waiting for dawn

the sun's gone

to another world

for a while

he will be here soon.

meanwhile,

soon

is stuck

in the innards

of a lostness,

writhing,

weeping,

for all that's lost

and burnt 

and buried.

he will be here soon.

he must.

as breath struggles

between walls

that must graze

and bleed

against bone,

to understand

the shape

of me

being born.

he will be here soon.

I know.

as the dark blue 

spills and streaks

across painted skins

that must be worn,

and the ground

remembers

her art

of waiting

for dawn,

in the quiet

of a pregnant dream.

what must die

today,
I feel that last strand
of silver
upon dark waters,
tug at my skin,
to the chalk-face
of the moon,
as she turns her other face
away
to the other side
I can never see

today,
I feel a stinging tug
in those grains
in every sinew,
as they go through the motions,
of another ordinary day,
just another shade of grey
on white

and the moon,
she smiles from afar,
the lover I've had for too long,
reminding me
of the ocean I'd left behind,
the ocean that must not die.

radical

there are no tethers now
to draw me back
to you,
to the pleasures
of this skin,
to the notes you write,
to the songs you sing
in the name of love,
to the sheer negligee of comfort
that old ways bring,

there are no walls now
to be whitewashed or razed,
or doors to be anointed
in the name of devotion,
no masks to don and flaunt,
in the name of beauty and play,
and no emotions to be crocheted
into works of art,
there are no ripples
that skirt the surface of things,
in the name of stillness,

there is only freedom
that spouts
from the fount of darkness,
where there is no thirst
or hunger,
only that one call
I must heed,
to go home,
now.

violin strings

flesh strung across rigid bones,
plucked, tweaked
and sandpapered
on a bow of pain,
song flows like blood,
dripping with the scent
of a hollow wilderness,
there is no balm
for what must be walked and lived
alone,
like violin strings.

on days like this,
I just want to disappear
from this skin,
to become the breath -
without form,
without colour,
without texture,
without fragrance,
without sound

I want to melt
into the void -
that faraway place
always close,
closing in,
strangling me
with its sinews,
ruthless,
fierce,
yet utterly kind,
like the vessel
that holds everything
and nothing
against its walls,

on days like this,
I must remember
how I came to be here
like this one breath -
forgotten,
misunderstood,
and exquisitely alone.

this is how I walk now, alone

you know,
these hips,
they don't need to squeeze
through doorways
and clothes,
and seats,
anymore;
they kiss the breath
between things
with the feather of their skin;

you know,
these breasts,
they don't need to pout
for selfies,
and hungry mouths,
and group hugs,
anymore;
they singe desire
between the walls of this spine,
with the flames of their fullness;

you know,
these eyes,
they don't need to clamber
through walls,
and masks,
and wraps,
anymore;
they slice the dark void
between you and me,
with the blade of their truth;

you know,
this is how I walk now,
alone.

the scream

something is ripping off this bandage
I've worn
for many years,
perhaps since I was born.

layers peel off
one warp and weft at a time;
I can feel every hair
smart and pull
and singe,
I can feel
every pore that holds them,
being pried open slowly,

and nothing comes out
but this one shot of breath,
sparking the fires
that choke me;
unable to speak,
all I can do is shriek
and fall into that chasm
of dark silence
where there is no skin to hold me,
only the white emptiness
shrieking back at me.

without a name

these hands,
these eyes,
these feet,
this skin,
are not here to count
how many lovers they have,
how many hearts they touch,
or shatter, or shelter;
they are here to do
what they must do,
only because
they have a name
you cannot know,
and an ageless song
revving up
every cell and pore,
to a sacred communion.

and I pray today
for guidance -
to live my life
like that tiny wildflower,
glowing in the sun and rain,
to eyes that see pauses
between things,
leaving behind
a hint of fragrance
of these skins
crushed and withered,
lying still now,
here, without a name.

without a sound

you showed me how to live
when you walked away
in the quiet of a breath
unheeded,
with eyes rooting
for the intractable darkness ahead,
not turning back even once
to see what was left behind,
no tassels left
to dance with the wind,
only one cord
that binds you
to your undying song -
the one you are here for,
the same song
that leaves sing
in the thick of a forest,
even as they die,
without a sound,
without a fuss,
without one memory
of eons witnessed
over lifetimes
of green to brown.
you showed me how to live
without a sound.

darkness, come alive

in this inescapable black,
where there is no semblance
of the moon or the stars,
or the sun,
or even flickers
of fireflies,
I sow seeds without names,
offering them
to the silent earth,
as she turns,
letting them rest awhile,
until it's time for them
to break open their shells,
so they can live,
so they can die,
in one breath
of utter darkness,
this beautiful darkness,
come alive.

paint and rust

there is an old stairway
on the terrace,
inviting death -
paint peeled,
skins revealed,
growing rust,
disappearing
a little everyday,
into itself.

and there is a voice
that looks the other way,
to life and living,
thinking about shrouds -
how to paint these skins
to last
as long as there are eyes,

when the nature of everything
is to rust.
to mate with everything else,
to change and be changed,
to die into the life
of this glowing, growing dust.

blue throat

every time

I feel a lump in my throat,
I see blue,
I feel blue,
I taste blue,
I hear blue,
the fabric of waters
held in the folds
of Her palm,
for a moment or two,
enough for the poison
to become the medicine
I need ,
held and then released
into the red
of my breath,
emptying everything
into nothingness.

and she walked

and she walked,

walked away from it all;
no looking back,
no tears leaving a trail
to where she was,
only water
held in her womb,
for all to drink,
and sparklers in her eyes,
lighting up her world
with a fierce love,
that speaks
through the hiss
of embers
washed with rain,
and the smell of burnt skin
ravaged by the flames
of her death trail.

becoming sita

sometimes
you find pearls
not in the depths
of untouched oceans,
but out in the wild
where trees mate
and die,
where a fire sits
readying herself
for the flames she grows
with her fidelity -
not to a man
the world loves,
but to a breath
that fans her waters
and tongues of fire
into which she leaps,
with the close of every day
living at the cusp
of two worlds,
the lakshman rekha,
becoming
sita.

what you love

somewhere,
where right and wrong meet
and wage war,
is a battlefield
without words,
without weapons,
without laws,
without a cause;
where everything drops dead
to the ground,
where you stand
on all sides
as one,
taking the shape
of the arrow
of love,
simply
what you love. 

from the other side

I want to plant trees.
All along the road we live in.
Not to save the earth.
Not to preserve the wild
within busy grey walls.
Not to fill the gaping hole
in the ozone layer.
Not to sit under the shade
of a story the world loves
to rave about.
Not for Facebook likes,
or petitions garnering tribes.

I want to plant trees.
So the two dogs
who come hanging their tongues,
looking for cars to sleep
under this scorching heat,
or the men who work
on sites and roads,
holding fire in their hands,
can rest a while;
so the cats and birds
and butterflies and worms,
have friends and enemies,
and homes to climb and fly;
so I can find a home
away from home,
for these tiny saplings
peeking out from the fold
of their mother's bosom;

yes, I want to plant trees
I can talk to and feel love,
here, from the other side.

warpaint and fire

there is a space
I can walk,
where I don't need
warpaint and fire,
or cries blasting open
the silence
where fault lines shift,
sink and explode,
and still I walk
held by opposite worlds,
and not swinging between them,
holding the one tiny spark
of love inside
for everything
tugging at this skin
called I.

lies

lies lay scattered
in the dirt,
like impotent seeds,
biding their time,
until the seasons change,
when they lie exposed
to what they could not be,
truths they could not see or feel,
for they were just that -
lies.

here, now

squeezed
between
moving walls,
to one last breath
of everything that was,
pushed,
shoved,
heaved across
the grooves
of a growing darkness,
where breath stops,
where dreams don't matter,,
where thoughts
freeze over hell,
where hope
stings every cell,
the cord is cut,
finally;
the womb is no longer home,
but a prison
without bars and walls;
seeding the faith
in Neverland,
here, now.

striptease

hey, I don't need to strip myself in public,
not anymore;
no, I don't need to wear clothes to stuff my boobs,
my biceps or my backside,
not anymore;
no, I don't need to let them hang loose
behind large windows and doors
that keep the wind up,
not anymore;
no, I don't need highlights and curls
and made up moles
in the right places,
no not anymore;
hey, I'm not a stripper -
not anymore;
I don't need your eyes
to meet mine,
to ogle at me,
or look me up and down
like a can full of worms;
I have mine; my own;
and,
in the comfort of my own room,
in the attic or in the hallway,
or down in the dark basement,
where I shed skins without a mirror,
I strip down to my bones,
until the marrow oozes
from every pore,
where these eyes
burn into every nook and cranny,
reveling in the mystery
of what it takes to be me,
turned on by the sheer audacity
of being
this man, this woman,
for my eyes
alone.

at the altar of waiting

clouds of grey 

and indigo

gather

across the sun,

eyes dart

over cornered angles

of a protracted sky,

trees thirst 

with their necks arched,

dancing already, 

to a song

they want to hear,

the dark dirt 

arranges her pleats,

readying herself

for sweet communion,

tired hands 

wriggle and clench

their fingers in hope,

while I sit on the edge 

of worlds, and watch -

an invisible dewdrop,

serenading the clouds,

with her rain,

at the altar of waiting.

the glass blower

sit in the fire.
still.
naked.
fragile.
innocent.
like glass
waiting
to be blown;
when walls
grow soft,
yet defiant,
decanting the world
in their skins,
holding the pain and joy
you could not pour,
nor keep;
when goblets
become bubbles
growing in thin air,
rising and falling
into the flames
of what held them,
what grew them,
without,
within.

the enigma

every time I sit with her,
I slip into the silence of a forest,
where mysteries are written
on festive fronds,
dancing in the light
of the darkness around.

every time I sit with her,
I grow into a still leaf,
hanging on the edge
of not knowing
when and how I'm going to
fly or fall.

every time I sit with her,
my eyes close all on their own,
taking me deep into the void,
where everything marries nothing,
where thoughts freeze over a warm lake,
where I sit on the edge
watching ripples make stars,
lost in the wonder of how
humans and animals live together,
skin against skin,
how words fall like dead leaves
to the forest floor,
how skins smell and touch each other
without touching,
with a quiet, endless love.

the weight of clouds

these clouds have a mind of their own.
or no mind. when I watch them
come and go
without reason,
without announcements,
they passover
on tip toes,
walking on wings I cannot see,
but only feel in the pores
of this skin held taut,
now filled with the weight
of these weightless clouds.

there is a joy that's quiet, 
with no flairs and flourishes, 
nor expressed 
with exclamation and gushes,
just a simple, silent celebration 
of everything and nothing, 
like falling snowflakes 
melting into a warm earth.

lying here,
stretched to my bones,
listless and worn,
an empty parchment,
listening to a thousand songs,
waiting to be written,
and rolled out
into the world.
undone.

a small world

my eyes are contained

for once
to this room,
the arc from the window
to the green wall,
half a circle
of thoughts and dreams,
of longings and betrayals,
of losses and seeds,
and I feel the whole world
through the dancing leaves
and swaying trees,
the impatient crow calls
and the crisp morning breeze,
the sound of kisses and hugs,
between father and son,
and for a while
I let myself simmer
in the quiet
of a small world,
filled with a deepening love.

tentacles of thoughts
and feelings,
known and unknown,
once groping 
in the murky blue,
now cut off,
drawn in,
into the void,
to feed on itself,
its own flesh, spirit
and skin.

this heart

this heart
doesn't open and close
like a flower
dancing between the lips
of a sunrise and a sunset,
this heart
opens
only a little more
each time,
like the pores on a skin
trembling, singing
with the music,
that stabs them
into a trance
with every note
and pause,
only so they can
open their lips,
just a little more,
a little more,
each time.

S.I.L.E.N.C.E.

silence
is not the end,
or the beginning
of a journey,
I found out today,
as the flour flew
from my fingers
to the earth,
when every sound
came alive
from the silent ocean bed -
birds chattering,
complaining even,
a brown leaf rolling across the floor,
branches creaking with their weight,
flowers whispering a softness
into the crisp morning air,
vehicles rushing to the land
of nowhere,
tears falling like winged seeds
upon a moist earth,
memories speaking their unforgettable stories,
etched in the quiet of a throbbing heart,
.SILENCE.
where everything rests
and comes alive,
drawing me deeper
and deeper,
into that void
which connects worlds
within worlds -
the ancient sage
without a name or form,
who sees everything,
who knows everything,
who feels everything
in every breath and pore,
a celebration of the journey,
the silence that is
the essence
of it all.

stand alone

I look around me
sometimes,
and only see clichés
everywhere,
ideas huddled together
in one frightened embrace
called love,
passions stoking the embers
of forgotten childhoods,
of dreams that never grew wings,
fountains of emotions
watering each other
in a frenzy,
thoughts looking for hooks
to hang themselves upon
to stay, to show themselves off,
voices herded together
in a slaughterhouse,
where spirit is killed
ruthlessly,
where I look fervently
for that one note,
that one song,
that one pause,
that stands alone,
that stills the wrinkles
of this ancient skin.

empty wonder

every night,
at the altar of
a swirling darkness,
of not knowing
where I am
or what I do,
I empty this cup,
filled with the earnings
of another busy day -
heartfelt offerings
at the temple of silence
where souls meet,
to fill it with nothing,
only the empty wonder
of a child
who longs for nothing,
and yet leaves the doors open
waiting for everything.

to Arunachala

everything
is not okay with me;
if it were,
I'd be dead and gone;
not here,
in these whorls of skin,
that speak to me
like church bells
ringing
with the ancient wind
from the stars
dying and being born,
writing that one line
inscribed across the blue,
showing me
what I need now,
what is what,
and who is who;
stripping me
of the loin of fear
that keeps lips quiet
when they ought to speak;

and so I speak
for myself,
for Life who wedded me
on one cold dark night,
when I lay ravaged
to my bones;
building my own temple
for the flame I must carry,
to that hill -
to Arunachala,
where even Ramana
stood his ground,
leaving his own mother
and his hearth,
for what he knew
was always home.

the blue grotto

I live in the blue,

in a grotto

where few dare to look,

where waters come and go

with every high tide,

filling the gnarled darkness

with a softness,

carving mysteries

written in stone,

conversations

between friends

melting into the stillness

of moonbeams

in the distance,

ephemeral,

yet deep,

stripping

these cloches of fear,

with every tide,

writing history

in the pages

of this one 

quivering heart,

who only knows

the silence

of everything blue.

speak then

don't speak from
the hollow of your skull,
those ancient grooves
of insipid grey,
curling up with pride,
speak from
those bleeding rivers
that feed them all,
crashing against walls,
breaking them
into the vastness
and nothingness
of their own selves,
carrying the shifting silt
of this one blessed
human experience.

speak then,
from there,
from the bowels
of your breath,
so you can listen,
so we can all listen.

invitation

look to nature -

to the flowers

and leaves,

to the stones

and the dirt,

to the drops of rain

and mountain dew,

to the calls of koels

and guttural croaks,

and you will find

only invitations -

a voice that speaks

without words,

a song that sings

without a tune,

a canvas that paints itself,

without form,

without hues,

a quilt woven seamlessly

on strings of a great love

and nothingness,

where everything

is welcome.

nowhere

every once in a while,
I reach the end
of a road
I thought was a road,
to realise in the walls
within walls
of my skin,
that I'm levitating
in the middle of nowhere,
looking around
for a sign,
for something,
for anything,
to speak to me,
when there is nothing;
only a black void
sucking me in slowly,
and all I can hear
is the rush of blood
crashing into those walls
over and over again,
not looking, for anything.

making a mandala

fingers strut
across water,
forcing patterns
over ancient patterns
that never stay,
that only move
and grow wings,
stretched over
the web of water,
as these flowers
and leaves
and pollen,
take in a new breath
with every ripple,
telling me
to grow quiet,
to sink deeper,
to reach that still point
where even a drop
of silence
embalms the water
with its fragrance -
the essence
of all patterns,
touched,
moved,
forged,
and forgotten.

being human

I don't like you,
I never did,
I don't trust you,
I never did,
and yet today,
when you walked away
with your belongings,
loaded one by one,
onto the waiting truck,
I felt a pang in my heart -
the pain and the joy
of turning our backs
and going our own ways,
as I was held among bristles,
pricking me awake
to what will always remain
between us -
the soft animal
of this body,
this being human,
you and me,
without a name.

prayer wheel

the world doesn't know my beloved,
who comes to me
from the fluid pleats
of utter darkness,
when the outside
grows all quiet,
when lips speak
with soft strums of silence,
on the wings of a breath
of nothingness,
where the world freezes over
into a timeless bubble
of imploding galaxies,
where nothing matters
but you and me,
and what we speak,
and the fervent whorls
of this whirling body,
this unstoppable
prayer wheel.

words with wings

words don't lie -

if I listen long enough,

deep enough,

and am quiet enough,

they speak to me

of all things;

things they carry

on their silent wings,

touched by the folds

of a fickle wind,

they carry a whiff

of the heady fragrance

of memories, dreams,

heartbreaks,

and all those

unsaid things.

fire beneath water

a burnt sienna flare
across the moist earth,
and I wonder how
the fire came to be
above water,
until I bend down
and touch
the skin on skin -
a long-forgotten leaf,
from an ancient tree,
burning one last time,
sprawled
on one breath
of love and indifference,
showing me how to live
and die,
as fire beneath water.

come

come,
come to this house,
where you can see
doors, windows
and walls
like any other;

come,
knock on the door,
or ring the bell,
or just step right in
without a sound,
walk away
when you feel like,
in silence,
or with a stomp, or a snort,
ignoring what's around;
or just pause for a moment,
to nod, smile
or whisper goodbye,
flaunting all that you found;

come,
come to this house,
where there's nothing,
where there's something
called me,
where you can leave
and take away
all that you find,
and still not take it all,
nor leave,
anything behind.

whale song

I'm not looking for nectar,
for anything,
like even the gods and devils did

yet, today, all I can feel
is a deep churning
of the ocean
inside -
this sliver of skin
rolled, twisted,
and pulled,
breath heaving
against waters,
this way and that

strings of an emptiness,
plucked and stoked
into a silent song -
the song of a lone whale
laboring through murky waters,
where heaven meets
and greets
this one blackened,
blessed earth.

I wear a sari

the first time I wore a sari,
was for you,
to see the woman I had become;
yes, it was a long time ago;

a sari pleated and pinned
with joy -
the joy of belonging
to someone
other than me;

today, I don't wear a sari
that often,
and when I do,
I wear it for me -
to feel the woman I am,
with love handles et al;

six yards of skin,
wrapped around skin;
pleated and pinned
with a slowness of being,
and a deep pang of something
I can never call my own.

a new shape of love

i'm tired of heart-shaped hearts,
that make it easy
to speak of and show love.

love is not a short-cut,
an embellishment,
a reckoning,
or a hurried swish
to make everything okay.

love is a heart
without a shape;
it's pointy, ragged,
tattooed, crumpled,
squished, torn,
chewed, stretched,
and worn.

so let's speak of
and show each other,
our love,
a new shape of love.

the sword

don't come to me
so I listen to you,
come to me
because
you want to listen
to your own self -
to that voice
which stands out
like the last note
in an ensemble,
the one that sticks
like a two-edged sword
in the centre
of your heart,
holding you
even as it
slices you open
into a profound
wakefulness.

the one place I know is home

I carry this shell
wherever I go -
paths drawn out,
poised on the edge
of uncertainty,
trails forged
by a will
that will not rest,
curling up
into themselves,
even as they unfurl,
and unfold,
where every step
leads me
into that one place
I know is home.

communion

go into that dark cave
where all your fears
come alive,
where you are clawed,
mauled and gorged upon
by that one inescapable fear -
to stand alone,

and then,
if you survive,
crawl out and rise,
to stand with me
like two trees
talking through their roots,
never once losing
what's precious to them,
yet dancing in the shadows
of their tree-ness.

untouchable

I make mandalas
with flowers
and leaves
and shells
and presence.

I never stopped to think,
to question
anything,
as I made them -
there was no need.

and then suddenly,
in an unruly ocean
of teeming thoughts,
a mandala formed
where my eyes turned in;

a lady was creating a mandala
with flowers
and leaves
and shells
and presence;

adding things,
taking away things,
as she pleased,
and yet, every petal,
leaf and flower,

remained unchanged -
beautifully whole,
alone, a-part and together,
forever touched,
yet untouchable.

from the other side of nowhere

I feel the footsteps
like growing drumbeats,
announcing
her stolid arrival -
she walks on still water;

I hear the howl
of a lone gutteral voice,
curdling the quiet
with her soul-full intolerance -
she speaks with
swords on her tongue;

I smell the singed skins
of hunted corpses,
feasted upon, then discarded
upon a blackened earth -
she smells of
a forest on fire;

I see the fangs
unfurled
behind her clenched lips,
holding back all apologies -
she holds the silence
of utter wilderness;

I watch the silhouette
of a lady
draped in black,
owning her skin,
for not being anyone
other than who she is -

the woman
from the other side of nowhere

invisible

some day perhaps,
when I reach the end,
I won't look back,
at the tracks I left
on this still, empty sand,
I'll run like the dingo
into the wildness
of myself
and everything there is,
not wanting to stop
and stand astonished
at the patterns
dissolving
into themselves,
or etched into the grooves
of a history
that must be owned
at all costs,
some day perhaps,
I'll just crumble
and settle quietly,
into the stillness
of this empty sand.

and there are words

and there are words
that strive to reach
somewhere,
stopping and looking around
for a way,
like those furtive eyes
of a cat perked up
on its perch;
and there are words
like those free giveaways
at shopping counters,
more of the same
you may not need,
and there are words
like a coat of varnish
on those deep grains
of seasoned wood,
covering up the wild scent;
and there are words
that flow effortlessly
even as a tiny trickle
of rain water
along the mud,
wetting our toes,
and connecting us,
wherever we stand,

welcome

I wonder often
when I wake up,
what makes these eyes
feel welcome?
that they open afresh
to every morn?
what is the invitation
left unwritten
upon these lashes,
heavy and curled
with the weight
of things gone by
and those yet to come?

welcome is not easy
but it is possible,

in an unfamiliar face
without a name,
in skins worn and discarded
by community and solitude,
by love and humiliation,
by faith and betrayal,
by unity and rejection;

welcome is not easy,
but it is possible,

in a world
that comes alive
to a new place
in our eyes,
in our hearts,
everyday,
strolling in
uninvited,
yet always
welcome.

here. now.

I watch the way

my hands 

bring me

here

I could not 

draw a circle

if I kept looking

to where they had to go,

or where they started from

yes, these hands

bring me

here -

to this space

unfolding,

even as they move

this space,

where hands

meet the fire, 

the waters,

the earth,

the sky,

within and without,

dots and hearts

meeting

one moment

at a time

here.

now.

spoken

it doesn't matter
what you wear
or don't,
for your soul shows
on the skin
of your heart,
that feeds
and speaks
to every cell,
to tell the world
who you are,
and why you are here,
resting in the silent folds
of every breath,
every move,
every word,
held
and already spoken.

once

there is a tree
who weeps
every night,
shedding pure white wisps
of transient dreams,
fired by a devotion
to simply live,
filling the cold air
with her essence,
singed by the harshness
of a blazing sun,
who jolts them awake
to a one night stand;

and as I saw those
countless pearls
resting in their fullness
upon the listless sand
this morning,
I made a wish to die
invisible
like them,
exploding into
their own scent,
with nothing to do
but live
and love
this one night stand,
once.

for a morsel of life

sometime ago
I wrote a poem
on hunger,
the hunger I knew -
the hunger of eyes
always searching
for something
among cracks,
the hunger of hearts
yawning and closing
to be filled
and emptied,
the hunger of skin
baring itself
to be stroked
to its sensibility,
and the hunger of spirit
smitten by a delirium
of la la land,

until I came upon
this hunger -
of hands
sold to the soul,
itching to work,
to feed stomachs
churning,
calling,
for a morsel of life
lived simply,
with grace,
and an impeccable devotion
to what gives,
to what is -
their lives.

handmade

bless these hands,
for they guide me
to follow the threads
of a heart-stitched life -

filaments of light,
torching the dross,
tethered to the call
from the void

where nothing is seen,
or heard or felt,
only listened to
with every cell
rising from the marrow,

where longing
delights the spirit,
where passion howls,
serenading
the wild heart,

who only knows
how to craft a life
that's simple,
with hands that speak
in silence.

your eyes

I see your eyes,
they give it all away -
those dark pits
you're terrified of
stepping into
alone;
skins stitched
apart -
even as they touch,
like ice cubes
frozen
in their sameness,
and a blood
they hold
but cannot share;
bodies bonded
in a cling-wrap of fear,
smiling outside,
even as they scream
inside,
for eyes that care to look
where no one
wants to tread,
alone.

the spiral

nothing's ever forgotten
in this world
on a spiral -
where everything rests
in the space between
dreaming
and becoming,
where splinters shatter
like resolute dewdrops,
only to return anew,
on new coordinates
of love,
held in the matrix
of a joyous celebration
of all of life,
spiraling into themselves,
over and over again.

this voice

this voice
does not belong to me.

sometimes, it comes
from the mighty mountains
holding an audience
with the raging sun
and a swirling sky,
sometimes, it whispers
from the tips of leaves
glazed by the moistness
of coy winter dewdrops,
sometimes, it saunters in
with the daintiness
of devoted dragonflies,
smelling the faraway rain,
sometimes, it rides the waves
of a twisting ocean,
breaking its silence
over a placid shore,
sometimes, it slices the skin
of a hardened earth,
letting it bleed
into the black night,

yes, this voice
does not belong to me;
it belongs to the stillness
of a cosmos
that's alive
with the dead.

there is no place like home

everyday

when the birds fly home
and rest their wings
upon twigs and leaves,
sharing the spoils
of another day flown,
the wind stirs
and breathes
new life
into me,
showing me how to stay
and move on
without ever leaving
home.

yes, there is no place like home.

empty stomach

I look around me
and all I see
sometimes
is hunger -
in little kids
getting bored
in a blink,
in tottering elders
locking out death
in every breath,
in hapless youth
wandering listless
upon shifting sands,
in obsessive seekers
searching for a musk
they cannot smell,

yes, I see
hungry eyes,
hungry hands,
hungry feet,
hungry mouths,
hungry ears,
hungry skin,
hungry heads,
growing tentacles,
groping
for something,
for anything,
to hold on to,
wanting
all the time,
to suck,
to suckle,
to be filled -

empty stomachs
of everything,
burgeoning
like mushrooms,
not knowing
how to be
empty
or full,

only propelled
and shoved around
by an unstoppable avarice
to latch on,
to own something,
to hold onto something,
they can never catch
or call their own.

new leaves

two weeks ago,
this tree was bare,
all skin and bones,
standing
in her own glorious halo
of aloneness,
like only a tree would.

today,
her new leaves
have re-turned,

without brouhaha,

with noone to tell them

where to go
or how to be,
only a whisper
from within
and beyond,
to those who care to listen -

that something
always survives
and thrives,
that something
is on its way,
something you see
and yet cannot see.

half done

some things
are perhaps best left
half done -
to enjoy the silent ache
of forgotten things,
tied with the strings
of what could have been,
steeped in the aroma
of what was left
blowing in the wind,

a dandelion leaves her home
half dreamed,
half done.