unfinished

I walked around the house
this morning,
cleaning up,
putting things away,
and I found
parts of you
left behind -
the wet towel
curled up on the bed,
the crushed tissue
tucked under the mat,
a box half-closed
on the table
plates in the basket,
carefully washed
but forgotten,

and I smiled to myself,

for everywhere,
I saw you
and your flitting mind,
sweeping you away
to some place else,
unfinished business
here, and there,
pieces of you
scattered,
where I heard your heart
cry out for love,
a love that you didn't want
to leave behind.

strangers

we met
in the strangeness
of our beings,
two strangers
in a strange silence
that grew us,
like roots of trees
growing over
ancient walls
of a temple,
where silence and love
stand naked
in their unpretentious
simplicity,
frozen
in one
endless moment
of strange,
utter beauty.

wake up to yourself

wake up
to yourself -
let the mask
you mistook for skin
crack up, drop
and dissolve
into that burning hole
in the middle
of your chest

a hole that spews fire,
torching the flesh,
planting seeds
of emptiness,
or divinity,
so you can seduce
empty hearts,
making them ache
for more,

burning them
like dead logs
to fuel yourself,
to be the light
that sets them free,
only to become
your slave,
a spark, a flame,
but never the roaring fire
that they are and can be

stop.
wake up to the dream.
wake up to yourself.
wake up to the wounds
you create and feed.
wake up to your own seduction.
be seduced by Life!

the game

you hold
your cards well
it seems
you know
how to play your game,

not me.

i am a fool
who shows her hand
sometimes
even before
the cards are dealt,

so come,
play with me,
for we are both fools
of a different kind,
learning to play along
in this endless game,
where the winner is
always Life!

Stop

yesterday,
I was out
in the sun
on the melting tar,
wheels turning,
moving
relentlessly,
not so keen
to stop.

and then,
a circle of red
caught
the white of my eye,
and I stopped
out of habit,

not to curse
or rant,
or wait,
but to look around
at everything
moving
and still,
and that piece
of vast blue open sky.

the voice

trust,
trust everything,
says a voice inside,
every little thing
that comes your way,
for they are messengers
for you my child,
of a world to be born,
as you walk on today;
so open your eyes
to the glint of the light,
that guides you
through the dark and glare;
hold your face up
to the daunting wind,
who pushes on you
only so you can feel your spine
as you move along with care;
then touch your heart
with the palm of your hand,
to feel it open and sing,
as it leads you on
through the eyes of a child,
to see a new world
born everyday,
within.

your way

don't worry
about getting lost
in a world
that seems unkind,
dark and foreboding,
for every step,
every path
you choose to take,
is a strand of a web,
that can bend
over and over
to places left behind,
or not chosen,
with the song of your will,
as Life listens
and remembers
to strew pebbles
and breadcrumbs
to show you
your way.

celebrating being human

and even after all these years
of living and dying
and being reborn
every moment,
the earth doesn't ask the sun
to dim its light
and searing flame,
it doesn't tell the rain
to slide gently
onto its pliant skin,
it doesn't ask the sky
to remain open always
and push away
the heavy clouds that crowd,
it doesn't tell the wind
to whisper sweet nothings
and gloss over its steady form,
yet, put one human being
in the midst of it all,
and he wants only softness
and compassion
and non-violence
and lightness
and an understanding
that is far from
celebrating
simply being human.

amber

one breath

is all it takes,

to hold the universe 

inside,

to stand in the fire

of chaos,

when the earth below 

gives way,

as I close my eyes

and soak in this pain

of being alive,

of being human,

when I feel the cosmos

jingle every nerve,

and seep into

my every cell,

telling me to wait

in the midst of it all,

to put myself on hold,

as the flaming red

turns to a quiet amber,

the colour 

of infinite patience.

the face of joy

just take her away,
take away
this face of joy,
far away from me,
allow me
to close my eyes
forever,
to that taste
of infinity;

for this world
is not ready,
not yet,
to touch this
simple, pure face,
to feel her curves,
and the fullness of her lips,
and her windblown hair
streaming across
the stillness of her face;

no, this world
cannot look into her eyes,
and feel the emptiness
in its bulging hollows,
for it is too busy
filling and emptying
what cannot be
filled, emptied or hallowed;

so take her away,
this face of joy,
for I have no use for her,
for what can I do
but let her cling to me
like an invisible,
untouchable shadow?

for no one wants her
when she arrives,
there is no place
for her in this mire,
where people want
to rejoice, flaunt and drown
in their pain and horror,
where morose faces
bring warm embraces,
not this face of joy,
for you see,
no one knows
her name,
her song,
her colour.

salt

in this melting darkness,
a flowing river
without an end,
drops of salt fall silent,
dissolving into nothingness;

an ocean is born
among its waves,
that rise and fall
without a moon;

only two white hollows
in the black,
bleeding salt
upon this smarting skin;

come, taste this salt
if you will,
and you will honour
the flavour of this -
our shared humanity.

of memories

memories -
they're not dragons
to be slayed
in the dark caves
of your mind,
they're not strings
that tether you
to a past
that begs
to be buried or forgotten,
they're tiny boxes
taken down
from the attic,
to be opened
with tears sometimes
strewn all around you,
things you don't want
to pick up or dust off,
but just marvel at
for their
relentless persistence;
shards of magic
like bubbles rising
always
towards the light,
from your every breath,
in the blue depths
of your being,
reminding you
of your place
in this cosmic breath,
keeping you here
and alive.

the quest

my eyes slide back
over and over,
to the folds
of your half breasts,
your clothes
don't matter,
and yet, they do,
teasing me
to imagine
what is not,
pushing my eyes
back to what is,

and I wonder why

why would a woman
of forty five
sink into the mystery
of a cleavage?
is it the known
or the unknown
that drives her eyes?
or is it simply
the insatiable quest
to slip into the throes
of an unknown life,
an unknown death?

a hand-crafted life

enough!
of sitting
and doing nothing,
of living in a dark cave,
in the underworld
of thoughts;
it's time to move
and be moved,
it's time
to be out there
in the wild,
it's time
to stop imagining
and start being -
a scarab
rolling down
shifting dunes
steaming at night,
with nothing in sight,
except the milky way
that shows her
where to go
on a desolate night,
to make this little ball
of useless dung,
her one
hand-crafted life.

another human

today I cried
until
my guts unwound
and crept up
to the crook
of my mouth,
a sword
with two edges,
cutting through
everything
that was me,
bending over
backwards
to my navel,
nailing me,
choking me,
asking me to die
to the pain and joy
of this life,
this world,
and,
to feel it all
without words,
to be simply
another human.

a-part

often,
I sit by myself
and cry -
in the bath,
in the rain,
in the sun,
in the wind,
not to hide it
from the world,
but to hold the tears,
until I can feel
the water and fire
and wind
upon my skin,
becoming one
with the song
of this sacred world,
where I can join in
and be a-part
only when I am alone.

रंग भरो

रंग भरो
इस आग में,
कोई दाग नहीं
सिर्फ़ अनुराग है,
रंग भरी इस दुनिया में
एक ऐसा बेरंग गुलाब है,
जो मन चाहे रंग
अपनाता है,
हर दिल की आग
जब छूता है,
वहाँ दिल अपना
खो जाता है,
और रंगों की
इस महफ़िल में,
शमा से शबनम
बन जाता है

no doors, only people

two worlds
one door
many people
pushing
pulling
balking
arguing
about everything
about doors
and how they
make us feel,
voices
haggling
inside this house -
a forgotten temple
with no doors,
only people
of this world
talking
together.

worlds between words

don't ask me
for what is yours -
your words
resounding
from the skin
of this temple,
for when you speak,
I find myself
lost
between your words,
in worlds uninhabited
by purpose,
busyness,
or expectation,
worlds where I live
and roam,
a free spirit
among the dead.

moved

I don't want to be
your mother,
not any more,
I don't want to be
your child,
not any more,
for I have come
to know a place
even if for a moment,
where I am not
man
or woman
or mother
or child
or even human,
a place where I am
an unstoppable speck of dust
dancing on a sunbeam,
driven and held
by what I cannot see,
but what I can feel
in the twists and turns
of my gut,
moved by a voice
that only knows this -
that what must be done
must be done
at any cost,
for the sake of a world
that must be born,
even if you and I
have to die.

remembered

I want to be remembered
like the curtain ring,
and the dust cloth,
the window sill,
and the light switch,
just there somewhere
where I ought to be,

like the buttonhole
in its exactness,
the soft pillow
under a tired head,
the nostrils always open,
the eyelashes
curled up in a perfect line,
invisible to a busy world,

I want to be remembered
not because
the world can't do without me,
but so I can remember
what I am supposed to do and be.

excuses

don't give me excuses,
don't run away to hide,
looking for another dawn
in the midst of
an aborted twilight.

they're not the same.

don't reverse time.
don't fast forward.
stay. here. now.

look to the light
now fading
into its dark womb,
where everything dies
and is born,
where everything
is revealed
in that pause,
when you choose
to stay
and not run,

so touch the glowing skin
of your trembling form,
and know
that your excuse
rests in the heaviness
of your eyelids
dying to open
and throw it away,
into this smoldering twilight,
not tomorrow's promising dawn.

don't find your way to me

admit it -
you're lost,
walking
like a blind person
guarding every step
in a world
that's monochrome,

don't say you will
find your way to me,

for I am not there
to be the white cane
of your choosing,

I am here
as your hand,
your eyes,
right now,
to walk with you
as you find
your own way
home,

a place you left
because
you never wanted to leave
what you thought
and believed
was home.

fragrance

you put me away
in a pretty vase
by the corner,
you tuck me
into the curls
of your flowing hair,
your eyes meet mine
in the blue distance,
as we wake up to a new world,
you step on me
in your self-forgetting ways,
with restless feet that cannot tarry,
you throw me down
at the altar
where two stones meet,

yes, there are many ways
to live this life,
and I must live mine
like a flower -
crushed, ignored,
flaunted, sacrificed,
that's my life,
as I cleave to the lines
on your palm
and the crevices
of your breath,
a fragrance
without form,
that can live
only when I die
a slow death
at the altar
of your heart,
and mine.

three wise travellers

there is a wisdom
unseen,
ordinary,
modest,
waiting in eternity,
revealed
only to eyes
that want to see
and feel
the journeys
of becoming -
that tiny pearl of mist
snuggled in a wildflower
still blooming
on a moonless night,
three travellers
celebrating,
waiting,
for each other,
for serendipity.

one point

i am
this
one point,
where dots connect,
where lines meet,
where circles converge,
where spirals vanish,
where spheres are held
as they grow, or begin,
where time falls
into another world,
where movement feels
like stillness,
where being becomes
becoming,
where doing becomes
nothing
but this one point -
a snapshot
of what was
what is
and what could be,
the tipping point,
this one point
of no return.

skin to skin

I dream of a world
without words,

where skin speaks to skin,
where ears become eyes,
where eyes become hands,
where touch becomes smell,
where breath becomes song
where sounds become silence.

where nothing more is needed,
just you and me
and silence.

burnt tears

clouds walked by
without a glance,
as I waited
and waited
for the rain,
a body caked
and burnt alive
in the scorching sun,
flames fanned tears
flowing through
the tender skin
of this -
now freshly tilled
porous,
moist earth.

soul and sense

everyday,
I stand
and move along
an empty shore,
me with myself,

between
a wave
and a child,
between
laughter
and tears,
between
love
and loss,
between
being
and becoming,

everyday,
I watch
the shore
wiped clean,
without a trace
of yesterdays
or tomorrows,

everyday,
in that space
between
soul and sense,
I draw my face
against
the grains of sand,
to the song of a heart
who simply longs
to remember
herself.

parallels

we walk
together,
and alone,
parallels
moving
to meet somewhere
in the distance

arrows
pointing
to where we should go,
anywhere but here

paths
entangled
in the space
between,
touching futures
unknowable

parallels,
turning
bending
converging
spiralling
parting
disappearing
somewhere
in the black
of our eyes,
where there are
no lines
no webs
no circles.

Fishing

sometimes
you put out your hand
to touch someone,
to feel
their throbbing heart,

sometimes
you just want to
break through
that fragile ice,
not to feed yourself
but to know,
that somewhere
between
two shifting edges
is a space
where there is
only water,

where
you're not fishing
for fish,
and yet
your beak
returns empty,
without fish
or water, or
sometimes,
with a tattered
forgotten shoe
dripping with water.

sometimes
you just go fishing,
and smile
for having spent
a morning
just watching
and feeling into
the still waters.

flowering

a flower said to me one day,
her petals hanging loose
upon a soft bed of ancient soil,
under a fast melting sky -
'don't shed a tear for me,
don't look at me with forlorn eyes,
don't whisper prayers
into this shroud of mist,
don't thank me for my life;
soak in the colours of the sky
and this wonderful earth, our home,
smell and feed upon this blessed breath
that carries worlds within our worlds,
touch the soft folds of your quiet heart
as they blossom and explode
in the darkness all around,
and remember the story of that flower
who once spoke to you
as she walked
between two worlds.'

where dreams meet this world....

the brush
in my hand
is full of colours
thick and bold,
converging
on the edge
of a pause,
where dreams
meet this world -
an empty canvas
ready to be splashed
with fire.

one piece of cloth

one piece of cloth
is all I have,
to hold
and cover
the me that I am

one piece of cloth
is all I have,
tattered, faded,
ripped apart
by the sun and the wind

one piece of cloth
is all I have,
and I have a choice -
to hand it to you
and stand naked,
to cover myself
and leave you out,
or to snuggle up with you
wrapping it around us tight,
so we can choose again,
to hold it or throw it
into the sun and the wind.

one piece of cloth
is all we have.

sacred womb

i'm pregnant
with something.

it does not matter
who the father is,
who will nourish me
and the stirrings
of this seed of life
inside,

it matters only
that my ears
grow inwards,
into
the churning waters
of the womb
holding us,

and to feel fully,
the slow becoming
of a mother
and a child,
giving birth
to each other,
held together
by the invisible hand
of this blessed,
most sacred
Life.

the last tendrils

my joy
curls itself
around yours,
the last tendrils
unfurling,
throwing themselves
into the breath
of this mysterious light,
this unlived morn.

still pool

a round stone
pierces
a liquid veil,
circling ripples
of endless questions
cleave a shore

there is nowhere to go

a still pool
listens
to herself
open.

Just Be

don't be strong
or anything
for that matter,
just flow
just be

move
and be moved
like the wind
upon the water's cheek

carry
and be carried
like the white jasmine
on a nameless odyssey

break
and be broken
like a raindrop
thrashing a hardened earth

and then somewhere,
sometime,
in the middle of nowhere,
you will find
your strength
your resolve
to move and be moved,
to carry and be carried,
to break and be broken,
to just be.

Morning

on many days, I wake up
with thoughts
about myself
and the world,
and what I am here to do,
seeds with wings
flying off
into a melting sky,
far away from home,
and then,
for no reason,
I go across
to the door
sliding it open,
and stand in a hush,
where the universe hangs,
where the breeze
and the sunbeams,
and the smells and sounds
of a pretty grey world,
touch me and kiss me
all over my naked form.

the font of bliss

I wonder if the font of bliss
is a sleepy powder blue,
like that stretch of sea and sky
without a spot of foam and cloud
on this summery afternoon....

or is it a growing smudging edge
without a solid stroke,
where water and air coalesce,
proclaiming a celestial alchemy
in a silent intercourse?

and the earth said to man,
'come, dig into me,
let me feel myself
through your hands,
as you take
the fire,
the water,
the rocks,
the diamonds,
for they are yours,
not mine,
and while you dig,
I'll listen
and feel your breath
merge with mine,
let your heart sing
to the heavens
as I turn and dance
with you,
to a beat
that you and I
can hear,
but never call
our own.'

a second chance

you give me
another chance
in every moment,
to become a mother
all over again -
to carry seeds
invisible,
tangible,
holding the pain
of the world,
a pain that somehow
never fails
to birth joy,
a joy
that never forgets
to remember
its pain,
to see the world
with new eyes,
to give both
mother and child,
their second chance.