Winter

today,
I want to speak of winter...
of the empty white solitude,
the bone-chilling cold -
a harsh reminder
of what needs to thaw,
the skeletons of trees
dreaming of new forms,
and the silent breeze
feeding fresh lives.

yes, today,
I want to speak of winter;
not of the glory
of autumn or summer,
of the warmth of color and skin,
and the prettiness
of what's obvious;
no, not even of spring
and the bounce and smiles
of things exploding
into themselves
and each other;
for many have spoken
about them.

today,
I want to speak of winter.
of the unspoken,
of the unmet,
where life is on hold,
in the stillness
of a white womb,
yet changing quietly,
with the slowness
and grace
of unseen wheels
turning in the darkness,
and the innocence
of what simply is;

dressed in pure white,
is a mother waiting,
soaking in the harshness,
to feel the warmth
of skin against skin.

Prayag

and when she touched me,
I remembered
the longing,
the pilgrimage
I've been on,
looking for that something
without a name,
until I reached
the prayag
of pain and joy,
where I dipped
my weary soul,
cleansing the pores
of a body
clogged by the grime
of unlived lives
and moments
too stubborn
to be washed away
by mundanities,
as if waiting
over lifetimes even
for her to walk in
and bless me
with the stillness
and Grace
of the gushing river
in her soft hands;
and I rested
in the womb
of a mother
I never had.

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.

The Love of my Life

"Life is cruel", I said
the other day,
in a moment of apathy,
like a little child
cursing her mother
for a love
that she could not feel;
and then,
as if to respond
to that moment of weakness,
she held me today
like a true mother,
whispering sweet nothings,
through the words of a friend
I haven't spoken to for long -
a song from a heart
that seems to know mine;
words that rose
out of the blue nothingness,
where my eyes and heart
melted and flowed
into each other,
held in a timeless embrace
by the one I most love.
Life.

Being Child, Becoming Woman

and I slipped into her robes
for a while,
so I could feel
what she would feel,
and I saw Joy -
a little child
rediscovering
her eyes, her hands,
her voice, her feet,
and the tune
of her own heart
drumming with mine -
both growing,
being children,
becoming the women
they were always meant to be.

They Belong to You

and when I felt the waves
rise and fall inside me,
a rhythmic contraction and release
that drew me time and again
to their unequivocal presence,
I didn't realise
they were calling out
to their Mother,
who gathered them happily
in one fell swoop,
into her large bosom,
as I stood before her
and smiled and bowed,
saying to myself,
"they belong to you."

Elegy to a Mother

a little bird
showed me one day
how I must live
and die;

as she left her chick
out beneath the intimate skies,
where the winds
bit sharply into their flesh -
age irrelevant;
and the earth -
I don't know why
she turned away
suddenly
with an icy stare,
as if she knew,
but couldn't help

that little bird,
as she flew away
alone,
finding her way
across tempestuous seas,
for a little piece of something,
that would put out the fire
in raging bellies,
flapping her tired wings -
urgent, yet not impatient,
cutting through the white,
without looking back once
at her newborn,
who stood there shivering
with hopeful eyes,
not knowing if she
would ever come back;

and as they said
their silent goodbyes,
with not so much
of a peck or a squawk,
they began to write
their own stories,
of what it takes to live
and to die well,
here.

Birth

I am no more your mother
than the dark soil
where you rest -
your womb, your coffin
until it's time;
I am no more your mother
than the flaming sun
that stokes your spirit -
reclaimed, rejoicing
at your arrival;
I am no more your mother
than the flannel clouds
that distill joy
filling your every cell
and breath;
I am no more your mother
than the agile wind
who carries you
to the moon and stars
every now and then;
I am no more your mother
than the dancing trees
under whose shade
you will sit some day,
where your eyes
will wander
to the sun and the earth,
to the clouds and the wind,
to the moon and the stars,
who called you
into this world
one fine day.

Coming Home to You, Mother

You gave me my first home

as you carried me with you,

for nine long months

safe, inside your sacred womb.

You gave me my second home

as you cradled and nourished me

with your breath 

and your warm bosom.

You gave me my third home

as you made space for me

to take my first unsure steps

into an unknown world.

You gave me my fourth home

when you held and rocked me

to feel  safe enough to sleep

when I had lost my way to myself.

You gave me my fifth home

when you showed me the way

to love something beyond myself

so that I could get back to loving myself.

You gave me my sixth home

when you gifted me both -

roots to hold onto, and wings

to fly to a nest of my own making.

You gave me my seventh home

when I had my baby

and you held him in your arms,

the way you had held me.

You gave me my eighth home

when you stayed with me,

held my hand, and wiped my tears,

to give me strength, when I was ill.

You gave me my ninth home

when I gave my baby

the space to grow and be himself -

what life gave to me, when I was in you.

You gave me my eternal home – myself,

so I could open it out to the world,

while I find my way back,

to come home to myself

and to you, my dear Mother.

Shakti

I am my own mother.
I am my own father.
I am my own friend.
I am my own lover.
I move
through
all of creation,
in a joyous dance
of Shakti.

I nourish you
at my breasts.
Even now.
I give you myself,
all of my love.
Again.
And yet again.
There is no
'last drop' left
in a bosom
that holds,
sustains, and
gives life
to the entire cosmos.
Shakti.


I walk through you,
with you,
on every path you take.
I hold your hand.
I carry you
on my swaying hips.
And I will carry you
on my shoulders
on your final journey.
Your dance is my dance.
Your step is my step.
Your breath is my breath.
Shakti.

I have breathed
the fire
of a thousand suns
into your breath.
The fire of love
and passion.
Eternal.
Quietly powerful.
Warmth and Light,
that give life
to weary hearts.
Your breath,
your words,
carry impulses
of creation,
spinning
and resting
in the ether
that binds
all of life
to Me.
Shakti.

I step lightly
and heavily
sometimes,
on the ground
that holds
your restless feet.
Flowers, soft sand
and green velvet.
Sometimes.
Thorns, embers and
a slushy swamp.
Sometimes.
Don't fret.
All is well. Always.
For I am with you.
I am the ground
that you kiss
with your dancing feet.
I am the dancer.
I am the choreographer.
I am the dance.
Shakti.


I hold you close
in my arms,
when you choose
to come home
after a tiring day out -
tired of being yourself,
tired of being caught
in power games;
when tears bathe
your naked eyes
that speak of
feeling unloved
and loneliness,
I make love to you.
like no other,
as you take off
your masks,
your cloches,
one by one,
to bare yourself,
just the way you are,
to Me.
Shakti.

I am the diva
on this exquisite stage.
Where life and love
play their parts.
Your scars
and wounds
are many.
Don't hide them.
Flaunt them
as embellishments
to your soul.
For they speak
of  those times
when I opened
and touched you
with my ruthless love.
You may not have
a flawless sheath,
but you have
my flawless heart,
that knows
only one thing -
how to love.
Ruthless.
Fiery love.
Shakti.

So rest.
Step.
Dance.
Love.
Feel your power.
Become your power.
Shakti.

Mother and Child

I am not the one
who takes steps
or speaks thoughts,
I am not the one
who inspires
or feels love,
I am but a child
on my mother's hips
carried along
on an exciting trip,
to explore the world
and my unique gifts;
when I feel safe
on my mother's hips,
the world comes to me
at a finger's click.