To be moved
Is to be dissolved
In your own immensity
It is to meet another
Without prejudice and fear
In the depths of your own heart.
It is to come to see
That all stature and frame
Are ridiculous contrivances
To be moved
Is to be shifted
From picture to presence.
Your anger is actually
A cry for freedom;
Freedom from compulsions
That are externally ordered
But insidiously make you believe
That it is your reason that speaks.
The spirit is essentially free
And expresses itself
Through your sense of being
To be well, is to be free
Fully present and devoid of the desire
To be somewhere else or someone else.
To be free is to be undivided; to be one.
When time turns turtle
And your world stands upside down
And you are gripped by feelings
That are masked intruders
Who you can’t see, name or fight
Then forgive…
Forgive the actors
Forgive the faces
Forgive the words
Forgive the circumstances
And forgive yourself for your false assumptions.
But remember…
Remember your power to change
Remember your largeness
Remember your goodness
Remember all the times
When simple corrections worked wonders
-And believe…
Believe in the goodness of others
Believe in yourself
Believe that answers exist
Believe in interconnectedness
Believe in a higher consciousness.
Forgiveness in essence, is prayer.
Sit still
Watch…
As the tree and its leaves
Dance to the choreography
Of the wind.
Sit still
Listen…
And the hum of life-
The sound of its exchanges
Will fill up all of space.
Sit still
Just be…
And thoughts and memories
Will fall into the deep
Ocean of your mind.
Life is both
Presence and movement;
And movement,
I’ve come to see
Is the imagination of stillness.
Creativity is born
Out of intensity-
A cloud that is dark,
Dense and laden
With the wetness
Of life on earth.
Unable to contain itself
For too long
It expresses all that it has absorbed
And as it falls in abundance
Unmeasured, uncalibrated
It quenches the thirst
Of all longing.
It dissolves all certainty
Through glass
That promised clear vision
You can only see the world
As an abstraction of colour and mist.
Ssshhh… watch silently…
A fashion designer is at work…
That moment that was a vacuum
That could only be filled
With inspiration
Now undergoes transformation
Soon the earth
Will stand fashioned
In a rich green velvet
The body will sparkle
With sequin-like waterdrops
On flowers that smile joyously.
All life will be rejuvenated
And a new romance
Will fill the air…
The rain cloud teaches:
Absorb from life
But abide in vastness
And when the heat gets unbearable
Hide the sun
Take away certainty
Descend on life
And touch it
Show life what it can be.
It was the hour
That passed too quickly
A lifetime of happy memories
Were contained and lived.
It was the hour
That was most painful
A lifetime of ache
Was felt and endured.
It was the hour
That moved too slowly
I waited and waited…
It seemed like eternity.
It’s always the hour…
And its fragility and uncertainty
That needs to be handled
With attention and care.
Sometimes a wall
Sometimes a window…
The hour needs to be understood
In order to be freed.
Of what purpose
A new day…?
What is its lesson?
Must I let go
Of the battles
I heroically began?
Or
Must I stretch them
For credibility?
In what lies the goodness
That I’m trying to learn
From life?
I intuit that the presence
Of a new day
Holds answers
To my questions
That my ignorance
Of who I am, what should I do
And how should I be
Can be transformed
To enlightenment
If silent totality, omnipresence and eternity
Are the answers
What must my question be?
Walk with me
At dawn and dusk
So that I may
Have your company
While experiencing
The enchantments of existence-
The sights, the sounds, the smells…the streets.
That company is the best
That allows for
A private enjoyment
Of air and hour
Great company restores you
Time is once again yours
To simply be.
Why is it that
my thoughts don’t
converse with my silence…
They assume it’s a void
that must be filled
with ideas that
seem intelligent.
But silence is a completeness
that deserves the respect
one would accord
to the highest intelligence
Silence must be observed…
It must be met
on its own terms.
The moments that exist
Between those islands of forgetfulness
When you live like you are somebody
With something to do-
Is the ocean of eternity that surrounds you.
You are part of its immensity
But prefer to be more relatable
As a name…an entity…a person
Who will surrender readily to a little love
And the promise of an elusive bliss.
Our pretensions of personality,
Our cultivation of purpose
And the poetic expressions of our angst-
Keep us forever entangled
In the question of, ‘who we essentially are…’
Perhaps that question is pointless
When addressed to an existence that just is
A oneness with no exception.
Your poetry is a monologue…
Who you’re not is speaking with who you are.
Wit. Wisdom. Wonder... 