Uninvited

she came one day
uninvited
into my home,
no doorbell,
no knock on wood,
she slipped in through
some unseen gap,
snuggled into a seat,
demanded a cup of tea,
a large book,
and her favourite music
playing in the background,
while I followed her
like a hapless shadow,
not knowing what to do.

of course I didn't like her,
not in the beginning,
she was a thorn in my flesh,
I could not pull out,
reminding me
of forgotten selves
I had to learn to live with,
she was the night herself,
firing up shadows
that loomed over eyes
unable to look away,

ah yes,
she came, she saw,
she stayed,
and she conquered!

and I don't know why
or when or how
I grew to like her,
to sit with her,
with my cup of tea
every morning,
to cuddle up with her
every night with that book,
and listen to the music she loved
as my feet began to tap
to that catchy tune,

perhaps it's because
she's been here so long,
or because she's freed something
inside me, something
wild and unstoppable like her,
she's made me feel the rush of blood
kissing every breath
as it passes the door,
she's made it easier for me
to stand there on the edge,
to say goodbyes and hellos,
with eyes that are awake
yet blind,
she's made me feel the wetness
of a growing mystery
that I dip my feet into,
feet that need no ground
but a limitless sky,
as I chase clouds and tickle stars,
falling in love
with everything
that makes the night
uncertain.

Beloved Life

dear Life,
don't be my mistress.
don't seduce me
with your closeness,
humming the tune
of my dreams,
don't make me weak
in my knees,
whispering the words
I've so longed to hear,
exploding into the stillness
of this sleeping soul,
don't weave a stole
with memories and songs
long-forgotten,
luring me into the warmth
of an embrace unwrapped.

don't be my mistress, dear Life.
be my beloved,
so I can lay myself down
under the wide open night,
naked and whole,
feeling the still wind of my dreams
and desires unmet, resting
upon my star-spangled skin,
turned on by myself,
stoking my endless longing
for you, my beloved -
this one gorgeous life.

ordinary and special

sometimes
when I go out into the world,
a little too far away
from home,
I hover over fields of green
on the other side of now,
an alien from outer-space,
invisible to eyes that are lost
in the grandeur
of shades and textures
that need light to be seen;
and in those moments
where my heart is ripped
into shreds of ghostly trimmings,
drifting upon a shore-less breeze,
I slip into that dark well
where everything is hushed
into a death-like silence,
where ants crawl alongside a wall
oblivious to a giant world,
where an insipid leaf clings
to the simmering tar at noon,
where an out-of-place flower
peeps out of a manicured garden,
where everything that's unseen
remains ordinary,
and so, special.

Bag of Skin

the world shrinks
into the flesh,
through the thin wall
of my shriveled skin
toggling between
the cold and warmth,
its scars, wrinkles
and blemishes
stretched taut, over
an infinite world
held within -
dreams,
heartaches,
thoughts,
emotions,
ideas, and
deep longings,
one boundless world,
now contained
in a bag of skin.

Kinstugi Love

and while the world
ponders and refutes
the many meanings of love,
I feel graced
that you show me the way
to a new kind of love,
over and over again,

a love that pours
into the cracks
in our broken shells,
the gold of wonder,
reverence and alchemy,
restoring its pristine form
to what was
never really broken.

I don't know why
I feel this love.
sometimes.
kinstugi love.
silent veins of gold
that speak and hold
our story.

for the love of the ocean

and the ocean said to herself:
"am I really so vast
that I cannot go
to a lake,
to the mountain mist,
or to a river?
do I have to live
so I can wait
for them to come to me,
so the world can say
over and over again
that you cannot bring
the ocean to a river?"
she listened to her sadness,
she listened to her love,
as they poured out endlessly
with every heave of her bosom;
and in that magical moment
of a sun-burnt silence,
she became both -
a drop in the ocean
and the breath of the ocean,
in a drop waiting to be born
somewhere up in the clouds.

the seasons of the heart

when does spring arrive,
or winter?
what wakes up
the sprigs sprouting
inside an untamed silence?
what stirs up the nests
of starlings murmuring
a changing song?
what tosses up the sweetness
of invisible wild flowers
through the breath breaking out or in?
what eats up the shriveled
dead stems and roots
that have lived out their lives?
what lets the rain flow
into the curving rivers of longing,
always seeking the distant seas?
what fills up these forms
and the dark corners hidden,
with earth-loads of light and warmth?
what nudges the turning
of my heart and yours,
waking up to every season
with fresh drumbeats?
the heart has its seasons
that must be lived,
not passed.

the suitcase

solitude
is what I carry with me
everywhere I go,
where I unpack myself,
sitting with my belongings
strewn around
like happy confetti,
lost in the reverie
of an unadorned existence.

on the other side

the moon is full.
yet, it takes
just one moment,
and a dark cloud
crawling over her,
to hold me still,
waiting inside
a timeless bubble
to see her again,
even when I know
she's still there,
on the other side
of this dark silence.

synesthesia

You say you can feel the stillness
in my presence. And I wonder how,
for my world seems anything but still now,
as I am spun round and round, in the vortex
of a swiveling darkness that only grows
in abundance. My eyes don't see to see,
my ears don't hear to hear, my feet don't feel
to feel the semblance of ground. I hurtle through
a black inferno that dyes my spirit, I dance a song
without words, my icicle hands hang
from the frozen silence, their weapons laid down
upon an uncertain battlefield. While thoughts,
questions and memories rip the heaviness,
the only pinpricks of silent stars exploding into
the fragrance of a darkness that has to be lived.
Still.

Dandelion Dreams

don't drag your dreams around
like anchors dropped
into shifting ground,
make them wings
of gossamer,
so they can sail
through the wispy blue,
like dandelion boats
unmoored,
for wherever they land
will be somewhere beautiful.

when you smell a rat

when you smell a rat,
listen,
listen really hard,
to your nose,
to your ears,
to your eyes,
to your gut,
speaking to you;
they are telling you
a story you must hear,
of the emperor's new clothes.

don't wait
for the rat to die,
for the stench
to get in your way,
rip off the sheers,
stand naked if you must,
and own yourself,
your world.

Non-Violence

tongues speak
a language
that's foreign
to the wild,
where everything rests
because of and
in everything else,
where a silent web shudders
at the slightest touch of a breeze.

so speak if you must,
but do not make those words
your mantra, your shield,
do not let them
grow roots over you,
for they are just pegs
on an insipid clothesline,
not quivering dewdrops
suspended in silk
drawn out from the gut.

and when you speak,
speak of violence first
as you know it
deep in your bones,
feel the stars exploding
and then collapsing,
feel the wind splinter
ancient boulders,
feel the waves whip up
the sand and cut the shore,
feel the fire throw out its tongue
to swallow the earth whole,

speak then,
when you've seen yourself,
when you know you haven't
unwittingly swatted
a mosquito drawing blood,
speak when you know
you haven't squashed an ant
with a step you chose to take
with utmost care,
speak when you know
you haven't whipped yourself
with your own harshness,
speak when you know
you haven't cut off the cord
that brought your child into this world.
speak then,
of non-violence,
and then perhaps,
I will listen to you.

A Sea Without Waves

I remember
how I used to stand,
my tiny fingers clasped
around your strong hand
along a naked shore,
and speak to the waves,

calling out to them
with different names,
wishing upon the one
in the distance
to come and chase me
and wash over me
so I could laugh,
but that was the one
that never came,

not when I wanted it to.
and then, slowly, stealthily,
as if she had heard me,
she crept over me
in the gentlest of tickles
beneath my feet,
kissing me softly
like a mother I don't remember,
and at another time,
kept me waiting
for that gush of joy,
that rush of blood inside,
as she ran in to take me
in her swiveling arms,
always leaving me
surprised and amazed
at the power
of what could be,
when every wave
is simply seen
and received
for what it is.

that's how life goes on.
that's how I want to live.
a sea without waves
would have no name,
no shore,
no place to be.

Where Walls Are Built

i am not so concerned
about the walls
between you and me,
what they are
why they are, or
how they ought to be;
i am only concerned
about the ground
where those walls
are built and meet -
the earth upon which
you and I stand,
that extends into,
and moves between,
you and me.

spoons and tongs

feast on life,
not at a sit-down dinner,
all dressed up
in your fineries,
and smacking of
a polished tongue,
not with knives and forks,
spoons and tongs,
and thin-stemmed glasses
all held in the same way,
raising a toast
to a plush life;

no, sit down,
close to the earth,
so you can hear her whisper,
so you can feel her breathe,
and smell the blood and the rain
she's soaked in;
yes, feast on her
sharing every morsel
with your tribe,
young and old,
singing songs,
sharing stories,
laughing, crying,
and dancing even
as you eat;
dig into her
with your fingers, 
it doesn't matter
if they are sullied,
lick your fingers,
feed each other
with your hands,
the hands
that have toiled
with love,
to create
this one blessed life
that we have
to share,
to feast.

The Last Mile

in every step
in every moment
in every choice
in every journey
lived and unlived,
the last mile
must be walked
by me, alone.

one to One

i thought my world began
and ended with you -
the ones i know and love,
until i was shown
the fragile skin
of this bubble,
growing, glowing, and
touched by other worlds
i did not know of,
eyes watching over me
and wishing me well from afar,
strangers whose love
i have grown to cherish,
for they stretch
the very boundaries
of my being,
from one to many
to One.

The Prayer

strange that you wrote to me today.
this morning, I found
those prayer flags
we'd bought at McLeodganj,
was it last year, this time?

I remember the sunset we saw
that evening, the one earring
that fell into the gutter
somewhere, lost forever,
the singing bowl the man
sold to us, with his priceless smile,
and the first snow of the season
that fell, as we held it,
walking into the giggles and silence
of that precious night.

today, I put up those flags,
stringing them across
the doorway, one that opens out
to endless ribbons of blue, and
I watched them flutter happily
in the gentle breeze,
held by the waves
nodding their heads in the distance,
and I said to myself -
'that is prayer enough'.

Walking Eyes

in the stillness
of the night,
with a million eyes
looking down,
I stand naked
looking at myself -
this disheveled
glorious form
I think is me.

I feel eyes
walking around me,
peering queerly
into every nook
and crack,
peeling off
polished skin
like stubborn cling-wrap;
eyes I thought were yours,
now I know they're mine.

only light needs cover,
not darkness,
where eyes walk around.

Hunger

the world is hungry
like me.

what do we feed on?

fear and love,
hate and connection,
chaos and peace,
solitude and family,
silence and noise,
and more.

always more.
more is never enough.

there's so much food,
yet we feel starved.

we search and hunt,
out in the wilderness,
building tribes,
keeping out others,
always hungry
for something,
when the food we need
is right here,
in the rumblings
of our heart,
our gut.

wings dancing through growing mist
they see what they need
moving darkness morphs to light.

this must be love

what is it like
to take a step
without wings
or feet?

what is it like
to be a kite
without a runner,
fluttering, drifting,
purposeless,
tugged at
from all sides,
with nowhere to go,
and so, everywhere?

what is it like
to feel this gift -
a beckoning
a calling
from inside?
to rest
in the stillness
within
the breast?

this must be love.

Two Ones Make Three

today
my world seems too full,
to talk about,
and so I sing,
this song that swells
from the silence,
like that one wave
that rises and falls
into itself,
but never reaches the shore.

that wave too has a song
even as it dies
as quickly as it was born,
a song that only some ears
can hear perhaps,
when they drop into
the silent void
in the midst of their busyness,
a song that must be heard
by a world
if it wants to live.

today,
I sing that song -
a chant that moves my lips
as I stand in a trance
at the inner sanctum
of this temple -
one that is built
over and over again,
in the space
where two souls merge
every time they meet,
broken, yet whole.

today,
the bell chimed
as the veil parted and lifted
before my half open eyes,
and revealed
a presence
not of you
or me
or us,
but that of something
primordial and vast,
embracing our universes
in its folds,

and in that blessed moment,
all that I thought
was love
vanished into the void
of this mysterious presence
that brings us together
again and again,
for a reason
I cannot fathom,
nor want to,
I can touch it,
I can feel it
holding us,
growing us,
and making us die
into everything
we believe is
human or divine,
profane or sacred,
separate or one,
love or not love.

today
I was graced
with the presence
of that thing
born of two ones
meeting and merging,
a presence
that I know
can only be Love -
a love that the world
doesn't have eyes
as yet to see.

Anger - Unsealed or Sealed?

I was in the kitchen as usual this morning. Making fresh pineapple juice for Raghav was on my to-do list for today. Chunks of juicy yellow slid into the shiny mixie jar, filling my nostrils, my breath, with swirls of fragrance of the freshly cut fruit. I glanced at the clock. It was almost 12. Raghav had just finished his hour long talk about a latest Mod in Minecraft after he had woken up. My body reminded me of all the aches and pains from yesterday's dancing. Perhaps I needed to rest, or perhaps I needed to dance more. In that moment, my mind took over. Ah, was it happy to be in the driver's seat again! I looked at Raghav. He was saying something. I wasn't listening. I asked him to repeat. He said that he wanted to have breakfast first and have a bath later. That was it! It was enough of a gap for my mind to barge in! It did! And I lost it.

I felt warm inside. I felt a surge of energy rise up....it felt like anger bubbling up like a fresh lime soda just made. What was it that triggered me? His wanting to postpone something and my not knowing when it would happen. My unwillingness to flex my boundaries today as I had to take care of my needs. My inability to figure out how to take care of both his and my needs together. My belief and rule that he had to have a bath as there are other things he simply cuts off from the day when he doesn't have one. My need to be in control of the space around me....phew!

I had to put forth my needs to Raghav. He had to understand that those were important too.....that he could not have his way all the time. He had to understand that I could not wait for him for so long to give him a bath, not today. There have been many times and days when I have done that. But today was not possible. Definitely not.

And so the anger splattered out....I felt and saw little blobs of red splashed on white.....in one instant. That was enough colour! Enough colour to stop Raghav in his tracks and add to the painting....some more red, before he disappeared into the room to be with himself, while I stayed with 'me'.....the 'me' who had suddenly jumped out like a Jack-in-the-box and was now staring at my face. How did she manage to come out? After all that careful watching over all these days? I don't know. But what I do know now is this - that she came out to make me read a message....a message that was revealed by something beautiful that followed.

So I decided to carry on with making the juice while Raghav was away. I fixed the lid, slid the jar into the slot where it fitted perfectly, and turned the knob on. Everything seemed perfect. Everything 'fitted' neatly. Until a few seconds later, the tiles, the counter and some bottles and things around had a generous helping of fresh pineapple pulp! It had somehow found its way out through the mixie jar! Maybe I did not shut it properly. Maybe it was too full. Gosh, what a mess! Now I had more work....more things to do and clean up!

As I was moving things and mopping up the pulp, I suddenly realised what the message was for me....what had just been revealed to me. And I also suddenly knew what to say to Raghav and how. I knew how to get my anger to flow freely. It wasn't a knowing that was planned out in my head. It was a knowing that stemmed from a different space inside. The energy was different. The message was in that mixie jar and how it had all played out in front of me. I held on to that image, waiting for Raghav to show up again.

Soon, Raghav came out of the room, put the things on the floor back in their place without any reminder (he had pushed down the laundry basket in his display of anger) and then came and hugged me and planted a kiss on my cheek. I hugged and kissed him too. And then, I spoke. I told him how I wanted to share something with him. This is what I said:
"I know you perhaps only think about 'now'. So when you finished talking about your Minecraft, you suddenly realised you were hungry and wanted to eat. You could not think of a bath then. You only could think of food. I understand that. But the way I see it, when you want to eat, it's just not about eating. You watch something on your iPad and eat and sometimes, even after you've finished eating, you continue watching something that you had already started off and then that goes on and on.....and I never know when you are going to stop, how long I have to wait. Some days I can wait. But some other days, like today, I cannot wait, because today I am tired and in pain. And I don't know if I will have the energy to give you a bath later in the evening like you wanted. I just wanted to share this with you."

Raghav immediately said he was ready to have a bath right then. I was pleasantly surprised. Strange how when I focused just on myself and understanding what was happening to me, inside me, he seemed to understand me too!

And strange how the mixie jar showed me exactly what I had to do......not to seal off my anger and deny it or push it away, but to unseal it, not by letting it splash all over the place, but by letting it flow up to the rim and be contained within. Free flowing anger brings with it a beautiful gift.....of redrawing and stretching one's boundaries. It is an act of creation and destruction, a pouring of energies into the old limits and edges one has set up for oneself. And then seeing if any of those limits can be stretched or changed in anyway. What a lovely life lesson in the kitchen!

Empty Space

eyes trapped
between
the clutter
of brick and water,
words and images,
questions and longings,
looking for
that elusive emptiness...

eyes lost
in the white
of a solid empty wall
that stares back at me,
with no questions or answers,
eyes looking
to fill up space
somehow, anyhow.....

eyes resting
now
in the space
within a space,
free to roam
the inner-space
in all things
of form,
the womb
of all possibilities.

One Wilderness

there are no norms
in a forest
who grows and dies
every moment,
into her own wilderness,

there is no room
for apology,
thanksgiving,
grieving,
or rejoicing,
as otherness flows
into togetherness.

isn't it strange, how
in breaking each other,
we've opened new ways
of breaking into
ourselves,
and found
to our astonishment,
that we were
never two,
but one -
one untamed
unfathomable
wilderness,
celebrating
shades of otherness
in her own self?

Underground

i don't know my way
through this labyrinth,
this underground -
where roots become leaves,
where soil becomes sky,
where the only light
that guides me
is the darkness around;
there is no compass here,
no landmarks named
by somebody gone before me,
there are no starts
or destinations,
just an endless labyrinth
of thoughts and questions
folding into itself,
a web of hands and eyes
growing,
feeling into things,
unearthing and touching
forgotten nooks,
while I sometimes
freeze
in a timeless capsule,
with nothing to do
but wait and watch,
lost in this -
the dark, mysterious,
fascinating,
underground.

b.r.o.k.e.n and whole

broken pieces
of coloured glass
separate
and together
with every swivel
of time and space
falling
merging
sliding away
colliding
a tapestry of shards
constantly woven
b.r.o.k.e.n
and whole
patterns
created
shattered
into
a kaleidoscope
of stained universes.


 

hooks

tentacles
groping
not for you
but for the me
I've forgotten,
baits
to catch
not you,
but wishes
to feed
the longing
of my soul,
hooks
to hang
not from you,
but to hang up
the cloaks
I wear
with others,

the hooks you see and feel
are my hands, my heart
longing to touch and feel
the You beyond you.
and the Me beyond me.

The Well

a well sits
in waiting,
for nothing
for everything;
no hands
no eyes
no feet

there is no place to go

but within.
with eyes closed.
she waits
and listens
to the sound
of rain clouds
gathering
in another corner
of the world.

they are not here.
they may never come.
or perhaps they will.
it does not matter.

she rests
in herself
with herself.
her waters full
and fresh,
for those who care
to come
and look in.
and for those
who look away
or go in search
of a river
or an oasis,
she waits,
held in a spell
of timelessness,
smiling with joy
knowing they will find
water -
whether in a river
or in a well
or in tears
they choose
or not.
it simply does not matter.

Belonging

how many times
have I walked this shore,
watching waves
ebb and flow
between two worlds
that were and never mine?

between heaven and hell
is this place,
this earth,
this sand
soft and hard
beneath my feet,
where I can feel
and be the longing,
this is where
i truly belong.
 

the last breath

when i die
i don't want
to miss this world,
i want to be so full
of the emptiness,
so I can leave
like the breath
from your nostrils,
rising, flowing,
from the depths
of your being,
without a trace.

Mother

'I never left you', you said,
as our skins melted, into one,
and in that unforgettable moment,
where tears and flesh,
longing and separation,
hurt and salve,
sang one song,
I found and became
Mother.

The Flute

of what use is a reed,
asleep by a lazy river,
with a hollowness
that wakes up the wind
and makes it dance?

a whirling dervish
burning with the fire
of an ancient song,
of a closeness
and separation,

two notes
singing one song,
not two,
of what it takes
to stay
in the hollowness
of a reed,

to be the longing
in an empty flute,
in a world too noisy
and self-possessed
to listen
to the song
of that reed
by the lazy river.

blood from my womb

and I wash you
with the blood
from my womb,
in the growing darkness
of a new moon,
a daughter gives
to her Mother,
cleansing, healing,
old untended wounds,
and dreams clotted in time,
getting in step
with the flow
of a new death
and an unborn life.

The Mountain Goat

'look within'
whispers the sky
slipping into
her invisible blue-ness,
'steady yourself in the now'
heralds the earth,
spinning ever so slowly
into her stillness,
'climb towards your dreams'
goads the roaring wind,
tugging and resting
between heaven and earth,
as the lone mountain goat,
her eyes now closed,
walks the edge,
between
the treacherous abyss
and the land
of her unimaginable dreams.

these hands

dear god,
chop off
and take away
these hands of mine,
that know not how to give,
for they are infused not
with the warm blood
of a tender heart,
eyes looking within,
but are smeared
with the grease and grime
of a ragged form
with roving eyes,
that only wants to live
at any cost,
not die,
so others may live.

Broken Wings of Love

I'm sorry
for all those unmet needs
scourging
your fragile form,
I'm sorry
for all those unlived lives
looking to you
to midwife them, to be born,
I'm sorry
for all those still-born dreams
precious snowflakes
resting upon your trembling coat,
I'm sorry
for all the pain I put out
broken wings of love
now flapping,
now folded away.

Questions

yeah, I've always loved to ask questions,
that's how I've always been,
but I didn't know I asked
the wrong ones sometimes,
until a friend opened my eyes
to possibilities and things left unseen.

I realised then that questions
had to be lived, not answered,
how every question took me
to a different space within -
a sacred space that I could shape,
stretch, bend, lighten or dim.

and so I dance a new dance now
with the questions that I ask,
how to sit with wonder and an emptiness,
like a child lost among the stars,
as I learn how to re-frame them,
while I stumble, grope, fall and laugh.

the next time you ask a question,
I wonder if you'll notice something afresh,
how a 'why' perhaps makes you sink in deeper,
cramping you for space and breath;
how a 'how' perhaps makes you look around,
with a restlessness to move and act;
how a 'when' perhaps takes you into a dark cloud,
where you feel stuck, lonely and slack;
and how a 'what' perhaps turns things around,
opening up your eyes and your chest.

I guess there are different questions to ask,
for different seasons, for different tests,
and I see each 'question' as a 'station' now,
to linger awhile upon an endless 'quest'.

Heart-prints

sometimes
I walk along
an endless shore,
waves climbing up
my trembling feet,
telling me
I'm not alone;

and then,
they all leave,
all together,
with my watery feet,
leaving behind
heart-prints,
pretty shells
upon a shore
that's hard to leave;

sometimes
I wonder
and ask them,
if they could simply leave,
take all their heart-prints
along, with them,
and wipe the shoreline clean;

sometimes
I do wonder if
those heart-prints
are theirs or mine,
for when they leave them
with me,
I feel I've found
little pieces of me
I left behind,
somewhere, sometime.

and then, sometimes,
I ask myself
if I have to lose
everything I cherish,
everything
I thought was me,
belonged to me,
everything I love,
so I can find
within,
without,
where and how
I truly belong,
all the time.

Reality

"wake up!"
you say,
to what is real,
a reality
that I can only
touch,
feel,
hear,
smell
and taste
with my body,
this unique form
that has its own language
and grammar,
for what it feels
is right and wrong;
a language
that you may not understand,
for it maybe different
from yours, what else do I have
what else do you have
to take in what is?
between defining
reality and fantasy,
let's not lose
our songs,
our bliss.

More

sometimes,
most times,
I want more.

more of this
more of that
more of nothing
more of silence
more of myself
more of you
more of the world
more of the new;

and I realise
how I'm moored
to a shore
that's weathered eons,
the world thinks
it is a good place to stay,
"moderation!"
"don't be greedy!"
"or needy!"
"that's foolish!"
"look before you leap!"
I hear voices
vie for each other,
while my heart
yearns to simply roam
the deep oceans,
to feel the call
of more.

More
is the longing,
the unfettered journey
from one shore
to another
nameless shore.

said the autumn leaf
to the sun-dappled green,
"it's time for me
to move on,
watch me dance
one last time
with the roaring wind,
as I make space
for myself,
to die,
to rest,
in the arms
of our Mother,
as you and I
grow beyond
our tiny selves
in this blessed form."

Dreams, that live and die

yes,
you will someday
perhaps know
how I tried my best
to keep you alive
to feed myself,
to feed my soul,
when you
just had to go;

you've left me
today
with fruits
of things sown
with joy, and
a withering form
with its sap sucked,
roots dying -
everything
that's a part
of me and you,

and I hold a tear
in the crook of my eyes,
as I watch you die
into a dream
whose time has come,
not to live,
but die.

The Gift

and when you gave me a gift,
wrapped in the
lingering darkness
of our two forms,
I held it in my heart,
with open eyes
and a joyous song,
a gift that I could open
only when I gave
another gift away
with my full heart.

New Year, Same Song

and I sing
my song,
the one stirring
in my heart,
in the same way,
day after day,
as I wait and watch
the sun set
and the moon rise,
in the same way,
every day,
simply going about
their business,
while the world sleeps
and wakes up
to the fireworks
of another year
lived
and unlived.

The Changeless Changing

and even after all this time,
water does not choose
to be rain, or snow,
vapour, or ice;
it just flows
from one form
to another,

the same water
flows through
one tap,
sometimes two,
one hot,
one cold,
which one
do you choose?

Sacred Ash

come,
sit with me
in the dark,
let the blackness
burn your skin,
your flesh -
dead logs
peeled
to their bones,
the smell
of powdered ash
speaking
of things bygone,

a wisp of grey
smeared upon
your forehead,
the only light
whispering
a silent prayer
and blessing
to all things dead,
from which
a steady light
grows.

Tusker

and he roams
the dark forests
where no one else
wants to tread
alone,
a lone tusker
away from a herd
he does not need,
not all the time,
and when he rages,
the world thinks
he's mad,
too scared
of a form,
of a heart,
that's a gentle giant.