Thursday, November 16, 2017

until the awakened come

when we were young
one-celled and so naive
the raging ocean was our home
teeming with newness
and calling us out
to be twice ourselves
to be fish and walking reptiles
Titans and men

we cannot stop
from incarnating again
desire compels us
life through life
we cannot stop as
sufferings co-arise

pranam (Sanskrit for "bow")

blue is the color
of my true lover's sari
the hem,
I have never seen above
pranam --
the secret name for love

Tuesday, November 7, 2017


my second childhood nemesis
the crush of my first crush
of my first date
my first kiss
she opened her mouth
a bit of a pleasant shock

she wrote him notes
in French class
envy is not green
it is white,
pure and right
rage washed me clean

his big lips
his thick accent of reasoning
his wit
goody left shoes
turned bad boy
when I befriended him

a shower of vinyl
that last summer
Bowie, Yes
Talking Heads
we sat on his bed
talked of many things
of endings
and never beginning
until the last beer
the last reefer
the last of all sacraments
would take a new form


Devidas was a bass player by profession
a goddess worshiper by faith
wore shades whose wire rims disappeared
into his curly brown hair

I could discern his love
for Lakshmi,, Shakti, Sarawati
for Gurumayi, our guru
-- the greatest goddess of them all
because his eyes were moist, his voice soft

Or maybe this was so because he was a musician
or maybe I just assumed he loved the female deity
because of his dharma name
-- Devidas means "servant of the goddess"

As it was, I really only had one good interaction with him
but I recognize him now
as a brother from a past life
guru bohin -- guru sibling
our bond over a conversation at Gorakh's house
on the lawn where he was trimming bushes
in preparation for Gurumayi's arrival in Chicago
stays in my memory

Along with the bananas and scented soap
given me on the darshan line
the chocolate
that brought tears to my eyes
because in it I tasted
the guru's love for me

what is unchanging

losing what is unchanging
what is pure
what does not appear
as here, or absent
the song of the song
the taste of the taste of sweetness
the eye of light
the fullness in the midst
of non-existence

and what does not change?
and what exists,
but does not?
the lathe upon which all origins were made?
the healing in the wounding?
the beginning in the tale's completion?
the ceasing of the exhaustive search
in the finding what is all-pervasive,
what has always been?

Friday, October 27, 2017

song of terror

wife of all bliss
emerges from her cloak of flames
shrieking, like a wounded crow

the end of reasoning
is the beginning of understanding
it is a terrible truth
an excruciating joy

Sona's lesson

My favorite story of the Buddha's teachings --

don't string it too tight
or the strings will break
neither string it too loose
or no music will it make
life is like the vina
moderation is what it takes
to play the haunting melody
by which you awake