Why must it be
That every lie
Be shadowed by doubt
Because it contains within it
A grain of truth?
Are all of us
Speakers of a truth
That is only partial;
That in the expanse of life
Is but a grain?
Ask yourself
Is your truth unaccountable?
Is it inexpressible?
Does it need to create a lie
To be true in the first place?
And then,
Can such a truth, be true?
Can we find at all
A lie that is entirely true and
A truth that is not a partial lie?
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.
Go, if you must
Search for that
You so desperately need to find
But if you return
After having lost yourself
In the charms of the world
Know that what you return to
Is what you love.
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.
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.
Life, that is ever free
Becomes imprisoned within
The walls of the human mind.
Ego, attachment, desire and fear
Do not allow it to move freely…
To come and go-
Without being subject to
Ownership, design, desire…
And moral confusion.
We trap life.
We want it to serve
Our limited sense of self.
But life that is creative and ever new
Will have nothing to do with our staleness.
Itself, free of the past
And open to the future;
Without memory and desire,
It uses time and the illusion of persistence
To create the conditions
By which we come to desire
Our own end.
Can we learn
To meet life with pure presence?
Can we come to see
That the treadmill of the mind
Is not life?
That it has no name,
No designation, no agenda
No attachments, no conditions
That your wish
May be its command,
But not its true calling.
That which I need most
Is unavailable to me
Not because of someone else’s
Carelessness or lack of love
But ironically,
Because of my own.
Happiness
Wealth and
Power
Are innate
They cannot be acquired from the world.
They are hidden in three capacities
Within you:
Dedication
Sacrifice and
Service.
Read between the lines
To know that every story
Is a tale of love or loss or achievement;
And like with everything
That is told or expressed
There is feeling…hope…intention
And a desire to be heard
And understood.
Sustenance for the individual
Depends on validation
And a pronouncement of self
In a world that can be cruel
In its ignorance of that
Which can’t be seen, heard or felt
Even if it occupies the same vastness
In which love and loss
Hope and despair
Everything and nothing
Coexist.
The story you must remember,
Is only that which you can at present-
Understand.
Wit. Wisdom. Wonder... 