Roots of Silence

Seated on the summits of the universe
You listen to hear what i have'nt said yet.
Infinity invades - wakening the flowers ; roots and wings.
The dawn is at your doorsteps opening the garderns of the pathless land.
Silence; moves; lives; uplifts; deepening the depthless bottom within yourself;
A dove flies in the sky of an intractable silence.

Doorsteps of Silence

Something has happened; the leaves are dancing in the stillness.

The soul - mystic is sitting under the embellishments of his being;

An ancient river flows singing lullabies for the soul.

In between the Spells of Silence

Sense - curtains drawn down;
The Hara opened
Tribes of Gods and Demons precipitates;
Enters and watch;
A kite peacefully floating
gently in the centre of the universe.

Curis au Mont D'or (from the balcony)

Here - dances the river

Here; the river calls -- and you answer.
Here; you 'll find fluorescent filaments swirling down the tree of life -- while angels sleep beneath it.
Here; words don't exist in the normal sense but as a gargling brook rushing out of the veins of the soul
Here; the days are born , not from the rising sun but from the perfume of the silent mind.
Here; everything moves out of the stillness --the whole moves as one.
Here; dried leaves stirs in the storms.
Here; the dark eyelids of the night does not weep , but luminous particles explodes when teardrops from her eyes.
Here; Pain is a broom --with which you gather the fallen flowers from your consciousness.
Here you are alive; immortal, in good health; and creative ; for there's only -- the Instant.
Here; you cross the rivers of death daily; taking birth anew on both sides of the river.
Here; there's only the dancing of the soul in celebration.
Here; Buddhas laugh -- laughter is the sound of freedom.
Here; the sacred and the profane walks hand in hand.
Here ; love paints the unseen soulscapes.
Here; there are no painful proses , no bleeding poems -- except the whispers of life filling your cup --so you may drink from its abundance.

Dawn and the grass

Awaiting the dawn -- the silent grass
like a shy and willing country lass,
When a glimmer behind the mountains sprayed
To announce the dawn coming its way.
Slowly, slowly with even pace
Its presence upon the earth it makes
The overhanging fresh dewdrops
Hoping may one moment pause;
The secret coming from the eastern tops
A moment of great joy may cause;
But , nay not for a minuite or more
It makes no haste nor is slow;
As it comes it ought to go;
For the secret by the east it lays
which is the dawn that has come to stay.

A poem full of love while the gardern lay wet with flowers

A lantern in hand-- i open the doors
Nightflowers and lotuses are scenting the wind
The courtyard is wet with the rain
Red and yellow hibiscus sways in the gardern.
The bougainvilla creeps on the walls

Let this night pass and reveal to you
what spreads upon the skies of my heart
Be free to take; indulge then-- into its sacramental lights .
Much is the splendour of love .
The joy -river runs through the meadows of life
and everything surrenders to peace.
At such moments
I welcome you to touch my lips
I welcome you to explore a kiss
I welcome you to fill me in your body and soul .

Oil lamps burns by the windows
The mango grooves glissens in the moonlight
Jasmines fall
one by one besides the footsteps of the gardern.
Let your cinamon breath and dampened lips clothe my night with tenderness.

To You dear silence

Had i not looked twice into your eyes
i would'nt have sat to think why i did'nt speak to you at all
I could see how much we wished to speak to each other
But we did'nt speak at all -- no ; we did'nt speak at all.
Months have passed and i'm in the same cafe
i close my eyes and sip my tea --i can still see your face
Your beautiful hands holding a book of poems
While in the same instant how little you knew
How beautiful a poem you were too
i wonder ; where you are now graceful Stranger.

Self-Consciousness - Mantra.

I
Why should i not lay ripe and laden with fruits
and pleasure the palate of all those who eat from me.

Why should i not hide myself in the obscurity of the night -- straining eminence as a star.
Why should i not take my embryos in a pod and pride my blossoms in the wind
Perfuming the lungs that breathe me.
All this i shall -- but priveledge it for me to seek it from you.

II
Allow me to splendour your soul, let me hold between my fingers your pale cosmic features.
Let me throw your tethered terresterial image
And trim your spinous mind.
Let me detain you a while and wipe your weary face.
Placing in your palms-- no promises ;but gestures of simple grace.

III
Inject me into your veins, brace me to your hips.
Let us loiter togather to savour a twilight bliss.
Sitting a while; forgetful to all but its daily glory.

IV
Regulate with me , i'll sublimate every trace of vindictive barbiturates from your dialects.
And afresh; i'll place syllables on your prickling tongue.
Perpetuating the aroma of your soul into scented thoughts.
Drain into me all your corrosive siliva, bile -- and draw from me redolence.

V
I'll help you find deliverance from what you want to be.
So you may in truth live to what you really are.
Slip away your bands briddled on your shoulders
And leave behind what you tug so hard in gasping breaths.
So collosial a column; obese-- inscribed of pejured goals and aims.
And in a moronic labour why do you fragment 'you' in your brain.

Growing moon trees in the sky.

Moonbranches spreads on the skin of the winter sky;
Clouds crossing the nocturnal universe;
The visible weaves knots with the invisible filaments of the heavens;
Slow stillness shifts -- on the highways of endless space;

How i'd have loved to follow your hands -- changing the sky into storms; and the storms into skies
While -- you lift words out of silence, to peel the face of the horizon;
Yet not a word is said.

Being in the "Now"

Long silences from the ashes of restlessness
looking at the unknown
The Soul -- a bamboo flute; pipes through the dark woods of ignorance;
Upon the spaces of life appears the dripping moonlight of wisdom.

Birth

Why do you O my stricken heart heave and pine with sorrow
What torments seizes your thoughts
as if - none are hopes for tommorow.

Your sails set staring trembling high - through a psychic storm
An anguished night drips through the nib of a poet's pen
waves from solitude adorned.

What winds have carried you -and from which distant land
You slide between an obscure form
becoming the lines of my poetry.

Thelema dreaming

A letter to Don quixote

Now that my eyes are plucked and transplanted into my soul.
Now that my veins; my energy ; my motions are rectified;
Now that i'm exorcised; i ; outcasted disciple of truth!!
I can see who it was i offered sacrifices in the name of goodness;
I can see who it was i killed in the name of community, country and creed;
I can see who it was i hated in the name of Patriotism, Morality, Truth and Beauty.
I know why there are orphans and who breeds them;
I know why there are charities and who gives them
I know there is justice and who avails them;
I know there is law and who enforces them;
I know there is poverty and who creates them;
I know there is progress...has'nt every country missiles;
I know there is peace because the super powers are not fighting;
(Iran; Iraq; political disasters in Tibet; Burma; Afganistan; Sri lanka; Africa don't come into it...Do they ?? )

Political blunders ( France selling armaments to Kaddafi's Libya )

I awaken to the principles of life which suffers through every perpetuating time;
I pick rags , tattered pieces of truth from its coffins and from its sepulchres;
I tread upon wet drops of blood, beneath crucifixes, railway tracks, of bodies chopped in hospital morgues;
I watch them do arithmetics as they prepare to rehearse the farce before the blind folded Seraph;
I smell the flesh scorching in crematoriums to please a Hitler's nostrils;
I read epitaths of a wronged civilization now shrouded by oblivion;
I see hollow sockets with their visionless stare still speaking of something they bore witness to;
I 'm in mute continual search for spectre of truth..
While each time i stumble upon a severed limb, a mutililated head, a half eaten corpse, a chewed bone, an unmasked grave, a crusader's sword burried beneath seaweeds......

In a shovelfull of Hiroshima and Nagasaki
Reflects within them the picture of my own submerged violence
I collect from these, piece by piece, of myself.

Souls of my soul

Would it be possible for you to hold me

Does thoughts arise from the restlessness of the night
Is it your heart speaking to mine or are they only clouds of passion in turmoil ?
What do you search in the skies of my life as you spread your wings and go by
I listen to all that you say; and would go with you to where you want...
for i'm no longer a face -- but a voice
I'm no longer a hand-- but a touch
i'm no longer what you dream of-- but a more abstract reality.

My finger contains miracles
my voice-- a chanting prayer
Would it be possible then to embrace me --unless you too become a prayer!

Yesterday ; i waited for you in the vallies
but today i'm on the mountains from where i watch the vallies
Yesterday my words were raw and passionate
while today they are ripe and sublime.

Yesterday --life was a rock upon which i sat for days and night
Today life is neither a rock nor a cloud: i stop and it stops with me; i move and it moves with me.

Yesterday; i was a youth with eyes burning with love; with dreams cuddling my sleep; yearning for the one who never arrived.
Today i'm still young my soul burns by the flames of many suns;
In my hands the mornings take birth and in my kisses Springtime blossoms
Between yesterday and today so much has changed!

The sea has become soft and gentle;
The tree has deepened its roots
My immortality flourishes out of my daily mortality
My flesh rips -- emerging like a dawn through the dark interiors of the night......

my fingers contain miracles and my voice a chanting prayer
Would it be possible to hold me unless you become a prayer.

Can a stone be kissed and made into a GOD

O Refugee; disatisfied Soul.....

Can a stone be kissed for eons and eons ; and made into a God ?

Then ; why am i here amidst blind devotees ?

Does the ailment of my spirit bring me here?

Skeptics -- hope i'm not humilating you

What can i find in a stone temple?

Thousand millions of footprints erasing the old with the new ?

What can i find in here -- but the germs of the contagious mind; afflictions of the hopeful heart; conflicts; shreds.........all as a deposit to God??

For a credit??

Is man buying God a soul or selling his to God !!

Singing for Ethopia

I too have been crucified, martyred; died in innocent blood
I too have been aborted; orphaned;disclaimed and pushed into rubbish
I too have been exploited; disembled; ruined ; alienated
But this too ; i have had; Orpheus harp -- sounded by my fingers gentle strokes
I have had my share of being Atlas
I had Appollo's charoit at my disposal
But,
I have passed on -- as the wind from the mountains to the valleys of life
From the valleys of life to the sea of changes
The oak that i fell
the reed i carressed
The lakes where i died
Ethopia,
the one look in your eyes tell more than i've possibly tried.

Afriend of mine had send me a nice photo post card ; i thought it looked fine
However i changed the landscape inside a littlebit as i sketched it out
*.

SHIVA : Ganges of OM pouring down

During an hour of boredom: Bending images out of the mind

During a moment of boredom 1 : Nishagandhi also known as the "lotus of Brahma"; but for me its the most passionate of flowers i know of ; This " queen of the night" as she is also called blooms at night once a year .