The man’s expression is serene, radiant.
A Buddha-like figure,
with a painted third eye.
The woman is graceful,
relaxed but bold.
She spreads her thighs wide,
opening her petals with her fingers,
to let him look inside.
He smiles as he gazes into her ***
like examining a gem.
Both people look happy and dignified.
They share an enchanted moment,
of kindness, of generosity.
Of mutual trust.
They manage to recover
the innocence of ***
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 12:10 AM UTC
It's 3 pm on a crisp summer day.
After a full day of madness with kids,
I recuperate at my town's library.
Find a seat overlooking the village green.
Sip a small cup of Columbian coffee.
Savoring its flavor and smoothness,
as I read my favorite book at leisure.
Meditating on its deep meaning.
Ah, the small pleasures of life!
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 8:09 PM UTC
The yellow tulip my wife planted
35 years ago still wakes up
every Spring, beaming with life.
But wife is long gone.
Is this her way to say hello?
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 3:53 PM UTC
For weeks, months,
my neighbor’s house has gone dark.
Used to be at least a dim light at night.
A yellow light-bulb kind of glow
to indicate a sign of life.
Now there is nothing.
No car parked in her driveway.
No sight of her in the morning either.
So unusual for her, an early riser.
She used to be in her garden by 7 a.m.
What happened?
It was four years ago,
in January of 2015,
that Death visited our block.
After a long stretch of illness,
our respective spouses passed
within weeks of each other.
Who would have imagined?
Our two houses used to be teaming with life.
Children running and laughing.
Dogs barking.
Scents of home cooking filling the air.
Now, our families become the oldest on the block.
Not even families anymore.
I live alone; so does my neighbor.
Empty nesters.
Survivors from a previous era.
I couldn’t resist calling my neighbor up,
to see how she was doing
this bitter cold January.
The phone rang.
Once, twice, thrice.
The waiting was ominous.
I thought that was it.
Finally she answered.
Said she had been sick since Christmas.
Luckily, nothing serious.
At least she is recovering.
After hanging up the phone,
I was ecstatic.
I jumped with joy.
We are still here.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 7:00 AM UTC
Just love those
Sunday afternoons.
A time with nothing to do,
no place to go,
no people to see.
Time for delicious laziness
and carefree leisure.
I search on Youtube,
our collective memory vault,
fishing for songs from the 70s.
Music of the Eagles,
Carol King and Bread.
Turn up the volume,
let the music flow.
Easy listening on Sunday afternoon
is a family tradition.
dating back to childhood.
A sacred weekend ritual
of lying on the window sill,
listening to Father’s LPs,
while I savored the scent
of Mom’s home cooking.
All the while soaking in the sun.
Content like a cat.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 6:28 PM UTC
Stepping into an old bookstore,
something immediately winked at me.
A poetry book with a bold title
*** with God.”
Why does it piqued my interest?
*** WITH GOD.
Is it unimaginable?
Is it blasphemous?
Would someone get offended?
Why does the mind automatically tear apart
the profane and the divine,
the earthly and the transcendent?
God is the essence of purity.
Who says *** can't be pure too?
When Love arrives in her full glory.
That person becomes All There Is.
That is devotion.
That is the peak of piety.
Atheists think that God does not exist.
I recall the times when God came to me
in form of a Woman.
She has lifted me to the peak of ecstasy.
She has dragged me to the dungeons of hell.
It is an occasion for jubilation.
It is an occasion for trials and tribulations.
Joy and sorrow intertwine.
Heaven and hell merge.
The Sufis know it well--
God takes the form of the Lover.
In the flesh I encounter the Divine.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
Yesterday, someone posted
an image of a **** sculpture.
Exquisite picture
of a a maiden in yoga pose,
one leg raised up high.
Her yoni fully exposed.
Its title—
The Sacred Feminine.
All the men complimented her beauty.
One praised the elegance of her flower garter.
No man dared comment on her *****
To do so would be ******
No comments from the women folks either.
Except one, supposedly a Tantric teacher.
She found it “offensive.”
Offensive?
Are you joking, Madame?
The Tao Te Ching calls the Tao
the Primordial *****
The Mother of All Things.
Why do we shudder
at the sight of the Source,
our Mother?
Why so embarrassed and bothered?
If the human body is ****
then God is a pornographer.
It is time, really,
to pay tribute to our Common Home,
and restore our Mother’s honor.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 10:23 PM UTC
Unusual Beauty
I saw him
years ago
at my local gift shop,
when I took a brief excursion
from soul-crunching work at the office.
A figurine of a black man,
falling asleep on his sofa
while watching TV.
His popcorn spilled.
Can’t remember
if he drools too…
He is not “neat.”
But there is unmistaken beauty
in his sloppiness.
A carefreeness
that warms my heart.
So relaxed.
So comfortable.
So honest.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
At some point
I stopped reading.
Not entirely.
But almost.
When I enter the old bookstore,
I am gravitate towards the poetry.
Before, I would head towards
the Philosophy section,
the History section,
the Science section.
(Yes, there is poetry in science too.
Also beauty,
also awe and wonderment.
Don’t you read Quantum Mechanics?)
Today, I no longer read with my head.
Just want to feel with my heart.
Poetry soothes my soul.
It makes a great companion.
I am not after elegant words,
or profound meaning.
Not really interested in the poet’s fame.
I just want to taste and cherish,
the Silence,
so lovingly painted by my poet friends.
I want to read each poem slowly.
Meditate on it.
Savor every line.
I want to stare at the blank space
surrounding the words.
And feel the harmony
between emptiness and form.
I am addicted
even to the illustrations;
they are poetry in themselves.
I want to imbibe the atmosphere,
the emotions, and the meaning of it all.
Until I am drunk.
Until I become poetry.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 10:20 AM UTC
Notification from Facebook--
my posts received 90,000 "likes."
I could bathe in that ocean of love.
A friend asked me why I post.
Would the world be impoverished
if I stop posting?
Why do I post at all?
Let me tell you, Friend.
My timeline is where I converse
daily with myself.
It's my way of thinking out loud.
It's my way of thinking with others.
That is how I muse,
ponder and contemplate.
That is how I turn inward
and find answer from within.
It's my way of singing,
dancing and playing
in the garden of my mind.
It doesn't matter if only one person
responds or the entire world responses.
Any input from others
turn my monologue into
a dialogue and a collaboration.
90,000 "likes."
They are by no means trivial or frivolous.
Every "like" is a love letter.
It brightens up my day and brings music to my consciousness.
How can I not be grateful?
I put out my thoughts,
and the universe echoes.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC