For something to be this
there’s got to be that
For all that is good
there’s got to be bad
The more you try to hide
the more you show
In order to have
you’ve got to let go
Seemingly far away
when measured from what’s near
Strength only emerges
in the face of fear
For everything I’ll know
there are two things I won’t
So the more I know
the more I don’t.
I could not have written
All that I seem to have written
Considering
I understand more fully
‘my own thoughts’
Long after
The pen has traced
Their smooth moonwalk.
When so many of my beliefs died
Did anybody mourn their passing?
There were no condolences; no warm compassionate hug
Were they worthy of only an indifferent shrug?
Why then am I programmed to grieve
The decay of mortal flesh and bone?
What belief is that
Which brings me back to your graveyard stone?
And what will happen
When that belief too shall pass away?
Will I mourn your death
Or shrug it away?
He stabbed her repeatedly
in the chest
with daggered words
sharp
honed with hate and spite…
Love can be a lethal cocktail
Dangerously acidic
He threw it in her face
repeatedly
Stunned by his outrage
She sat there and silently wept;
now empty, beggared and bereft
of all guard, ammunition and daggered words…
“I just don’t have the words,” she said
“He stole them from me.”
Contemplation is my shrine, my sanctuary
Therein lies my peace, my solace and my freedom
It is in this space that I give of myself and receive
It is this that is my essential nature
And all that I have is offered
In obeisance, in worship and in sacrifice
For its flame to be eternally kindled
And I protect it
As one would protect something dear
I share it with the listeners
Or with those who ask of my thoughts
Or with those in need
And all of this happens naturally
With effortlessness and in eternal wisdom
There is no conflict
No division of myself
The giver and receiver
Are not two but one
There is no higher or lower self here
And no question of prudence
There is just this
Complete in itself
Independent of my ‘knowing’
And now it feeds me with this thought
Offers unto its own flame
Must there necessarily be a way to God
Or is it not that God is the Way?
As in the silence of a prayer
I sit facing a blank page
White. Clean.
Spotless. Silent.
It’s only now
When a thought enters my mind
That ink inscribes
These words on this page
And now that I understand
That what was
In the absence of thought
The presence of absolutely nothing
I wonder
What thought was that
That carved before me
The relief of your face and features
And placed at distances
Near and far
Spaces that I visit
And spaces that await me
What thought was it
That placed me
Just here, just now
In silent communion with an empty page.
What happened last night?
We made an uncomfortable threesome
You, me and Fear
I’m not even sure of the name…
Was it Fear?
Or Desire?
Anger?
Or Bruised Ego?
Does it even matter?
Maybe all that matters
Was the uninvited
Uncalled for
Presence of a third
I couldn’t reach out to you
And you wouldn’t reach out to me
My helplessness dissolved into the oceans of my heart
That welled up and drowned most of my mindscape
I feel almost nothing now
Nothing…
Not helplessness
Not fear
Not anger
Not resentment
I feel naked
But am at peace with my nakedness
I feel hollow and light
Dead, unburdened and strangely alive
Which was how
Today amidst doing my daily chores
I who had died
Buried the dead.
Between indulgence and longing
Existence stands by your side
Looking at you in silent askance…
You- in stray moments- steal a glimpse
But she bewilders you
With her steady poise and calm
She’s not a temptress
Knows not how to seduce
And offers you no promise other than herself
And even as you continue to swing between
New infatuations and old remembrances
She (despite sensible reason) faithfully abides by you
And occasionally you wonder: Is it even possible…
That there actually be so exquisite a state
Untainted as it were, by memory, interaction and loss?
Indeed in and through your affairs with life
Existence patiently awaits your homecoming
Yet unveiled, like a new bride
Eyes lowered, your chosen consort
Sits unloved, unheard and unseen
As you drunkenly sing songs of heartbreak and longing.
Is it a pointer of sorts
That huge, impressive structures
Should appear so minimized
When viewed from a distance?
Tall towers
That intriguingly fit
The scale of my thumb
And acres of land
Are so effortlessly contained
Within the span of my hand
Is that all one needs
…distance?
…. Space?
… time?
To see how small indeed
Are all the things
That captivate and torment
Our time and attention.
Wit. Wisdom. Wonder... 