A Whorl

everything
is in a whorl -
a swirling, a churning,
spinning, unspinning,
each a whirling dervish
of stardust and love;
boundaries a blur,
emotions astir,
no beginning,
no ending,
no place to go to,
but now and here.

Just Stay

Just when you begin to feel
that there is darkness all around,
Just when your trembling hand
reaches out to touch the ground,
Just when an old wound of yours
smarts too much, too much to bear,
Just when you're feeling lost and alone
and wish you could melt into thin air,
Just when you see the glorious sun
die into the bleeding sky,
Just when your revered nakedness
becomes a story to be tossed around,
Stay.
Stay with the pain, the fear,
Stay with the hurt, the rage,
Just stay.
Stay for as long as it takes.
And when you've stayed just long enough,
in that empty space of not knowing,
you will know that it always follows,
as the night, the day.
And so, just stay.

The Birth of New Love

when the first show of green
peeps out of the dark, acrid soil,
the whole universe conspires
for the rain and the sun
to baptize
the birth of new love.

The poems are yours

the poems that grow
are not mine;
they are yours
to hold and consume,
or to stand by
and watch in silence -
a tree bears fruits
not for its own needs;
it holds them
with grace and love
for all those
who are hungry
and in need.

On Rewind

with you
silence is on
constant rewind -
like an old Hindi song
that lingers on,
amidst the din
and daily grind
of an urban morn.

Being Naked

You think I've lost my mind,
for you see me talking
to no one and yet to everyone.
You think I have no shame,
for you can see my bare body
through my tattered, ill-fitting clothes.
You think I have no home,
for you see me wander and sleep
out on the open streets or under the sky.
You think I have no name,
for I don't remember mine
even when you ask me time and again.
You think I'm a lost cause,
for what you see in me
doesn't match yours.
Hey, but let me tell you this -
You don't see me.
You don't know me.
You don't feel me.
For you see only with your own eyes.
When you can stop and look
with the eyes of another,
you will see me,
you will hear me,
you will feel me,
and you will know then
that I own the world,
that I am naked and free -
I have no holdings,
I have no bearings, and
yet remind you always,
to celebrate you in me.

Birdsong

have you heard
the wood shrike sing,
perched atop a hollow
bamboo stump?
she empties her heart
with every call,
into the blue green
wilderness;
she doesn't stop
to look and listen,
to passers by,
nor angels up high;
she just shatters her heart
to fill the world each time,
with her love for life
and unfettered joy;
I wish to sing
like her some day,
baring my heart,
where only love holds sway,
more than seasons
will be born here then,
when silence and song
merge, in Zen.

An Offering

when you hold water
in your cupped hands,
can you be so still
that you're neither
holding on or letting go?
and in that moment
of frozen thoughts,
when the desire to drink
and the desire to give,
when the fear to hold on
and the fear to let live,
empty into each other,
an offering is made
unto oneself;
there's no longer a need
to give or receive,
to seek or be sought,
only a bliss - to live, love,
and be, naught!
 

When I die

when I die
I don't want you to cry;
I want you to look for me
in the dew-drenched forest
where an unshakeable stillness is born
that keeps you forever loved and warm;
where a silent spring gushes forth
to quench your oft parched throat;
where the birds sing their song to the sky
with unbridled sadness or joy ;
where peacocks dance to court their mate
in a sweet and sacred self-forgetting;
where the breath wanders in and out
like a little child playing hide and seek;
where trees stand steadfast through eons
for in their changing and giving, they live on;
where the fragrant earth holds up everything
that is and is not, with unconditional reverence;
when I die
I don't want you to cry;
I want you to look for me in you.

A Birth in every Death

like the yucca and fig moth
make their way home
unto their death,
there lies a reason -
magical, unknown,
for every pain,
and every death,
when that becomes
the birth
of a new loved one.

Silence

like a drop of rain free falls
into the unconfined, restful ocean,
I drop into the deep, dark silence,
where nothing becomes everything,
and everything becomes nothing;
there is no other place
where I feel
whole and alive.

Transformation

The milk sits in the same old pot on the kitchen counter.
The same place, the same pot, everyday.
I boil the milk every morning, for my husband likes it and my son and I love curd.
I don't like the smell and taste of milk.
I haven't since my childhood. It makes me want to throw up.
And yet, I boil it everyday, because I have to if I want to make curd.
I wait for it to cool down, for that is when the curd will set well, the way I like it.
So I add a drop of old curd preserved to it and wait.
It is important how much I add of this and when.
Too little is not enough for the milk to change to curd.
If I add it when the milk is still hot, it curdles.
Too much will make the curd sour.
It takes time for it to set to the correct consistency and taste.
I have to know when to add the culture, to precipitate the change.
And yet, strangely, looking from outside, I don't quite know when exactly the transformation happens.
It happens in its own time, in its own way.
Just like life.
If only we give every thing the time it needs....
If only we can wait enough....

The Wind Beneath My Wings

you bring the sweet fragrance
from silent flowers,
you bring the magical love
from distant stars,
you bring the songs
from happy dancing trees,
you bring the tears
from a lonely cloud at sea,
you bring the stillness
from sacred mountains of yore,
you flow in slowly
through my every pore,
you move mountains,
you whip up rivers,
you churn the oceans,
you hold up a quiver;
why then do I fear to let go?
with you beneath my wings,
I can only soar...

Notes to Myself -1

When I am able to see even an inkling, a sliver of the beauty behind another's deed, words and thoughts, I think I start falling in love with myself just a little more.
When I hold my needs as more important to be filled than another's, I become more self-absorbed.
When I can live in the water that nourishes me, and feel the wetness without getting wet, I get what I need and enjoy the beauty in what another needs.
And then, what I feel is a love that doesn't get into boxes of "you" and "me", but walks on the edge of the two, as "us".

***************

There is a sacredness that I have felt in the pain of unmet needs in my life....there is a beauty in that pain... when I chose to be with the pain rather than meet my needs immediately, when I chose to wait for life to happen and unfold, there was grace, which brought many other special gifts my way....gifts that I did not expect or even think about...but gifts that made me see the beautiful choreography in this wondrous dance of life...life holds something back from you, to give you something else that you need....to complete your journey on this planet....Life is beautiful if we just trust it more than ourselves sometimes.

****************

The first time you fall in love with yourself is when you take your first whiff of air on this planet. Loving oneself starts with living life...it starts with everything that you do or not do, feel or not feel, think or not think.....It is also about not loving yourself. Even when you think you don't love yourself, you are. You cannot help but fall in love with yourself, because that is what you are here for. Whatever you do or not do is an offering to yourself. There are many paths to the shrine of love, including the path that you do not wish to take and don't take.

Moonlight Sonata

The moon -
She rises today
from under the dark covers,
glowing, blushing
over broken waters;
If you are still,
you can listen to,
you can watch and
feel her silence -
endless love
brims over
to linger in a heart
that's befriended darkness.


 

Silence

tethered by silence
in the inky dark,
words have no place
among night-borne stars.

Silent Treasure

Into the dark, deep recesses
of an old, forgotten shell,
Silence melts and drips
to make her way and fill in
every unloved space within;
and then,
when she's stayed long enough,
cracks turn into golden ingots -
a human form smelted
to unearth treasure hidden.

The Arrival

the door is open -
I sit by it and wait...
for nothing,
and everything;
for the coming
and going;
there is darkness
and there's light, sometimes;
there is despair
and there's hope, sometimes;
strangers, friends,
love and hate;
and in the silent space
between,
I wait...

The Weaver

An old man sits crouched
behind an ancient loom,
his beady eyes gleam -
stardust caught
in thick black frames.

A mystical pattern
of warps and wefts
weave through his eyes,
and into his fingers,
dancing to pick up threads,
infusing them
with a heady mix
of love and passion.

A myriad connections,
trimmings
and intersections.

Trails of stardust
weave their magic
to keep us warm and safe.

There is enough, for everyone

I dip my weary feet
into the cool waters
of a wayside stream,
making her journey
from the silent mountains,
through untouched forests,
by glaring highways,
meandering through noisy towns,
over naked grasslands,
and into the vast ocean beyond...
There are many
who drink from her fountain,
and yet, there is enough,
for everyone.

If only we can take our fill
in this moment, and
not fill her in a bottle,
sealed; a keepsake,
or to save us on a rainy day;
if only we can delight
in the joy she unfolds, and
watch her flow the way she knows,
to give us enough and more,
there is enough, for everyone.

The Tipping Point

Can you find that magical point
beyond all notions of space and time?
when the sun moves on
and the jealous sky draws its blinds,
to welcome a new lover;
when the touch of an artist's brush
gives an empty canvas,
a swirl of fresh new life;
when the chalice of silence
shatters with joy over rolling hills,
with the morning raga of a whistling thrush;
when the brittle, brown leaf
from an old oak tree in Fall,
saves its last dance for the chivalrous wind;
when the roaring wave
crashes against the giving shore, only
to return to its oft-forgotten folds of stillness;
when the warm west wind blows
to call the wayfarers from distant lands,
to make a home away from home;
when the flippant mist reluctantly settles
as dewdrops on fluorescent, newborn leaves,
transient sun-catchers on a forest floor;
when a lustrous pearl is born
from the silent struggle of a cloistered clam,
the unwritten notes of a turbulent history;
when the breath carries the fresh morning air
to fill in and empty the recesses
of this unrelenting human form;
If you do find that magical point,
I think you will know
what it is to love and be loved.

Like A Game of Squash

arguments -
words and emotions
bounce back and forth
from a wall of love
in Life's court;
there are
no winners,
no losers here,
only a game of squash -
to be enjoyed
and played
in the heat
of the moment.

Being Real, Being Alive

I want to bury
all notions of
love, beauty,
joy and peace
and everything else
that dazzles us
to seek and search,
on this endless road
to possess what is not.
They have danced for long
before our empty eyes.

I want to listen now
to the tiny weeds,
that hold out relentlessly,
hidden in the undergrowth;
the thistles, the mistletoe,
the suckers, the poison ivy;
I want to feel
what it is like to be them;
what is it that drives them?
They must have a song
that's gone unheard
in the glare and din.

And when I've listened
to them long enough,
holding my words and thoughts
in a silent aquifer,
I will know what it is
to hate and to love,
to be ugly and beautiful,
to be wounded and euphoric,
to be distressed and at peace.

I will know then
what it is
to give life
to every seed
that's watered
by an unseen hand -
the rafflesia, the rose,
the suckers, the sequoias;
by being real, being alive.

They will come...

I like to stand alone
sometimes -
the lone tree
in a field of dreams;
roots gnaw steadily, into
stuck-in-the-mud beliefs;
spreading slowly,
grounded in the now;
there's nothing to seek,
nothing to wonder,
and so I just be;
flowers and leaves
grow, and they fall
to kiss my roots -
an offering to myself;
if I build myself,
they will come...
the birds, the bees,
the humans, the breeze;
I'll come alive
in a new way then -
the lone tree
in a field of dreams.

All is Well, in the Well of Love

you reach a point
when words
thrown at you
like acid -
pungent,
and seething,
to singe
your warm heart,
turns into water
that nourishes a lily -
love grows slowly
and surely,
in every place,
even when there is
no sight of hope.
All is well,
in the well of love.
  

The Echo

in the silent space

between

the one who gives

and the one who receives,

an echo is born -

that carries forth

the song of oneness

into the enchanted world...

Where do I belong?

A young girl sat huddled by the window, looking up into the darkening canopy.Clouds gathered in the sky, waiting to paint another dark colour on the canvas without boundaries.  Her face was pale and lost in the mystery of not knowing what picture was going to be unraveled. Her eyes glistened in the pearly moonlight, moist with the waters beyond and within. "Where do I belong?" she asked herself. Silence answered with her quiet, loving presence.

Her moist eyes now began to give.....giving in to the tranquility, giving away their pain -a barter for love and warmth? A tiny teardrop poised on her gossamer cheeks whispered softly to itself - "Where do I belong?"...before it surrendered to the wind, leaving no trace but a taut, dry skin from where it had disappeared....into the dark, fragrant silence that melted all over her like warm, dark chocolate.

The wind ruffled her long hair as she sat with herself. There was a dash of salt in it as she felt it rush by her face and kiss her lips. The ocean was close and full . Was the wind carrying a message to her from the ocean? Was it taking a message from her to the sea? She heard it whisper softly in her ears that were waiting for the faintest clue to gather weight.
"You belong to me.
And I belong to you."

The young girl smiled and stood up. She closed her eyes and opened her heart. She could see the clouds in the teardrop, the teardrop in the wind, the wind in the ocean, and the ocean in everything. She felt full and loved. Silence gathered her in her arms as she watched the incandescent moon rise over the dark sky. She knew where her home was.