when I live from my soul

when I live from my soul,
I hear only a gush
of a simmering silence,
coursing through every pore,
I feel only the call
of a resplendent cosmos
spark these resting limbs
and firefly thoughts,
I see only the changing frame
of a mysterious window,
open to the wind,
light and dark,
I smell the mud and wood
of a wild and simple home,
raised on a warm bed
of dead skin and bones;

when I live from my soul,
I tear open this throbbing heart,
to bare it all and walk on,
even as it bleeds,
with everything I own. 

on fire

the winds are gone,
the clouds are gone,
the birds are gone,
the rains are gone,
the trees are gone;

but the sea she stays
still in the distance,
roaring
with every breath,
with the silence
of what was,
of what could not be,
of what is,
here,
on fire,
between earth
and heaven.

everything has a voice

listen

to the brush of breath
against every skin,
and you will know
how everything has a voice,
singing through
those silent pores 
standing guard
like loyal sentries,
speaking across the void,
from skin to skin.

art for heart's sake

sometimes
what is needed
is not display,
is not a warrior
with ammunition 
to destroy 
what must die,
at some cost;

sometimes 
what is needed
is art,
is an artist
diligently at work
at his craft,
breathing life into 
what lies in his hands now;

the true warrior of heart -
making art for heart's sake.

white rose

your words
touch me
with the silence
of morning dewdrops
lying still,
yet awake,
alive to the warmth
of the first kiss
of a new day,

your words
take me
into the deep folds
of a white rose bud,
blossoming into
a soundless sound,
and a devotion
that cannot be bound
to the contours of her skin.

they stay

I watch myself
hold on
to some things,
even as I let them flow,
even as I let them go
like water
through the creases
of these palms,
they stay
like the unseen skin
of a water drop
cleaving to this human skin,
not willing to go,
not because
of a persistent love,
unwilling to die,
but because of its wetness,
its essence,
distilled
from its glory
of wanting to be
nothing,
in everything.

wings, fire, earth and sky

in one moment
of perfect alchemy,
of wings, fire, earth and sky,
something called a bird is born,
to forge a heaven on earth,
and an earth in the sky.

source

sometimes,
water has to meander,
get lost underground,
disappear into thin air,
freeze in its tracks,
lash out with its pinpricks,
melt into a firm hearth,
explode into frenetic bubbles,
making their way
through an unseen door;

sometimes,
water has to hang heavy
in a thankless shroud,
work itself through the grind
of every ebb and flow,
rest in a faithful patience,
on the lonesome edge
of a single blade of time,
catapult through an emptiness,
with no map, no semblance of sound;

sometimes,
water has to look
all around for itself,
in everything not water,
even as it moves home,
over and over again,
only to return to
that home,
the source
it never left behind.

same

I woke up to a grey sky
and birdsong wrapped
in wet leaves,
the smell of salt
melting into a drizzle,
the touch of home
in a wandering breeze,

all same.

no matter where I live,
what I do or not,
some things nameless,
hold my heart
and everything,
in a soundless sound.

empty shell

the wind was up today
as I stood
looking out into
the sheets of darkness
folding over
the once green earth,

emptiness -
a shell that speaks
of a life lived to the hilt,

what was once alive,
now gone,
leaving behind
empty walls,
and empty floors -
an empty house,
with nothing to hold
but the wind picking up
with his sprightly dance
around the dead;

and then,
as if listening
to the slow churning
of my gut,
he suddenly paused,
looking into this hollow womb,
watching the hairs
stand on end
on this jaded skin,
combing them gently
with his careful caress,

breathing a new life
into this empty shell,
where dreams nestle
in a hammock,
cuddling against a blue sky,

and coaxing this empty house
into a freshness,
to dream a little more -
of children laughing
and skipping,
of squirrels collecting seeds,
and birds talking to the trees,
of people chatting
over mundanities,
and fighting over precious things,
of old folks reminiscing,
waiting to die
and move on
to other things,
into another
empty shell
where life waits
in a timeless curl
of silence,
of a joyous remembrance.

two solitudes

two solitudes
sitting together 
side by side,
looking into
the charred silence,
hands clasped
in a love
that knows
what was spent,
dusted and wrung out,
with a zest for life,
meeting itself
at the crossroad
of what was,
what is,
and what could be,
in one pristine breath
of a life,
lit among the embers
of this stony silence,
chiselling our skins
into one
now.

like honey

some things in life
are like honey -
full of a goodness,
a natural sweetness
digested over time,
poised in its flow,
trickling across,
in its own time,
that cannot be coaxed
or hurried up,
but only watched
and relished
from a tantalizing
distance,
that only sweetens
the longing.

unshakable, roots

sinking through
unfathomable depths,
sanded against the grains
of this hallowed earth,
rooting for themselves
and what they serve,
melting into their own skins
first,
burning through the quiet
of an incorrigible resolve
to thrive, not just survive,
defying sky and water
and everything between,
without a whisper,
yet shaking themselves
free of it all,
to remain unshakable,
roots.

resting place

there is no wall
where my feet rest
as I walk this path,
there is only that space
where I can rest now,
where roots grow,
meet and entwine
with the play of
light and dark
of every wondrous
awakened morn.

an ordinary life

every time I think of home,
my eyes wander out
somewhere across
these fragile shells
and this drab landscape,
to an unreachable meeting place
I love to yearn for, strive for,
so I have work to do,

and then, sometimes,
in the yolk of a timeless pause,
where there are no legs to tread,
no eyes to open or close,
no arms to reach out with or hold,
no skin to feel or shed,
no ears to perk up or shut,
no breath to watch
moving in and out,
I am laid to rest
in the hearth
of this everyday life -

buzzing with noises,
emails and whatsapp messages,
my facebook feed,
and hungry stomachs to feed,
skins to cover and clean,
irritating people and their beliefs,
news from across the world,
dishes to be done,
clothes to be folded,
friends to speak to or not,
thoughts on a train to nowhere,
feelings I must dip into and out,

yes, life has a way
to wake us up,
every now and then,
from workshops and retreats,
our endless quests as tourists,
our meticulous,clinical dealings,
our hypochondriacal beliefs,
into the simple ordinariness
of this one extraordinary life.

rings of fire

your questions are not words
searching for light,
they are embers that fly
out of the burning thoughts
in your mind,
that I collect and pile,
wondering how they will fare
over time -

will they grow cold
and become ashes
of a quenched fire?
or will they stay
warm and close
to the sap
distilled over lifetimes,
burning and creating
new fires
where they land?
or will they explode
into the silence
of a dark night,
every creation
trembling
in the skin of this breath,
of these rings of fire
without a name?

throwback

I sit with boxes
that talk to me -
a friend,
a stranger,
a mirror,
without hooks,
holding space for me
in a stolid silence,

memories,
questions,
doubts,
emotions,
thrown back,
from a busy head
into an empty skin,
washing over
from beyond,
like the ancient wind,

bringing me
face to face
with that dark threshold,
where I must walk
with no one but myself,
before I look and leap
into what throws me
into life, and death.

chameleons

chameleons

shadow dancing

in a pack,

changing 

costumes,

masks,

props,

at will,

but only under the light,

when they can disappear

into those effable skins,

colours they never own,

no backbone,

forever becoming

what they use

to perch,

to prey,

as a mere puppet 

on strings,

dancing with them,

in a trance,

bedazzled by the light,

burning against the veil 

of darkness,

waiting to be lifted

and thrown

into wakefulness
that must be owned.

a sauntering love

when you know where
that voice lies inside,
showing you the way,
whatever the weather
and terrain outside,
there is a difference
in the way
you move in this world,
with a sauntering love
that doesn't have to argue
about the colour of the sky,
how leaves fall,
the source of a river,
or these street names.

gathering silence

I gather this silence
from these soft petals
of green,
now orphaned,
lying on the floor,
waiting without hurry,
moved every now and then
by a bustling ant family,
and the margins of a waft
of a secret alchemy,
of everything me
and not me.

soulsspeak

the poems that write me
get written
even as they make me cry,
but not this one :)

this one came
like a happy firefly
dancing with herself
in her own light,

as she sang this out to me -

'one day
when we meet again,
i'll tell you how
I came upon this dance -
when you made me laugh
holding my insides,
when i got to know
how your souls
had already spoken
to one another,
written their scripts,
designed their costumes,
and chosen their roles
to be played to perfection,
a stream of white lies
that must be spoken
and dreamed,
and shattered,
while you sat here
groping
in the shadows of your skins -
of who you were,
who you were becoming,
together,
a joke that you must
share, live, laugh about
and sell.'

soulsspeak
before you can hear them,
so be quiet, and listen.
lol :)

without a voice

last year
I packed you
into a blog,
into a frame,
into a space
with a form,
without a name

today,
I took you down
from that wall
where my eyes
loved to linger,
every now and then

I packed you
again,
this time,
into a box
I'll open
maybe in a year,
or maybe not

with other pictures
framed, lifeless,
and flat,
in another place
without a form,
without a name,
without a voice

yet,
still,
my appa.

sacred space

these fingers reach
this heart touches
you
from that sacred space
within,
where there are no questions
to be asked
or answered,
only a quiet presence
of something,
a flame perhaps,
burning alone,
for you,
for everything.

untouched

you can cut away these limbs,
stab this skin countless times,
you can splay this form
with blood and spit,
and seal every pore you find,
you can trip what you see,
with that hungry gleam in your eyes,
you can steal what you think you own,
and gobble every crumb left behind,
and some day you'll know,
how there were ancient seeds
resting in the dark grooves
of a faithful patience,
you could not find or touch,
and how the stars explode
even as they collapse,
inspiring life
into every sprout,
hidden,
grown,
untouched.

grown on faith

I trust you
with your words
and mine,
belief flung across
these words,
like soft green tendrils
climbing into the mystery
of a universe unfolding
between us, with us,
where there is no place for lies,
shattering this world
with fierce stabs of rain,
or lashing tongues of fire,
or the elusive mist of a love
we're too scared to own,
only a green tenderness
slipping into the light
of an unbroken tomorrow,
grown on fragile threads
of a simple faith.

here, now

somewhere
in this grumble
of noises
in an expectant womb -
the crackle of bubble-wrap
rolling in busy hands,
the cackle of an eleven year old
immersed in a blissful self-forgetting,
the ordinariness
of a neighbour's doorbell
swiveling my attention,
the flick of a spoon
landing anyhow
against hot metal,
the soft thud of boxes
stripped and sealed,
and the silent whisper
of the ocean from afar,
always awake
to her presence and absence,
moves a lightness,
an innocence,
a sparkle,
of simply being,
here, now.

this death

today,
I sit beside this corpse
in an old skin of mine,
its eyes closed
in deep conversation
with its emptiness,
its hands resting lightly
upon its chest,
holding everything
and nothing
in one tight clasp,
its legs stretched
and spent,
after a long journey,
with one piece of cloth
shrouding, celebrating,
its well-worn scars,
with its face frozen
into a peace that glows
and becomes
this one lifetime lived
with these human eyes,
and the scent of home
lingering
in every smile and tear,
and pore opened
and closed,
the stillness of a breath
that has overflowed
into a world now ready to move on,
yes, this skin lies content,
with nothing more to be or do
or become.

and some day,
I wish to leave this world like that.

remembrance

I want to remember you
as a mystery,
not held by a string of questions
guiding me to move
as I touch and feel them
against my skin;
I want to remember you
as the cosmos,
filling me with the unspeakable,
drawing me close,
then spinning me afar,
yet always moving me
somewhere reachable
in this one moment,
held by a faith
and a love -
as mysterious
as the magic they paint
across this evening sky.

on giving

what can I give to you
that is truly self-less,
that doesn't stain my hands,
that doesn't leave its fragrance
in the folds of this heart,
that doesn't chisel this form
into a softness that melts?
that doesn't speak
of a flowering
or a disappearance?
what can I give to you
that is not yours or mine,
something that belongs
to the skin we share,
where you end and I begin?
what can I give you
that doesn't take
a piece of me or you?
where life and death
hold each other
in one melded moment,
in one tight embrace
of a love,
of a joy,
of a celebration,
that must be shared
to be felt?

for when I give something,
you give something away too.

of leaves and tombs

everything human
stays,
like those staunch tombstones
standing unchanged
over eons passed,
in pedicured gardens,
that must be green
at any cost,
where feet cannot rustle
with fallen leaves of gold,
and hear the song of trees
full of souls
ready to go
where there are no graves,
only wombs
opening and closing
with the turn
of every breath
lived once.

folds unfold

every day
I fold the clothes
with their softness
of the old,
and their crispness
of the sun-soaked new,
cleansed and put away
in their places,

and with them,
go those thoughts
and stories
unfolded
and then folded,
each day,
with the hint of wind
in every crease.

seasons

the last leaf
on a bare tree
stands apart -
flapping with abandon
and one stalk of faith
that holds her for now,
in this one moment
of past, present
and tomorrow,
captured and felt
in her veins,
throbbing with the sap
of a fresh day,
while her partners
lay spent and burnt
upon a singed earth,
both she and them
waiting for
the seasons to turn,
coaxing them slowly
into their skins,
changed, grown
and newly worn.

between skin and skin

I sit here
before the dark skin
of a formless god,
where stars are born,
and they die,
without a hue and cry,
and feel my heart melt
like a lump of sugar,
in the aroma of a brew
that must be sipped
quietly, slowly,

eyes turning
frame by frame,
locked in the beauty
of all they see -
stillness etched
on leaves and reeds,
busy ripples skating
this way and that,
white birds without names,
taking to the dance floor
in the breath of a whisper,
and the tingling pores
of this skin
soaked in one timeless drop
of silence,

where nothing fights
for its place,
where nothing asks
for you to leave or stay,
where nothing speaks
of one language
that must be worn or shed,
or a fierce love
that must be held back
to fill each skin,

where everything
simply rests,
moves and flows,
in the silence
between
skin and skin.

ochre sky

I remember how you slept
with your head resting
on the tiny pillow I'd made
just for you,
filled with mustard seeds,
yielding to the softness
of your thoughts and dreams
for a new world
I may never live to see,

today, as I hear you speak
of this and that
and everything between,
your words flowing over and around
these thought-pebbles in my head,
I hear a song -
the sound of those mustard seeds
turning, cracking and sprouting
into an ochre sky.

the scent of home

'where is home?'
I asked myself,
as I walked along the river
of desire, of longing,
always looking
for the way home

as if I knew it already,
somewhere in the softness
and whiteness,
of these bones burning to ash,
offered to the river,
carrying it to source -

that heaven
where trickles meet
the yawning ocean and sky,
held by the shifting earth
containing the fire
of all that she loves,

that homecoming
where everything
and nothing
is source,
the eternal home
of all that is

in every line,
every meander,
every spark,
every breath,
every grain,
that speaks of home,

as I rest on these banks
of a gushing river,
with nothing to do,
but soak it all in,
nowhere to go,
but stay right here,

where there are
no more questions,
no maps or signposts,
only this one breath
holding the scent
of home.

the shade of love

every time
the moon slips into
the newness of her dark tent,
this chalice empties its blood
into the gut of the earth
and all that she holds,
the shade of love
hidden in a rose
handed over in silence,
from heart to heart,
blooming and withering
over and over,
unfolding her tiny petals
to grow and die
to the breath
of the turning cosmos
we all seek,
me in you,
and you in me.

unbreakable

'you break my heart',
says a world,
carrying its suffering
like a beggar
holding his bowl out
to every home;
until it pauses
in its windswept tracks
and listens
to the waves lashing
the shores of reason,
when it suddenly
comes to know
that a heart can never
break or be broken,
a heart can only explode
into tiny starbursts
of an unbreakable love
that simply cannot be
held back from itself.

this skin

in that space,
undefined,
where this skin
meets every other skin,
where there is no line to draw,
no yours or mine,
a new world is born,
where bondage and freedom
smell the same
to this skin
that always knows
when to be or become.

behind the scenes

the world's a stage
for hungry eyes
that feed on show
and talent,
on words and bodies
manicured
into perfection,
where life's hidden
under the spotlight
of a becoming,
where there's no place
for those tremulous touches,
those beads of sweat
on line-filled palms,
and cues from voices
heard and thanked
for when they spoke
from the wings,
where every life hack's born
from sitting in the fire
in the greenroom.

what is

in that one moment
of sky and ocean,
I suddenly come to know
the nakedness of my being

when my body whispers
and trembles,
as it remembers
all its old skins and longings

now leaving everything behind

taking only the silence
of what must be taken
as I walk along these empty shores,
listening to a voice I cannot hide

and these irises now,
fully open to mysteries
that must be lived and owned,
as life flows on

where there are no beginnings
where there are no endings,
only a travelogue
of this one moment,
stretched across eyes and skin

an empty canvas ready to bleed
into a starburst of infinite peace,
and a love that holds everything
even as it sets them free

leaving everything as they should be

the gift

can you see that gleam
in the silver of your dark eyes?
can you feel the flutter
in the hollow of your chest?
can you hear the whisper
of a song only your ears hear?
wait. hold on.
open the tender palms
of your folded heart,
and receive it all.
hold it for a while
in the cup of your mind,
look at it,
roll it around,
hear it speak softly
as it makes friends with you,
touch its many faces,
feel it grow wings and roots
reaching out to you,
don't be in a hurry
to make it flower and fruit,
to find a reason, a use,
or to scatter the joy with abandon;
wait. hold on.
and watch it lie still
somewhere inside you,
growing
in and with you,
as you fold your heart
one more time
in prayer,
cherishing the gift
of a lifetime,
yours,
to give away now
with a smile.

the waves at the door

the waves are here today,
right at my door,
not near the faraway smell
of salt being sifted and churned,
not inside this growing, molting skin,
groping in the dark for its roots,
but here, at the door,
where I can feel, hear
and watch them come and go -
these great swirls and tides,
never losing their sea-ness,
pushing, pulling, seducing
and tugging at all those roots,
that can't tell the earth
from water or sky,
wetting my pores
with their breath of salt,
reminding me of the cosmic blueprint
that sits inside us all,
unfolding waves of stories,
waiting to be held
and simply watched. 

back to myself

I went to the sky
and asked for some light,
but all she gave me
was her blue-black silence.
I went to the earth
and asked for a hug,
but all she gave me
was her fragrant silence.
I went to the wind
and asked for a song,
but all he gave me
was his steadfast silence,
I went to the sun
and asked for a spark,
but all he gave me
was his fiery silence,
I went to the ocean
and asked for some rest,
but all she gave me
was her unruly silence.

and then,
I sat with myself,
boring into those silent wells
now gone dry,
and in the deathly hush
that wrapped me tight,
I suddenly felt
that faint spark,
that unforgettable song,
that welcome hug,
that still sanctum,
and that one voice,
that belonged
to myself.

looking for life

life is not a FB status,
a wander through friendship dot com ,
a place to go fishing,
for parts of me
I'd love to bait and own,
life is not a stroll
through a lazy Sunday market,
looking for comfy hand-me-downs,
life is not a bucket list
with dreams ticked and downed,
life is not about wearing a bikini,
to flaunt a skin that must be worn;

life is the silent laughter
between hearty breaths,
sitting on a park bench,
life is the soul-full solitude
soaked in a wholesome emptiness,
pickled in an ancient jar,
life is a dried up raisin
holding a bite-size goodness
I can taste and own,
life is a dance in a messy potter's shed,
where a lifeless lump of clay
is transformed on a wheel's song.

SpEaK

SpEaK.
don't shut up.

SpEaK.
not to raise a hue and cry
over something
that stamped things out,
SpEaK.
not to smirk at a world
that silenced you
and many others like you,
SpEaK.
not because you've been
a gentle lamb among wolves,
hiding in a skin
you knew
didn't hold all of you,
SpEaK.
not to shatter mirrors,
or still the river,
not to shift the earth,
or climb unreachable depths,
not to break through
the hymens of opinion,
or to burst those fragile bubbles
of glassy comforts.

SpEaK.
not for the heck of it,
not because you love the edge,
not because it gives you a high,
not because you've been mired in a low,
not because you were mummified
into a history you were forced to live,
not so you can balloon yourself
into a skin you dreamed to own,
and not because you have a beautiful voice.

SpEaK.
don't shut up.

SpEaK.
because something in you
stirs you out of your womb,
into your first cry,
heralding a new world,
SpEaK.
because you want to,
because you are you,
in all your glory and fury,
SpEaK.
for the family you grow
inside you,
SpEaK.
from the eye of the whirlwind
that feels it all, sees it all,
and still remains untouched,
SpEaK.
from that burning core,
engulfed by churning waters
that remember the unforgettable,
SpEaK.
without fear or favour
or a longing for fame,
giving it all away,
to what guides you
to move your tongue
and feel your teeth,
SpEaK.
to hear yourself thunder
through that roaring silence,
holding back its claws,
SpEaK.
to re-imagine a world
where rainbows appear at will,
holding you in their curl,
even as you stand alone
in your own shadow,
in your own light.

SpEaK.
don't shut up.
but for heaven's sake,
first listen.


SpEaK....spoken poetry

truth and fiction

between light and form
and a space
that holds them all,
shadows dance
without a care,
where nothing waits
for the other
to watch or take a step,
where there is only
song and dance
and a heedless reverie
overflowing
without rules made
and broken.

this silence

in this tunnel of silence,
where walls don't have ears,
and the wind doesn't have a mouth
to carry stories or speak,
I listen to myself -
the crumbling vessels of blood
emptying their life force
into every crevice, anyhow,
the bones holding forte
as they soak in every scent,
and every breath,
into their marrow
the flesh growing in its fullness,
inflamed with a desire
to consume the world whole,
and this sudden strangeness
of a meeting place
in the middle of nowhere,
where you and I
and all that's lifeless,
come alive,
together,
growing,
disappearing,
resting,
in this silence.

scent

I don't wear perfume.

I let myself be crushed
like those flowers
pressed into the fullness
of being themselves,
like their fall into
a puddle of rain on tar,
brightening up the greys,
like the wind
holding their hands
and letting go after a while,
carrying the scent
of their being
in his palms.

the scent of a skin
loving how it lives,
and dies.

bars and wings

often,
I cannot speak of the bars
that cage me,
but I feel them
brush against my wings,
reminding me
of my complacency,
the comfort of this space
lived in,
and the untraceable longing
to be elsewhere,
like the raindrop
that smells the earth
giving it form.

the brood

where do your hands stop?
where do your wings end?
where do your eyes close?
where does your heart leave
strings hanging free and loose?

stop choking me
in the name of love and tribe.

keep your hands to yourself,
until I ask for a hug, to be held;
keep your wings folded or open,
until I ask to be gathered in;
keep your eyes open or closed,
until I ask for you to see;
keep your heart throbbing,
until I ask for it to connect
with me;

I don't need mamas and papas,
grand aunts and uncles,
or grandparents,
to lead me through every ripple,

stop the brooding.
stop the baiting.
stop the herding.
there is no brood -
only you for you,
me for me,
and the essence
of the 'we',
exploding into these waters,
that take us somewhere
together,
over every ripple
encountered,
lived,
and crossed,
separately together.

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.

where this skin weeps, without words

did you know your skin could weep?
when every pore seals itself
and then springs open,
when every hair falls to its roots
and then stands tall and separate,
when every breath
seeps through helplessly
and is then held in a timeless pause,
when silence is killed softly
with incessant stabs of scrutiny,
and then peels the grime and scars
off this grotesque flesh,
when nothing else matters,
but the sound of breath
and fire and earth and water,
flowing between
here and there,
around and everywhere,
taking me back to myself,
where this skin weeps,
without words.

the roar

sometimes
a roar is not
an announcement,
it is not a presence
that splinters and tames
the silence of the wild;
sometimes
it is the pause,
the resting place
of everything,
the unsaid,
the absence
of what is;
the tiger
you can smell
in the bushes,
as the silence roars
every leaf and grass
into an undisturbed awakening.

for your eyes only

and the Moon,
she spoke to me last night,
while the stars jiggled
and giggled,
as she laughed and sang -
"you look at me every night
as I dress and undress myself
before your eyes,
and all you can see
is your story -
of how I have another side,
a dark side filled with mystery,
and a beauty you seek
but cannot see
growing and dancing
before your very eyes!"

the dreamcatcher

gather in tribes,
so you can huddle
around the fire,
and keep warm
and light
under a hidden sun,
wrap yourselves
in shawls and music
and laughter -
the dream-catchers
of abandoned selves
where only the white coin
of a full moon,
slips into the hole
at the centre
of your aloneness
that must be found
some day,
lying asleep
in the fire of your dreams,
glowing in the darkness
that you've forgotten now,
where you came alive -
in the darkness
you so love.

a love without a name

today,

I looked at his picture
hanging upon 
a detached wall,
smiling back at me,
holding a few moments
of silence
between us,
no thoughts
wanting to be hugged,
no questions
climbing into the lap
of answers,
no doubts
herded by approval,
no words exchanged
for scrutiny
or appreciation,
only a warm curve
smiling at itself,
curving into itself,
and watching the world go by,
that cupped a love
without a name.

her burning breast

and she stood there,
looking at the world
with blood-curdled eyes,
her majestic silhouette
embossed upon
the evening sky,
holding
her burning breast
and her raging gut
in the stillness
of her breath,
as her tousled hair
flowed wildly,
flicking the wind,
ready for a war
that must be fought,
where there would be
no losers,
only hearts threshed
and flung open,
exploding
into silent pearls,
holding questions
about devotion and justice,
and a truth
that will be burned
into existence,
willed into presence,
with the fullness
of this one life
lived for herself.

in the hidden blue

in these inky waters
of darkness
and diffused light,
and bubbles
that still breathe,
where everything's tinged
with the many shades of blue
melting into each other,
I grope,
I feel,
I smell,
I taste,
with these
writhing tentacles,
longing to draw you in
to the other side
of what you see,
where you can listen
to the sound of silence
drawn into these hidden folds,
those that must be loved
and seen
by me.

the last leaf

and when the last leaf
fell softly to the ground,
from the bough of a tree,
standing tall and bare
amidst her fallen
bloodshot eyes,
they didn't whisper
a word to each other,
no thank yous,
no goodbyes,
no stories,
of 'you' and 'me',
and 'us',
only a silence
that spoke for itself -
a sacred vow taken,
to live their lives to the hilt,
between a flaming earth
and a bleeding sky,
who didn't have to thank them
for being witnesses
to a sacred marriage,
of all that was,
all that is,
and all that could be,
all over again,
tomorrow.

four inches and stars

the edge
isn't four inches of space
for my foot to rest
comfortably,
it's the space
between
two faces,
two hearts,
two sides
of the blade
of a sword,
piercing
the bloodshot blue,
as I tip toe
upon the razor,
dripping drops of blood
imploding into the darkness
into a thousand twinkling stars.

a place in the sun

as I look into your flaming eyes,
I feel the warmth of home
engulf this restless skin,
forever seeking rest,
offering itself up into your light;

and as you burn down this muslin,
falling into a helpless heap of ash,
I stand before you naked now,
with the sweat and grime
of this endless journey,
sizzling in every pore and hair;

as I stand here before you,
baring it all at your blazing altar -
my desires, my shame, my denial,
my fears, my dreams, my anger,
and all those repeating patterns
of this kaleidoscope in my eyes,
the cross that's mine to bear,

I lower my head to my chest,
waiting for your blessed rays
to fall upon this weary spine,
like a ruthless sword,
slicing this skin, this heart,
as I fall from grace into Grace,
rising to stand tall, and find
a place here in the sun.

oxygen!

'I must breathe.
I must save myself.
first. always.'
put on the oxygen mask.
so you can smell yourself.
so you keep getting turned on
by those skins and masks.
yes, over and over again.
so you can be full of yourself.
so full that you could burst.
so that you forget the equation -
that you have oxygen
because something else
breathed it out.
for you.
so you can stay alive
until you realise
you can give up your breath
if you really want to.
because it is important.
as important to stop.
as it is to start. or stay.
there are other kinds
of warriors
if you care to look -
the silent ones
that rise and fall
without a hue and cry -
the earth, the trees,
the waters, the bees.
they wear nothing.
no armours.
to save themselves.
and so they feed us
their world.
our oxygen!