, wondering when you will find redemption from the endless cycle of debt and hope.

I can see your bare torso glisten with sweat in the warm sun; I can see the shimmer in your eyes as they crinkle up to form a smile or a tear; I can see your heart rip itself open to give and live for the moment, because you have known that that is all you and I have.

Yes, you are the unsung hero here. You deserve much more than this silent red carpet welcome - for you are the sacred channel between the earth and each of us. You give us our daily bread. And I bow down and salute you dear friend.

Drought

"What do you grow?"
I softly asked,
meeting your eyes
halfway
in the weary space
between our souls.

"There is no water"
"What can I grow?"
you said,
swallowing
a lump in your throat,
as I swallowed mine.

Four eyes
brimming with water,
flooding hearts,
drowning souls;
yet just not enough,
to sprinkle, sow or grow.

जब तुम नहीं होते

जब तुम नहीं होते
मन बावरा
तुझे ढूँढ़ता है -
खिलते हुए फूलों में,
बिखरे हुए मेघों में -
बेरस, बेरंग,
बेबस, बेशब्द;
सपनों के एक
छोटी सी लहर में
खो जाता है,
मन का राग
फिरसे जनम लेता है,
जब तुम नहीं होते

I speak.....but will you listen?

a weary tiger
kills a man.
the world conspires;
a mad hunt is on
to silence it
forever.
"I speak", says the tiger,
"....but will you listen?"

the living soil
sheds a silent tear
every time
an ignorant farmer
kills as he tills
centuries of love.
"I speak", says the soil,
".....but will you listen?"

a little weed
finds space
besides a lily,
uprooted as it sprouts;
a hushed cry
to live and let live.
"I speak", says the weed,
".....but will you listen?"

Deafening silence.
But will you listen?

Peace

a small white dove
grows wings
that expand
with every breath -
yours and mine,
to embrace
our world,
with gentle love,
and carry it forth
into the Light.

Lighted to Lighten

in the stillness
of an eclipse,
this mortal frame
transforms
into a life-size wick,
soaked in
a searing passion
to live life;
with its own light,
it comes alive,
lighting up lamps
waiting to be touched
with love and light.

30 square feet

30 square feet
yes, that's about all -
my little piece
of heaven and earth;
my window to
the sky, the sea,
and passing clouds
as I weave dreams;
the trees, the birds,
my plants, and weeds;
I have it all -
what more do I need?
a little patch
of morning sunshine,
a cosy space
for evening blues,
where I fill and empty
myself too;
yes, 30 square feet
to peep in, look out,
give grace for all
that I have and not.

Puppets

surrender to
the spirit within -
let it move you,
let it become
every breath,
every word,
every thought,
every act,
as you take stage,
and come alive;
one more chance
to live your role,
to script your story,
and then,
without a word,
move on....

Pods on an Old Tree

ripe, brown pods
hang heavy
from an old tree,
that watches them
with silent intent;
each an expression
of what is -
laden with emotions,
each pod is a reminder
that holds within,
a tiny seed
of endless possibilities;
holding each with love,
as it splits wide open
to release the seed -
that is the only way
the tree knows
to unlock its Self
and find its Bliss.