How do poets survive?
Others drink way too much alcohol
to drown their demons
while others write naked

others try to hide behind their words and metaphors
others just try not to put their heads inside their ovens
while some simply endure the pain
of writing the things they wish they could just tell

Me? I just drink a lot of coffee
and trying not to wake up at 4 AM
blocking the bitter realization
that all I ever did was write letters to you
and you will never write me back

reaching the trailhead
a decision made
seemed sudden
not timebound..
little sunlight remained
but something energized
a decision to
enter the trail
to reach the end
before darknight fell..
the original plan
was otherwise
rendering this decision
as a surprise..
does Awakening work
in this simple way:
enough of planning
charting and maps
no more procedures
and books to follow..
the Now decides
and we are walked...

I looked in a mirror
and saw a face
weathered and worn
Tear stain scarred cheeks
A frown where a smile once lived,
head hung low,
eyes hollow and unseeing
Fading like the one creating
the reflection

Then I look again
and see you over my shoulder
and the image looking back
now appears young and vibrant
alive and happy

I am still me, just a man
nothing much
but you make me something...

In love

In my room, the grandfather clock has been busy
Busy moving its needles around for over a century
Seconds, turning to minutes, to hours, days and years
A young clock growing old, pendulous pinions and gears.

That’s what passing time does, a chime unfixed
But truly, as I introspect, does time really exist?
Rising sun and the onset of night, an unending event
Churning of moments, past, future and the present.

Creeping on us, time is the rhythmic rhyme of history
A song sung by my clock, and its ubiquitous mystery.
A silent, unspoken, unheard, stealthy crescendo
The ever changing panorama I see outside my window.

But then what is the datum to know elapse of time?
Is it a mere yardstick of your evolution and mine?
Replacement of dying cells, a genetic work so complex
My grandfather clock, tick tocks unmindful, unchecked*.

i just want
to be with You,
to be alone,
to walk with You
and to hear the
gentle whisper
of your voice.