speakers' corner

lend me your voice
your ears, your heart,
speaks the podium
standing in a corner
of that verdant green.

no, not in Hyde Park.
where voices play tug
between light and dark.

but here -
in the heart
of a bustling street,
heading home,
growing
upon a soapbox,
stands a voice
leading the rest,
with no frills
or favours,

just a quiet reckoning
of all that is,
where every voice
is heard and received
and takes turns to speak,
in the crowd,

the speakers' corner -
lived unarmed.

where giving has no name

if you heard my breath
dancing between skins,
you would have heard it
say nothing
as it flowed
in, out, in.

if you smelled my heart
melting into your asking,
your reaching out to feel
the fire beneath these waters,
you would have heard it
sing nothing
in every crackle,
every ripple.

if you paused just a moment
in that space between
your seeking and the sought,
you would have touched
the silence
in that nothingness,
where we merged
into one water,
one flame,
one breath,
one skin,
one love.

a love
where giving has no name,
no sound,
no form.

for my eyes only

there is a place,
a sanctuary,
somewhere inside,
where I can rest
without clothes,
without mascara,
without painted lips
singing staccato songs,
and waxed skin glowing
in its unnatural perfection,
where I am there
for my eyes only,
without mindless wanderings,
without seductive snares,
without violating what I love most,
without settling for anything less
than who I am and want to be,
where I can speak with my own voice,
not waiting to be received or extolled,
where I can stand in front of my heart's desire
and not twitch a muscle or breath,
where I can hold and burn in the fire
of my own wildness and maverick self
unleashed without walls and checks,
where I can claim my gifts, my humanness,
and a lifetime of stories
waiting to be heard and released
into the orgasmic mystery
of all that is and isn't me,
for my eyes only.

a love you must find

look into the eyes of a tiger -
the liquid gold,
the hypnotic black,
simmering with a quiet flamboyance.

do you see a wild animal,
ruthless, heartless and power-full?
do you see the pitiful plight
of what's bygone, lost or dying?
do you see the sleight of movement,
waiting to overpower you?

or do you hear the roar of silent grace,
an effortless becoming of all that is?
do you see the primal, unplaceable beauty
of owning a skin?
and the unflinching arrows of a truth
that cannot be held or described?

look into the eyes of a tiger,
and touch the majesty of a love
for the skin you have,
a love that you must find.

let's light a fire

don't ask me to bear the torch,
to pass it on,
to light up worlds
full of light.

let's ask ourselves
and each other instead,
this burning question -
what is the fire
that's raging inside?

and then,
when all is still and quiet,
and our eyes catch
those dancing fireflies
dissolving into the black,
let's light a fire
with our fires,
and sit around it,
feeling its power,
its warmth and light.

where thoughts lie

sometimes,
spinning like a moth
in a trance,
held by the flames
of an overpowering thought,
I carry a cross
to bear for the world,
bleeding, flaunting
this martyrdom,
for the sake of humanity,
for a better world
only I can see.

sometimes,
resting in a hammock
stretched between two poles,
holding me in their tug,
I close my eyes to the sky
taking me on mindless trips,
I close the enticing book
waiting upon my chest,
and slip into that surreal space
where thoughts simply lie,
without a care
in and of this world.

where memories sit with bone dust

there is no grave
when you burn the dead,
no place to visit
and keep a flower,
no place to sit and cry,
only memories
sitting with bone dust
become earth,
growing leaves and stones,
speaking into the silence
veiling the worlds,
where everything's uncovered,
where you and I
look into the hollows,
for that holy communion
with the dark,
listening to those whispers
lingering,
in the spaces
between sounds,
of the living
and the dead.

how to live

sometimes,
like yesterday,
in the midst of a dance
without lines and forms,
in the midst of a song
without a raga,
in the midst of a prayer
without names,
a dragonfly lies dead,
with her blue-gold wings
glistening and intact
upon a piece of earth,
speaking to a heart
that paused to listen
to the magic of a sign,
showing me how to live
as myself,
in this world between worlds.

space

I've often looked for space,
my space,
outside -
in the moors and chasms
lying vacant and busy,
flitting between
disembodiment
and a tight squeeze,

until I came upon
one moment of utter bliss,
in this little corner
somewhere inside,
between blinks and breaths,
a slice of heaven
that can be picked up,
used and saved
anytime,
without a fuss
or statement,

a piece of me inside me,
folding in on itself -
a mobius strip
overflowing
quietly
with endless grace.

roots

and I said to myself,
'enough of digging
into the never-ending dark,
let's get some light
and fresh air,'
and set out to take a peek
at the sun, always there,
and to lie there
naked and burning
in her unforgiving flame,
until I saw how she melted
into the sky every evening,
leaving me with a blanket
of darkness,
taking me down
the roots of an ancient tree -
breathing, alive,
and in no earthly hurry
to be somewhere,
travelling into a space
I simply don't know
nor want to find.

this day

I stand here with myself
in this one drop
of silence distilled,
and a truth that I've lived
through all the imperfections,
through the stray wildness,
the incessant pull and grip
of thoughts on their way,
and the darkest secrets
revealed at the cusp
of what is
and what could be,
always taking me
to those beautiful places
inside these skins
torn and bruised
and glowing,
as the truth of it all
breaks through these clouds,
touched with the pink
of this day of my life,
waiting to be lived.

fire in the womb

what do I do with this fire
in my womb?
this furnace
where everything is offered,
spent and fired to shape,
this void that's full
of what could be,
a form without a name,
without a tribe,
burning itself out,
waiting for the sky
to speak.

the We

tribes.
groups.
gatherings.
cliques.
trends
suffocating
what needs to breathe.
disposables
collected and trashed
after the party.
agreements written
in water.
bonds held in secrecy,
in possession.
tied. untied.
never free.
something waiting
for someone to listen,
to step into the altar
with folded hands,
where everyone is joined
by one breath,
one space;
where is the WE?

wells without echoes

'so, have you made peace with your dad?'
she asked me,
catching me unawares,
and I fell into
those silent wells in her eyes.

wells without echoes.
inside.
outside.

I don't hear your voice.
I don't see you.
I don't look for you.
I don't cry for those unlived lives.
not anymore.

wells without echoes.
inside.
outside.

did you just die? or did I?
did I just watch you burn
with that fire placed
on your bare chest?
burning you.
burning me.
burning something
between us.

wells without echoes.
inside.
outside.

the sign

'ask for a sign',
she told me,
as I made a silent sign
with my hands,
and this morning,
when I stepped out into
the sun-drenched balcony,
and saw the rose plant,
with her last leaf fallen,
and her thorns and buds
shaved off her wood,
I looked at my feet
shrouded by the light,
and suddenly knew what to do.

first choice

don't pick me as an option
when you've exhausted all the rest -
I'm not your standby, your back-up plan;
don't tick me like the mark
you make in one among a row
of empty boxes -
I'm not free for all;
don't tear me to manageable bits
so you can use them
to make a collage -
I'm not oversize;
don't hand over parts of me to others -
I'm not a pizza to be shared;
don't pick and choose parts of me
to get a mix you want and can handle -
I'm not a buffet or a salad bar;
take me as I am - whole
and wholesome.
make me your first choice.
you will, when you know you're enough.
when you are,
your first choice.

The Lord of the Flies

what stokes you,
and those wild flames
blazing and crackling
and taunting you from within?
what holds you in
its deathly grip,
luring you to climb slowly
to that pinnacle
of death and life,
to that one point
where you come on,
when you feel truly alive?
what whips you
and threshes you
like those ears of corn
harvested whole,
and still not quite enough?
what feeds your hunger
as you grope and prowl
to devour anything
that threatens you
or steps on your toes?
what possesses you
as you speak and stand
like a hammered nail,
in front of a world
that doesn't listen to your story?
what circles you
and squeezes your insides,
as you spew your venom
and puffs of smoke
where you are simply dusted off?
what thrills you and fills you,
as you ride those cresting waves,
never wanting to rest
on the silent, restful shore?
what makes your blood rush
to every cell, every pore,
as you get turned on
by that irresistible reverie
exploding into you?
what churns your breath and blood,
swallowing you whole
into those dark waters,
of what you must leave behind?
what pricks you, and stabs you
on your bruised skin,
as your eyes come alive
with all the pain and gore?
what moves you, owns you,
drives you, feeds you
and your every move,
as you step into a world
of earthly, unearthly desires?
the wild ride into the world
of feelings,
the primal call to slip into your skin,
where you cannot hide,
where you cannot step aside,
where you can only live
and feel and think and create,
from what stirs and grows
deep inside.
The Lord of the Flies.

when you go into a forest

when you go into a forest,
don't look for things
you feel you've lost
and want to find -
bird calls and silence,
growls and roars of the wild,
the smell of raw freshness
tingling your every pore,
and how your body
talks and listens,
through its skin and breath,
and trembling bones,

when you go into a forest,
go with yourself
just as you are,
a bag filled with goodness
and garbage and gore,
not looking for anything more,
allowing those tender vines
and ancient trees,
the deathly darkness
and dapples of light,
the swirling silence
and clarion sounds,
to grow into and all over you,
as you come alive,

and then, in that moment,
when you feel small
and insignificant,
like that insipid brown leaf
lying upon a rotting pile,
listen to the forest speak,
and you'll know what to do,
and how to be
wherever you go,
leaving no footprints to go back to,
taking no memories to share,
just that last drop of silence
in that brown leaf on a pile,
that exploded into you,
and touched you everywhere.

"when you go into a forest,
take nothing with you,
leave nothing behind."

the full stop in the middle of a sentence

our stories

our thoughts

our questions
our rhetorics
scroll across
the warp and weft
of time and space,
like this Facebook news feed
without end,
only endless beginnings, and
a cursor that can move anyhow
with a click,
wearing out this body,
until it comes to rest
in what is here and now,
a full stop
in the middle of a sentence,
self-created limits
of what is
enough.
yes, simply enough.

what we stand on

we don't stand on each others' shoulders,

we stand on broken bones ground to dust,

we stand on rotted roots

exhausted from their searching,

we stand on the ashes of a fire

well-spent and outlived,

we stand on memories

distilled as fuel

for dreams waiting to be born,

we stand on words spoken

and left unsaid,

fallen and rested

like the sand in an hourglass,

we stand on bonds made

without a promise,

dead in every moment lived fully,

like water wetting the breeze,

we stand on the emptiness

of worlds that must be forsaken

to live the one that's waiting

inside us, for us, with us -

one world being birthed, without a form.

love letters without a name

let's offer our questions
to each other,
held in the hollows
of our palms,
like petals falling
into the lap of water,
touched by essence,
not walls;
let's hold our questions
in this moment,
in the breath that we share,
watching them
like the widening ripples
on the river flowing
between us;
let's place our questions
like tiny lamps on leaves,
and let them go, one by one,
in the silent spell
cast by our emptiness,
promising to live them
in the altar of our hearts,
let's look at them
together there,
following the threads
of this mysterious web,
where you and I
are moved and held
by Life,
who only knows
how to love everything;
yes, even these love letters
without an address or name.

one voice

in a clearing,
in a forest,
anointed with the scent
of water on earth,
and leaves unfolding
their newness,
stands a coy deer,
sculpted in silence,
steamy musk rising
in a symphony
with wild blossoms
and rotting roots,
all speaking in one voice -
the song of the earth
serenading the heavens.

there's a fire in the house

there's a fire in the house.
no, the house isn't burning down.
the fire rages in the hearth,
in the writhing gut of this home,
from where she rises
like smoke;
the formless, wordless void.
swallowing everything
in her path.
being who she wants to be
here. now.
not who she was in the past.
yes, she hungers.
hungers for all that's taboo,
with unflinching eyes,
ready to be burned at the stake.
uncontainable. unstoppable. unforgettable.
she wanders alone, unprotected,
holding it all inside.
imploding into herself,
breathing fire where she goes,
into this one life
smelted and tempered
in the furnace
of her ever-blazing heart.

the room with a view

in the middle of a wasteland
stretching across the emptiness,
stands the remains of a temple,
in its exquisite aloneness -
the room with a view,
where trespassers are welcome,
when they walk into the shadows
hanging across the walls,
and melt into the lone flame
at the heart of the shrine,
where there's always
room for more,
between a steadfast lamp
and those dying stars.

the dream

since I was a child,
I've had this dream
of free-falling
in the dark,
and sometimes
waking up
with a start,
frozen into wakefulness
with ice cold terror.

I don't have those dreams anymore.

and yes, today,
I feel I'm living that dream,
free-falling into a life
that keeps me awake
in the unfolding darkness,
where there is no ground
to fall to or land on,
only endless sky,
and a curving web
of connectedness,
cradling me,
as I curl deeper
into myself.

tree-ness

and even after all these years
of witnessing worlds
being born, grow and die,
a tree doesn't ask for anything;

it doesn't pat you on the shoulder
to speak what it has seen or lived,
it doesn't point to things
you must see and heed,
it doesn't wait for you
to utter a word of gratitude,
it simply stands there -
tall and resplendent
with all its scars and glory,
feeding you everything it has
in every season,
pouring itself
into each moment
lived and seen,
without uttering a word;

but only if you care
to stop and listen
to it speak
from its tree-ness.

I made a promise today

I woke up to a red sun
speaking to herself
alone on a stage
she never calls her own,
lost in her own words,
blazing her own truth,
leaving a few words
at that place of prayer
within,
where no one enters.

I made a promise today.

not the flowery, showy kind -
just words said without a fuss,
words I own,
resting
in their simple, lived wisdom,
words that breathe and leave
like the last petal falling
from a white rose,
the same promise made
in every heart
held captive by words,
words that define
and deconstruct
everything we believe
is you and me.

yes, I made a promise today.
and I left it at the altar
of this trembling heart.

windblown well

walking along
the feverish sands
of a windblown desert,
tired eyes clouded
by endless mirages
that never leave nor stay,
my throat parched
and scraped
by the thorns I eat
to keep going,
all for that one drop
of moisture
to seep into this well,
to keep it alive,

and then a teardrop
fell silently
trickling into this heart,
that always has place
for a little more.....
a little more pain,
a little more love,
windblown.

the blueprint

somewhere in the exquisite weave of these lines, on palms, on fingers, on toes, on atoms of stardust, on streaks of darkness, on the endless ridges of an all-abiding heart, breathes the blueprint of you, of me, and all that we are yet to meet and greet, paths melded in the furnace of a passion that must be grown, of a love that's shown, for you being you, for me being me, for the magical alchemy of a 'we' - a family that's christened, nurtured, and recreated, over and over again, as you and I step together with eyes open, to dance into a new world of infinite possibilities, waiting for us at the edge of time, in the heart of a love, that always holds it all amidst all the ripples.

a prayer and a curse

somewhere

in the heart of a curse

spewed with the anger
of what was stolen,
lies a quiet prayer
at the altar of a temple,
a fragile flower
lowering it's head
to its own death,
with petals strewn
across the emptiness
of what was,
of what must be,
felt and spoken
without words.

in the fire with you

let me sit with you
as you burn
in the fire
charring the folds
of your gut,
let me hold you
in the breath
that we share,
where we are born
and consecrated,
let me offer you
nothing but this silence,
that holds it all
as one,
where there are no edges
that give form
to what is,
only you and me
sitting together here,
as one human
being
the flames
of a love
that cannot be spelled
or spent.

first among equals

and then She spoke
of the way -
'live and let live
is the only way -
for you're all just fireflies
dancing in the dark,
looking for something
you already have;
there are no shadows
in the dark,
where every thing
simply rests in itself,
on the fragile wings
of equality,
taking you on a quest
to make your way,
to leave no trace
for another to follow,
just your own way
woven with others,
through endless space -
the way to dance
to a silent song
of light and dark,
on wings that never touch
even as they touch;
for there is no first,
among equals.'

'kothas'

we love our pain
too much,
and the darkness
of the night,
so we can gather
in our 'kothas',
to play the role
of pimps
and hookers,
of by-standers
and customers,
who only know
how to bait and taunt,
and bargain and sell,
their loud wares
in the name of tribe,
speaking to spirits
without forms,
and offering
this rotting flesh,
burnt at the stake
of everything inhuman,
where Love has forgotten
her blessed name.

vulnerability

vulnerable -

is not what you choose, 

it is what you are,
when you are filled
with a passion
to live and die well,
when you've placed
your heart
at the feet of the universe,
when you stop looking
for hungry eyes
and open hearts,
to feed you,
so you can hunger
some more,
when you are filled
with the breath
of every heartbreak
you have lived
and are yet to live,
simply because
that is the only way
you know
to live and die
as you,
without another
you.

gossip

the world gossips
at the hems
of skirting eyes,
that can never hold
a steady gaze
into your soul.

even the shadow
of a flickering flame
stands rooted
at one end,
as it bends and follows
the light.

but not these words,
that tear people apart,
shredding reams of skin
and flesh and bones,
so you can chew on them
and spit them out at will.

gossip is the food
of scavengers,
too scared of the kill,
and of meeting the kin
of these burning,
bleeding hearts.

boxes

boxes
are easy
to carry stuff in,
to pack things away
for later,
not now,
to hold memories
of things
that hold hands,
not stand alone,
to name
what cannot be named,
except when you die,
when you are laid to rest
in the bosom of the earth,
where all boxes
must crumble one day,
for they are here
only to be carried awhile,
not to stay.

where everything rests

the wind is cold today,
waking up my sleepy skin
from the safety of its own warmth,
while a drunken sun
crawls across the blue, in a blur,
recovering from its hangover,
the salt lies still in the balcony,
as if waiting for me
to outgrow my search,
and rest like the faraway ocean does,
in the nature of her waves
that come and go,
and I stop to rest my ears
against those walls
fallen silent,
looking into the well
where everything simply stays
like it always has
from time immemorial.

walk away

walk away
from all that you own,
the way those trickles of water
collect in a puddle for a while,
beneath the gaze of the sun,
the way pebbles and rocks
rest against each other
through eons, without a word,
the way this earth
holds a promise for our children
even when we are spent and gone,
the way the sky watches
our every move
from the altar of devotion,
from where we were born,
yes, walk away
from all that you own with words,
without a word,
as you let yourself fall softly
into the still pool
of a spoken silence,
from where tomorrow will rise,
as you walk away.

of black and light

and you think a seed rests
without a pinhole of light,
wrapped in endless swirls of darkness?
stop. see how your irises
slide into those cozy grooves,
where black meets only black.
where you are fed
so you can hunger some more.
for black.

but is it all black, where you look?
look deeper and you'll find grays -
light dissolved into the molten black,
where worms wiggle and thrive,
where roots sink deeper into what is,
where water finds its way to leaves
and birds and clouds,
where the steaming earth
bears the excesses
of a sprightly sun who never sleeps,
where seeds still breathe and dream
a little dream.

don't look only for black.
don't look only for light.
look for what is -
shades of gray,
a perfect blend
of black and light.

tell me who you are

tell me who you are
when you go to sleep,
tell me what you wear,
some make-up and lipstick,
your well-brushed hair,
someone's favourite lingerie
or the sheer covers
of your heart's deepest longing,

tell me what you sleep on,
where you rest your head,
on worries unresolved
clawing their way
through those endless grooves,
or the softness of your mind
resting on accounts settled
and closed for the day,

tell me what goes on inside you,
stories of your dreams, or nightmares,
the restless river of reason without a shore,
the tingling of passion being stoked,
or the silence of a dark night
with no questions left,
except this one -
who am I?

tell me who you are
when you disappear
into the ripples of that clear pool,
where everything is at rest,
when everything comes undone,
when there are no more games to play,
when you rise from the throes of death
to live a life that must be lived well.

connections

like fireflies
lighting up the moment,
vanishing,
then reappearing
in the uncertainty
of a dark night,
connections
burn their own light,
fueled by the spark
of a timeless pause
in the web of darkness,
where anything you touch
makes the whole quiver
with a song without a tune,
a love without a name.

use me

there is a metal drum
at the corner of the park
that says: 'use me'.

people walk by
throwing
their indifference
into the hole.

a woman gathers leaves
from the garden,
to cook a meal.

she listens,
she pauses,
to ask the plant
what she needs,
to thank her for the gifts,
to tell her how she's going to use them.

silence speaks and listens.

'use me' does not come with a disclaimer.
it comes with an unspoken reverence
to silence.
to life.

the song

in the cauldron
of my solitude,
where every bubble
and stirring
has a voice,
a song,
I listen
to the symphony
grow from the fire
of a dark silence,
where everything burns,
where everything rises
and falls,
where there's only one song
waiting to be heard
and worn,
until every cell
of this blessed form
burns to ash,
yes, this flaming song
must be borne.

the will

how long will you walk
this road to nowhere,
carrying the burden
of what you seek,
of what you think
you don't own?
how long will you spin
like a tireless dervish,
drunk on a love
you can find only here,
in the sweat of your skin?
how long will you strive
to gather in huddles,
to hold secrets
that must be ripped apart,
thrown up and strewn ?
how long will you pretend
that you are god,
in search of other gods
to hold your hand,
when you must walk here
as an ordinary human,
utterly, utterly alone?

for there is no god.
only this human.

aloneness

aloneness
holds me,
lingering around me,
like the breath of darkness
that descends
and stays motionless
on a black moon night.

aloneness
grows on me,
with me,
like the ancient trees
wrapping their fingers
around those ruins of silence,
with their unshakable roots.

aloneness
is what fills me,
when I'm not there,
that intangible space of emptiness,
both dead and alive,
always speaking in a crowd of voices,
yet never asking for its turn to speak.

flair

you know the way your hips move
through doors, that were once walls,
you know the way your voice stirs
the lazy dust, right up to the stars,
you know the way your breath holds
every atom in a timeless pause,
you know the way your fire burns
leaving behind a trail of tinkling sparks,
yeah, you probably know,
and that's why you give the world
your exploding breast,
where everyone roots for the cream -
the flair for being yourself,
unannounced.

taboo

don't bite the apple,
the world said,
but I did,
and wore the snake
around my neck.

don't walk on the edge,
the world said,
but I did,
and thrived on the high
of a coke-filled darkness.

don't stand naked
the world said,
but I did,
and tasted the freedom
of travelling light.

don't wage a war
the world said,
but I did,
and blazed a path
to rest these two feet

don't look that way
the world said,
but I did
and opened my own eyes
to a forsaken quest.

a list of don'ts.
a spark of fire.

taboo.

is everything virgin,
the mirror holding a lure,
seducing me to walk
with the flame of my desires
torching a darkening road,
to somewhere, to nowhere,
where I must get lost
so I can be found
whole.

hridayam

there is a flame
in that cave
in front of the photo,
that held me in its
unwavering gaze,

when the world
paused
on its toes,
and sat down
to listen
to nothing
to everything,

to the story
of a single flame
devoted
to the question -
who am I?

medicine woman

don't come to the forest
in search of me,
don't come here
looking for the raw,
the primal, the wild,
for I'm not
that medicine woman,
gathering herbs
for every sickness
you find,
speaking to angels,
to be messiahs
for your life,
for your tribe,

if you lose your way,
and still come to me,
I will take you
to the clear pool
in the bosom
of this ancient forest,
which holds the mystery
of all dis-ease,
where if you dare look in,
you will find,
you staring back at you,
in the stillness
of everything that you believe
is and is not you.

red light

don't come here
huddled in the folds
of darkness,
hiding your beast
from the eyes
of the world.

for there is no red light here
to welcome you anymore.
no life-giving blood.
no fire in the hearth,
to sit around and mope
or revel.

only black.
the colour of darkness.
the colour of the dark goddess.
where everything's uncovered
and stripped clean
to the bones.

the whores have all gone home.
they don't need you men,
not anymore.
to fill,
or take your fill,
at will.
at any cost -
yours or theirs.

the fire's gone
to warm their homes,
where they can rest at will,
and cook a meal with love,
to feed themselves,
not others like you,
who only choose to come
for the colour of the light,
not darkness.
red.

one breath, one flower

sometimes,
it takes
just one breath,
to take your breath away,


sometimes,
it takes
just one breath,
to see one lone rose
holding her own -
her petals
her thorns,
and leaves
green and withered,
as she stands
in the halo
of her own strength,
unfrazzled
by the walls
cornering her
with their pompousness,


sometimes,
it takes
just one flower
resting
in her quiet fullness,
to speak
of an undying beauty
and one soul breath
of irrevocable abundance.

in the heart of everything

you don't have to be tipsy
or gushing or teary,
you don't have to oil
these slimy pedestals
you want to climb,
you don't have to shower them
with this confetti of praise,
you don't have to
prove your worth
to anyone,
you don't have to glow
in the whites
of these hungry eyes,
you don't have to live
your unlived life,
you don't have to
use a pawn for service,
you don't have to
play this game right;

for your game is up,
even as you make your plans
and get ready to play.

gratitude doesn't stand
on thought or reason,
it doesn't need a ground,
it doesn't fill you,
it's always there
waiting for you to look,
it shimmers with the fullness
of being who you are,
when you rest
without a yearning
in the heart of everything,
that is and isn't
what you call
you and me.

younion

who am I?
ask yourself this
with every breath
in and out

listen
to the nothingness
of everything
you name

drop
into the womb
of silence,
there's no hurry

wait
for the echo
resounding
in the void

where there are
no walls,
only you
married to you

younion.

the red tent

under the red tent.
desire burns
steadily.
without shame.

a sisterhood
of humans
huddle
around the hearth.
living their stories,
as they speak,
into the circle
of Silence.

'let there be spaces
in your togetherness',
she whispers,
listening with intent.

unheard of stories
of the beasts,
the whores,
the witches,
the truants,
the pimps.
voices drowned
and aborted
in the wombs
shed together,
for the dream
of a better world,
where heaven
must be brought
to earth
at any cost.

they are not the same.

where flames
must be put out
before they spread
out into the wild,
from where they came.

the red tent lives
somewhere,
without a name.

rest

somewhere
in the darkness
lies a tiny seed,
held
by the long fingers
of silence,

where roots grope
and seek relentlessly,
where ants gnaw
at what is,
where rain tickles
and hugs the parched soil,
where grains of earth glow
with their fury restrained,
where the breath is distilled
to its essence,

somewhere there
in the darkness,
lies a tiny seed,
with nothing to do,
but rest
in the vortex of silence.