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.