blessed death

if I could die
I would
in your arms,
in that one embrace
of breath,
of the cosmos
swirling
within us,
in our cells,
in our bones,
in our flesh;

if I could live
through that moment,
I would hold you forever
in my eyes,
in my heart,
in my breath,
a nameless god
who made me come alive
to this world,
to this love,
and this blessed death,

with no you,
no me,
just us
in one timeless breath.

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.

A Prayer for You

you asked me
to pray for you

and so I looked
into myself
to notice
a soft, steady trickle
of clear water
like a mountain spring

growing,
changing,
listening
all the while
to the trees,
the sky,
the birdsong,
the pebbles,
the crickets,
and the clarion call
of a faraway ocean

and then flowing out,
awakened
to the silence
resting deep
within
words,
this world,
this womb,
the arrival
of a new you
and me
I cannot see,
and a voice
that can finally speak.
a prayer for you.

Lotus

I feel you
in the depths
of my womb,
a stirring of new life,
soft contours of mud
dissolving into water,
bubbles rising up
and popping,
before they reach
the skin
of upturned green palms
holding the immensity
of the sky
in their bosom,
ripples leaving
without returning home,
as fire sits with fire,
burning away the dross,
and somewhere
in those murky silent depths,
a lotus blooms quietly,
turned on by her solitude,
parting her folds
with the gentlest touch
of the first morning sun.

What do I want?

'what do I want?'
I ask myself,
eyes perched
upon a horizon
which somehow retains
a caged sameness
everyday

surfaces and edges
that clamor tirelessly
to camouflage the aliveness
that draws me in,
an invitation
to stand
on the sacred stage,
where life meets life
naked
all the time,

where what I feel
sets aflame
my insides,
stoking something
unknowable
unspeakable
to foreign eyes,
and a white hot desire
to live
and die to
the adventure
that is,
this one life.

A Living Frontier

at the cusp
of something
I can feel
in my bones,
is it a living frontier
of a becoming
and a dying?
or a simple feeling
of what is, and
what could be?

I wake up quivering,
and let the vastness
and depths
of the firmament
pierce my eyes,
its feelers sinking
into my tender pores,
groping with tentacles
into the void
within, and
touching everything
with a gentle presence,

ah! how it makes me
come alive
to everything
within and without -
one feeding
and digesting
the other,
all the time,
exchanging
secret recipes

what it takes
to make
a stone,
a snowflake,
a seashell,
a leaf,
a bird,
a critter,
a flower,
the darkness,
a smile,
a loss,

and,
a human teardrop
poised
on the edge
of a flood
just waiting to happen.

At the Altar of Death

put down
all your beliefs
your stories
your identities
your dreams
your whole self
first
at the altar of Death

leave them there
for a while,
as you bow down
and open yourself
to the fragrant breath,
feeling it flow
into and out of
your every cell

and then,
receive it all -
everything you put down,
as an offering
from the God of Death,
wearing them
with reverence
and grace

remember
their fragrance,
their softness,
their lightness,
as they lay strewn
like colourful flowers
with death on their wish-list,
ready to offer themselves
up again, any time.

and then you will know how to live.

Vignette

dressing her for the pyre
with a sari
that she would never wear
draping her tiny form,
a mother presses
the last round bindi
onto her baby's face,
whispering words
of love and loss,
for a life
taken away too soon;

a daughter draped
in red and white,
and a bindi
centered
between her brows,
lights her father's chest
with a handful of fire
torn from her burning gut,
and she whispers nothing;

a deathly silence
smudges the edges,
and deepens the colours
of a wordless void
etched in the ether -
of a mother,
a daughter,
their loss, and
an unbordered love.

Stories

and we cling to our stories
like leeches
sucking out
every ounce of life,
to live and outlive
the lies we tell ourselves,
the warm blankets we need
on cold, dark nights,
the fires that we light
over and over again
with different travellers
each time,
conversation starters
and sometimes enders,
avatars we incarnate into,
to become the gods
we already are,
even without them;

yes, of course
we need our stories,
to sing our songs,
to dance, to rise,
to fall, to chime in,
to let out
our long-trapped voices
in cracks of stone;

but let's not be bound
by those chains
that slit our wrists,
let's not breathe
their stale, heavy air,
let's not make them
our flesh and bones;
let them live
in the warmth of our skin,
until it's time
to shed their outlived lives,
let's celebrate their death
like the skin of happy bubbles
popping every now and then;
for they are not raging gods
and goddesses
out of incredible myths;
they are but specks of dust
gathering together,
to dance awhile
in a slanting sunbeam
resting upon
the dark
of another unborn morn.

Hungry

everywhere
every moment
in every leaf that falls,
in every dew drop
poised on edge,
in every blade of grass
brown or green,
in every seed
waiting to be spent,
I see hunger,
the universe gorging on itself,
driven by a raging fire
to thrive, to feed
everything alive,
dead or dying,
hungry for a taste
of anything called life;
the feast of a life
well-lived.

Heading Home

I wonder what it was
that drew me to you,
and away from you....
was it the sudden expanse
of stark wilderness,
of wind-sheared mountains
against bald brown,green and blue;
or was it the sheer uncertainty
and hard compassion
of fast-changing tides of wind and water;
or was it the simple innocence
of a black and white life,
where every dimple and blob
breathed fire and ice;
or was it the ever-growing mystery
of virgin depths and shrouded heights,
of limpid morns and surreal nights;
what was it I wonder,
that took me in,
that made me stand unfazed
against the slanting rain
and powdered ice,
or the blood-curdling winds
and the veiled wintry sun,
without a cover or name -
a faceless face in a paltry crowd,
where everything
felt warm and safe,
where suddenly an island
transformed into a continent,
that grew wings and feet and arms
from closing waters,
rising and falling
with the wisps of clouds,
singing the soulful song
of wild geese
heading home -
a place where I can return,
so I can leave and live,
another life, in another world,
just another place
to rest awhile,
where fire meets ice,
where days meet nights,
where black meets white,
where will meets longing,
where fear meets love, and
where life meets death,
so I can be born
all over again,
and again.

Kali

I came to you
with a head full of
stories, questions,
heroes, heroines,
soap operas, tragedies,
flippant comedies,
and gifts that I thought
I bring to this world;
and then, at the cusp
of a limping daylight
and the ravishing black
of a buxom moon,
I stood before you
completely undone;
one look at your
imposing form,
your thousand arms
piercing into eternity,
and the enticing pleats
of your bellowing skirt
drawing me into
a deathly trance,
and my heavy head
bowed down
at your still feet -
the altar of all things human,
pouring out nothing
but words of glory,
while you, through your
frozen white
outstretched tongue,
consume it all,
in one gulp,
mocking at my foolery -
to frill up the cracks
in each shard
with a new incomplete story,
a desperation for wholeness,
when everything that is,
is broken and breakable,
in your hands
of death and life,
O Black Goddess,
Kali!

Black Anger Rising

black anger
rising
from still ground,
no frills,
no flowers,
no camouflage,
no airs,
just an ashen skin,
white hot,
smooth and plain,
dusted
with the whiteness
of a heart
that knows
only one way
to love -
a ferocious love
that destroys
things with a shelf-life,
to recycle,
to create,
a timeless world
beyond life and love.

Black Mountain

and you drew me
with your steady,
one - pointed gaze,
into your spent bosom,
the blackness and stillness
of your stark eyes,
of your majestic form,
lit the pyre
of my wayward thoughts,
as I swallowed you
in one breath,
of fear and love,
with nowhere to hide
but in your barren folds,
now mine,
drinking in a love
that you do not give,
but help me find myself;
rising from the ashes
of long-dead logs
from other worlds,
the black goddess
comes alive
to kill with a love
for Black Mountain.

Half-Burnt Logs

and we sat under the stars,
skin to skin,
eye to eye,
heart to heart -
little points of light
growing
dark and heavy
with the descending
heavens,
coming to meet
the curling smoke
spiraling up
from the guts
of a sacred fire,
crying out the song
of half-burnt logs
and the tyranny
of being human.

Between Longing and Being

in the first brush
of orange on inky blue,
in the parted beak
of a koel setting a tune,
in the fading call
of crickets
lulled by the morning breeze,
in the cry of a heart
that wants to call
something it cannot own,
its own,
rests
the silent grave
and womb
between
longing
and being.

Falling Into Myself

and I fall
with the cherry blossoms
in their prime,
joining a dance
with the moist earth,
unfettered
by longings
or flattery,
crushed
by impervious feet
and stone hearts,
who know not yet,
the beauty and joy
of this quiet
impermanence.

Ground

and I must not forget
that I stand today,
not upon the shoulders
of those long left,
but upon their hearts -
who, though terrified
to look into the labyrinth
of light and dark,
led me into
the presence of things
that I can only add
to my growing years,
stitching up the ground
so I can stand
and peer into
my own roots
and wings,
of darkness
and light.

The Embrace

and I didn't quite know,
until you raised your arms
as your being smiled,
and circled the walls
of a crumbling bastion
I had held on to
for perhaps too long,
that the waters from
the womb of our eyes,
breaking into a swell,
as they met for a moment
in a timeless embrace
of water and earth,
fire and breath,
gave birth to
and held close,
the kiss of a new
unlived life.

In the Blue of the Flame

I don't want
to sit around
or sing and dance
and tell stories
around a sacred fire,

I want to stand
in the blue
of the flame -
naked,
groundless,
yet alive,

tempered by
an unquenchable longing
to meet myself
in my fiery wholeness,
reclaiming the majesty
and insignificance
of what I am
and what I'm here to do,
in a world that's content
to share stories around a fire,
too terrified to burn
its fingers and toes.