hopeless, helpless, confusing, gloomy have faith dark muggy muggy
evening of hopes, oh what an error, how could I, this again and again
same old same old, hopeless, helpless, chimera, mirage, don't trust
lost, defeated, distant, too far the journey, endless, keep walking
featureless, destiny, fate, tired, unclear, ebbing evening light, faceless;
let go, less hope, less help, less clear, less light, less known, only less
not no hope, no help, not clear, no light, unknown, indecipherable;
endless, hopeless, confusing, tired, can't walk, where to go, how, how
light is within, destiny, fate, chimera, mirage, nevertheless, endless

It was a story I was writing -
very interesting, but,
it never ends:

Just when the clouds gathered
at the edge of the season,
a conflagration from the beginning
consumed all the hope;

looping backwards just
when I thought, I'd reached ******;

Like the story about the oasis
where all the chapters are about
mirages,

this is a story about love,
but all the chapters are about
how not to love.

I see a butterfly in my cup
that I never noticed before:
and it flew out and flew away.

In the winds that
blew the pages away.

Accept in return, the eternal fragrance of the unfading flower of love.
It shines even in the moonless night of dark fear. It is what Hope
Chooses as her form when she reveals herself in this mortal world;
It is beauty and attracts to itself, more varied, many-hued beauty:
The butterflies gladly do its bidding, conveying the flutter of joy to
More forlorn twigs and leaves making them dance in the breeze
I don’t have to say I am happy, because love is joy and joy is self-
Evident, like fragrance that wafts across and fills vast empty spaces.

I pressed my ear to the ***** of the
silence before dawn.This is the hour
when birds wake up, contemplating
on what to sing. The sky's smudged
in dispersing clouds. Priests are
washing up for the morning prayer.
Tots plead to sleep more. Here I find
the blessed light that trudged past
aeons and aether, now scattering
past the screen of mists, illuminating
your face, blooming over lotus lakes.
You were up, weeping with the winds
wheezing through the streets all night.
No bells, no flowers, no incense
rosaries or hymnals, this my chapel
is the other shrine in this home.
Now I kneel hearing the throb of love.
One, nameless, the continuum that
here I call myself and there, you.

All winter's
spread scattered now,
leaves
dying damp on earth;

Banging at my chest when
you ask 'why?'',

tears stall time;

Pasts ebb
in the sky, lark-sliced;

Awaiting bloom,
all of life's spread bare.

Like the rainbow shooting out of the horizon:
a whole palette of colours emerges,
carrying in her wings,
all the embers
of the late monsoon -

a side glance, bass strummed of the heart;
Her dimpled smile, drumbeat, missed.
brass, sax, crossing paths,
leaping on a trampoline,
the ***** shrill.

O my towering folly, that
stands mourning like a lighthouse
with the gulls by the rough sea.

All the tones come alive hidden
in this song that like amber
held a slice of that time
in her depths,

screen covered in mist, as now a car pulls over:
clearing it as in a Mandarin Ai, a hut
and some jagged lines: glimpses,
of that dimpled smile -
and a whole jazz band comes alive.

These moments of calm reflection,
Undisturbed peace,
Quiet acceptance of all that is to be done

Like the first golden rays of sun
Sweeping the face
Amid gentle summer morning breeze

Like the brief lightening of the
Blueness of the sky
On a grey winter London afternoon

Love gushing into the heart
Soothing, like a spring
Silently flowing away in a deep forest

Makes all this living worth it!

these are our leaders: ash-born, clay-footed,
emerging in the fudge grays of beyond light,
shadows of the incense plumes
we light in prayer

long washed ashore here from yonder worlds
of darkness and mystery

by a wand wave thieve-made,
exiled our kings to the far realms, alien
then this self-lost band
of otherworldly priests, effeminate
our smiths and weavers, liars
our bards that sung of heroes
and conniving crooks our tradesmen

no we are not to prosper in common
with our kinsmen across the hills
but in the name of God, amen,
say peace to the holy ghosts,
rises deified a language and a nation

so we break the idols of the past
and garland our heroes of reason
clay-footed they come,
and die drowning without an heir

alpha and omega
of our rootless world,

Sullen leaves forlorn now at the edges -
dripping tips say the story of the night:
the thunder - is all over the road, scattered
in the branches fallen; it is the mud and slush
that tell how the sky wept in the hour;
Eyes still moist and still welling up -  
must be a field abounding in blades
of tall them leaves of grass flowering, and
the rain drenching the soul; Now the sky
invisible behind the veil of tear-clouds;
The mind longs for the warmth of home
heart longs to stay there half-sunk knee-high.
Only one night that matters in the journey:
life but a gathering of memories plucked
from the fleeting world; Only one night
when fireworks light the sky and a lonely
heart beats as one with another, though apart
distant in the milling Guy Fawkes' night

This screen of mists waves down by my side, this dark night:
Shadows, lighted by fading lamps on the street, half-hidden
in leaves, playing out events in silver-shades, sometimes
emerging out and drenching you in many hues of darkness:
Flashes of numbers - jumbled digits from lost phones of long
ago; of a home by the moon; on a distant bus emerging red
out of darkness; This deep night, future emerges out in
waves that envelop footsteps traveled of the past, still wet,
still impressed amidst raging winds, into the ******* of time.

Dust gathers everywhere.
Only a swab on the windscreen is clear
on my dust-laden car.

Too tight to wear,
the ring
vibrates vigorously on the washing machine.
The cycle is ending. Intensity waxing.

A song of the solitary koel
serenades a reverie.

I open the screen from inside.
You, the windows from the outside.
Glances exchanged from either side.

It is the time of the late flower.
A drop, even a drop of hot water,
the skin craves for a touch.
In partings, a beginning.

In still winds, all the leaves silent.
Peace comes visiting, a migratory bird
and sits sagely by the bare stalks,
in a hurry to reach
far off lands beyond the seas.

You only get a moment: a moment
when the world freezes.

Wondrous, wondrous is the sight:
from the front, from behind, from the top, from beneath, all around,
fulminating planes, universes, formed, bubbling out forming,
events, from all times existing as one,
beings, of all kinds, everywhere,
gods, angels, daemons, beasts, life from many systems,
including men, of this small speckle of a world,
known, unknown, and the beholder included
unfold, in this being vast, that knows no end,
that prompts awe and gestures of remorse
for having called It the friend and the other and the like,
who can tell what it is, it is inside, outside and everywhere,
our limited vision itself is not enough to grasp it.
It must grant a boon to allow the mortal man to gain a glimpse.

Such is the sight, encountered assuring fearlessness,
amid the din and the clamour of the ferocious war about to begin.

Yet, a realm exists, eternal, where joy is a term unworthy,
where bliss is a term unworthy, where ecstasy flows
out of every pore of the very fiber of existence,
to prompt the poet to say, ah, suffering I can take, but
this my receptacle is too weak to take in your bliss:
where delight takes the form of a radiant blue and plays the flute
having heard which once, all other joy pales in experience known
here a hundred thousand coloured plumes flower out of darkness,
here the ardent souls,  sit numbed by the bliss of love,
not winking once, so not to interrupt the moment.

The portal to which is guarded by a simple faith.
Even a passing desire and a glimpse pours forth, of the river of love
dancing away to the flute, in the depth our being.

Oh, to be a mother, and glimpse universes
in the mouth of one's babe, calling it forth exasperated
to open up and throw out the eaten mud.
Or be the Creator, befuddled that
his proud creation is but one puddle among the millions
this magician conjures up, who smiles innocent as a five year old.
Or be the simpletons guarded in awe by the mountain held up
as an umbrella to the deluge ordered by the rain gods.
Oh, the bewitching smile, that rended the hearts of the maidens,
to which sworn enemies cast their bows and arrows
and fall down in obeisance.

That the lord of all existence, can be a prankster
delighting in butter and frolic, who knew, who knew?

He is the unseen charioteer:
steering the ignorant soul, seated in the heart; Aeons pass
and we know not, even as He carries us in his arms across.
Oh, we can work, and approach him by work.
Meditate! Yes, sunder the knots in the heart.
Sacrifice too, is acceptable as offering, and renunciation ascetic.
See Him in any form, or in no form at all,
offer Him anything, even a leaf, a blade of grass,
He submits but to the ardent soul, this lord of love,
this eternal teacher of the ways of union.

And yet, it all began on a rainy day, on a day
when evil reigned and the rivers were in spate,
in a prison, where righteousness was consigned.

Yes, Truth, the weapon to put the guards of delusion to sleep,
and He slips out, when the rain goes mellow in her hymn,
when the river parts to the babe guarded by the snake,
when the jungles sing to the ecstasy unfolding,
when the world is asleep, ignorant and lost,
assured in its uncertain knowledge
and rival claims and fearsome philosophies
and numberless rituals and lifeless creeds,
unknown to the wicked kings, here He arrives,
to the muffled joys of a pastoral village erupting in celebration.

I was on a ship, a ship on the high seas;
With nobody on the deck,
Sailing through heavy, stormy waters.
Who's at the helm?

I don't know - swaying from side to side
the vessel tottered on, metal
oar-rests clanging to wheezing winds
and boisterous, surging waves.

I suddenly get a call on my mobile - how
on earth did I have network?
'I can see her', says the voice, 'an austere
lady leading the ship'. Is she
the same helmswoman who charters
universes before they come alive?

I walked downstairs, finding the parlour.
And decided I should paint,
to **** time: time, the enduring mystery.
Is this a dream? I consulted
Varo and dipped my brush in black
and splattered oil over canvas.

Dots, like sparkling stars, I see threes and
twos, and fives. Looking eerily
like loaded dice. Am I cruising through
skies? Is this my destiny loaded?

This is an allegory, says Martel. Agrees
Jung; Breton seems pleased.
Freud, though, says I'm just paranoid,
and this, my willful imagination.

I wake up, and find myself on a ship.
There's no one on the deck.
I have a mobile phone in my hand.
Miracle: there's network,

In the dreary hour of the just-dawn,
your life painted in grim notes,
you are alone with all your Self;

The trees all asleep in grey tones,
lamps that gave light all night,
become pale packets of wastage;

A gust of wind pours in
carrying the songs of birds
singing to the unveiling skies.

A new morning comes rushing
on the waves of the mellow sea
from worlds beyond the horizon:

A day rises, when you drop all
the burdens you long carried
on your life-weary shoulders.

Mystery girl, let me make an ansatz about you:

You are like an anti-gravity wave -
the farther I go, the more I pine for you.

Some kind of growing exponent:
yes, you are the solution I ignore in my

quotidian root-finding mission;

Ah, the annihilation, those killer eyes!
Now I see, we inhabit orthogonal planes.

Your *uv, to my uw, you are IR to my ivy.

Wonder-woman, let me make an ansatz about you:

You are elegance. Ripple-play at pebbles,
those dimpled cheeks.

Deliciously symmetric. Alpha 180,  no Beta
at all - well not Cartesian.

Guess it's subterranean, Artesian,
in the k-space, transform domain,
my mind-space, where, girl,
you are a wonder of beauty and grace.

Magicienne, let me make an Ansatz about you:

You are the particle for Love waves. A lovelet.

Dressed in that kaftan when you walk in,
I will sublimate. Ether-maker, you solve
the Hamiltonian, I see now how matter's made.

The winter has set in early; monsoon a memory now,

the trees are all dusty by the all-day din.

This morning, the taxis ply early, eager to get the office-goers in.

Tea fumes in the mist.

The lady in the bungalow alights from her car

with her child, early from school.

Vegetables still asleep on the pushcart.

An eighties number mingles with the wind.

A van loaded with kerosene cans parks at the gates:

there is a tenement at the basement.

I want to feel the breeze on my unveiled face
and my unlocked hair, this morning,
I am walking barefoot.
I want to feel the earth on my feet.
How she has gone warm
under the anger of the days.
Or how she shivers in the days
of agony, the cold winters.
Before the night was done,
I plucked and hid some in my pocket.
There it stays, the darkness,
close to my heart. Sometimes
the stars smile, pomegranate cloves,
bleeding sliced under my knife.
There is a wave receding,
stealing the earth under my feet away.
A projectile flew with the birds,
racing them a while, but it drops now
into the water in a thud.

To mama's home, when-ever my mister
starts acting cool, unto how many years
ever to straighten him out:
Can you promise to ensure this for me,
proponents of marriage by love?
I've been brought up like a princess by
my father, so dare not propose to me if
you cannot manage the same and
then shut the door to my mama's home!
I'll marry whomever my father chooses
aren't all ram the same otherwise-
Until de-horned and de-bearded my man
mama's home every now and then,
gifts for every festival, weddings
and merry occasions, my cradle
to fall back on, if life does rock my swing:
So, proponents of marriage by love,
dare not propose to me
if you cannot give me the same
and yet shut the door to my mama's home.

The air is wet in the moist tears of the sky
vacant, and full of the fragrances of the hill flowers

Lone bird flying tither, looking for shelter.

adorning her forehead dishevelled the clouds
Looking confused, Phantasm woman hair
the early crescent moon  looking lost,

Long travelled, when the soul longs for home,
there is none but the parnaked sky. Some warm clothes
familiar arms, a favourite soup. mirages a thirst.

When all is lost, there is hope. There is soul.
Wide earth, Call upon your vicars,
to learn your language and to be as you are,
to sing with the echoes and vanish with the shepherds.
I come here in homage, find me a home,

staring at the floating lamps dotting the dusk
distant hamlets in salsa with the stars.

Alight, for here, the bus stops.

Let the film end before intermission
characters be underdeveloped
let the plot lie open like cut veins

and let the the background score
resonate in the hall at its shrill note

It's a broken piece of the heart
cracked into two:
two faces reside here now
on either sides of the chasm.

Make whatever you wish out of it
Sweet or bitter end,
tragedy, comedy or farce
or thriller or horror,
write your own story, make it up.

take any road up the hill
to eternity beyond.

My menorah is three-branched:
three the lamps that light my firmament
one, ineffable, more ancient than time
the other immanent,
and the third, the Lamb, incarnate love.
I drank of the them in a drop
of the tears the autumn sky shed.
Yea, I held a camphor to the skies.
An eternal flame, that
burns in the chamber of the heart
where I stand anointing the beloved's
feet in perfumed oil. This crimson eve
when the shadows return,
I kneel lost in the light of his love.
A silken stream from the unknown
that gushes silent in the creeks
of the heart, where I sit in gratitude
feeling the warmth in my palms.

I am the river bleeding rivulets at its mouth,
I am time, many branched.

I was a woman who came of heart, love, hope:
I was thrown out of my hearth.

Alone in this harsh winter, the broken woman works the coal in the shanty town. She is all toil and fate. She is, is but a footnote in our capital culture. She has no wealth and she has lost all.

No education worth a job. No salary worth a home. Age is not on her friendly side. So she goes abandoned by the river, discarded jewel.

She went home, back home to where her father came from. There they called her a foreigner, and said she did not belong. She was western in the east, and an oriental in the west. She did not belong.

She was sent here to these rugged mountains by a twist of fate.  No one told her story. She was forgotten like a grave in the hills. Her wails are the whirlwinds that rise hooding mysteries up the slopes.

Un-clapped cymbal, wind chime, song bowl and ney, unsung songs that compete for attention. Time, many branched.

She won. Brave woman, she won. She fought her fate and said 'I will'. The fire in her eyes stoked people's hearts. They welcomed her home and called her 'Khedi'. She's a guide to adventurers who want to be lost.

I chose this timeline. I jumped in and ran my dinghy down this gorge and emerged into a world of sparkling light.

Lost to everything around me, rising in myself like vapour,
Listening to Purcell and reading
Neruda, thinking just about you, I could melt away like this,
Burned so sweetly by your love,

Speaking in many voices the day knocks at my closed doors:
But the hammer, the drill, the
Traffic noise, din around me, all seem to just play like drums
To the effervescent dance of my spirit

I will burn away like this, lighted in the fire of your love,
I will become one with the fragrance
Haunting the depths of existence; everything must become
Like mist to my ascending spirit as I

Burn away
Consumed by the fire of your love:
This will be the frankincense I light at the altar of love

A chant echoing in the distance:

fragrance wafting across, rising,

spreading like the birds at dawn

far into the horizon blue:

measuring in its sweep,

the shaman dance of the seasons,

rhythmically erratic,

the drum beat that is the beginning

and the end, a comet search from beyond,

seeking death in the shadows,

like the prayers of stars spreading across

the spiral arms of galaxies

through ages beyond number, too large

for our infant eye to stand witness,

a lighted lamp in loving supplication

at the closed gates of an ancient temple,

waiting to behold the beloved again,

a flame lighting the gulf into an abyss.

Is that it? Samsonite...No, mine's a no-name.

I thought red would do - red unique.
But, my, so many reds on this belt.

The wait, for prized possessions
checked in - clothes for the trip, and razors!

Thought much of myself when
I ran ahead at Immigration, but
the posh lady I raced, walks off now -
she's found her red.

The belt's stopped now. We are all packed.
Hope's never lost if not found yet!

FILO says my neighbour-in-line: First in, Last Out,
kind enough to explain. Well shouldn't it be
LIFO? I wondered, the late loafer that I am.

Yawns - shorter to fly, longer at the belt!

Red, red, everywhere...now
an American Tourister, snooty.

But mine's a no-name
ribbed red, economy class beauty:

and am waiting...

I.

Brooded over by fate
nestled high up on the hills
by the mists, our love,
but now floating away
in a reed basket
on raging flood waters:
a home seeks a roost

II.

When it rains,
the whole world goes silent.
All the din and the dust,
lost in the downpour.
And voices long submerged
come alive in the heart.

III.

I seek a baptism of the soul.

Is'nt it of the scripture
that we are made in his image?

So, is birth, his lot too,
and age, and
the long wait to death?

The body's been bathed
many times over.
Yet this scar of unbelief
remains unscathed.

IV.

Thunderstorm.
Candle light.
Slanted shadows.
Across the table,
blazoned red.

V.

Yes, there is still
'you' and 'I'.

There is this bare stalk in my backyard. With upraised branches, all dried,  painted in contrast to the lush greenery all around: sometimes, I feel, like the branches of a swirling bolt fulminating against dark, brooding, boding skies.

I have seen three seasons pass by. This stalk has remained bare. All around, trees have gone from withering to flowering and onward. This one though, stands constantly poignant, almost embodying pathos, endlessly mourning.

Insects - termites? ants? I don't know, but I see they have covered large parts of the stalk. Raised to the skies, like an enigma, a puzzle thrown to the distant stars veiled by the firmament. Yes, I know this slow death that sustains life.

Yes, I can relate to it. It is like this pain that haunts my soul. Like the song of the smudged moon on a misty night, sung to uncaring, asleep worlds. After skies weep out their agony, the music of the last tears dripping off tips of drooping leaves.

Half a milken bowl
               stuck on the wall:

sporting a contraption at its head

all silver, this touch-cold cast,

spouting out a colourless stream.

Sound of an outpouring,
the song of life.

parched desert mirage.

I celebrate this journey in the desert -
I am but a traveler in my time:
in this pasture of my fathers, land,
where stands this miracle of glass
now calling manna down
from the high home of eagles:
I am but a helpless everyman, lost
in the desert, on a journey out
from the clutches of misery, and pain;
The world is making progress.
As I see the oases running farther
away from my sights: on
elevators to the skies, numbers
of the young call on benefactors
across the seas, for a ropeway
across the quagmires: a home, a car
and the family life; saving for a
better day, in the future, while
my home went from mudbrick
to thatched grass, then out on streets
by the gutter with the dogs;
I am a cleaner, cobbler, janitor
in the land where I was the tiller.
Wiping the sweat on my brows
as I loaf on the lawns, awaiting
labour days hyphenated by mealtimes,
there is no witch-doctor now, and
no money to pay up at the hospitals
that the wealthy from afar line up to,
but to die helpless a wretched death,
I celebrate my helplessness!

Sometimes you pick a pair of fish and bread
and feed thousands, and at others
master flautist, make umbrellas of hills
protecting us from deluges of wrath.
I have walked to the lonely peaks where
stones have become animated bearing witness
to the nights of wonder, when you poured forth
your love, and drank of the poisoned chalice.
Yea, even by the well where burdened of sin
I sat down, and drank of the springs of Grace.
And I do not wish to hear anything,
but relive the awe seeing you speak,
as one with authority, passion of the heavens!

Before her there was substance
but no existence;
Hers the fire that animates,
bliss at the root of being.
She measured out the three spaces
that enmesh our worlds,
order from chaos;
Soothing hand that
touches our heart and heals
the our soul aching
through the throb of fate;
In the ochre hours when
a thousand songbirds hymn
she lies curled a creeper flower
breathing fragrance
in a gust of silken wind;
Mortal heart that kens not
the song of the dawns

I want to write of those times
before we started counting the years
words like beads, precious
like none before,
crimson dabbed in evening light
the heart, by the riverbank;
When we walked across the town
lost, unconcerned;
Them sanctuaries and vespers
that consecrated a nameless love
unborn, yet painting the horizon
red like a distant dawn;
Song of the drums welcoming
the Autumn Goddess;
And we ascended the sky
and knew not, when
the wheel of time that giant eye
stole past us:
and we land counting
the years, steps and dreams
that were lost, never to return.

Earlier I did not know god as God
and gods were my friends.
now I know God and God
and I have a master.

Long before my time, my pagan lands
were deluged by the sword of the believers.

and so it came about that
growing up under the rubric of the believers
I, an infidel pagan, think like them.

so, I approached the high priests
and professed my faith in the one Saviour
seeking innocent acceptance and
they asked, Do you believe in the One God
and His sole and final apostle?
well, that depends, I said, on
how you define 'One' and what you mean
by 'God' and who can be called an 'apostle'.

I was too pagan for the believers.

so I approached my pagan brethren
and asked to be admitted into their fold
seeking innocent acceptance and
they asked, what Order do you belong to,
my friend, and what may be
that of your fathers and their fathers?
well, how matters, I said,
the Order my fathers belonged to, or not
to any, when the Spirit lights my heart?

I was too catholic to be pagan.

And so it is that time passes.
Ever wandering by the margins of creeds.
That yet neighbour me on my land.

Earlier we did not know god as God
and gods were our friends.
now we know God and God
and we have a master.

business Friday that ISIS took control
Husayba sometime around
I tell you Love Ramadi Habbaniya
non leader. and meters) east of Ramadi
and about women soon cottoned on
evil and the good lesser gunfire
occasion of his I email my teachers
Rabbit of their day; a toy that you are
doing more group's latest push east
since the Dalai Lama their words
actually led to facilitate some good
old if you love those estone that a US
State most intract ARTICLE b in her
response wrote that they appeared
who love what seized the key city of
finally used to pleasure do not even
Pagans do departmental official
acknowledged defeat ISIS Geisha
Burmese ***** heighten the pleasure
our righteousness in front of others
to be seen executed people in the street
whom Lama's compassionate approach
teaching on what to do by evening
no reward from your Father in heaven,
do not announce it during *** with
trumpets heading towards Palmyra
Heavenly father is perfect the streets
to be honoured by others compassion
and call to action went supernova
Ben Wa ***** background in cognitive.
remember to give thanks more efforts.

Far ahead, beyond the horizon
is the pillar of shadow that
I set out in search of:
Past waves drenched of gold
and silver nights, I rode on, beyond
islands and signets.
I dreamed of worlds of light
past the winter of faith where
prayers freeze and the days still-born
But at the edge of the world
the shadow is still long
and the light-house I imagined
of shores beyond darkness
remains distant. In the deep
the shivering sky mourns
an ancient loss. What language
does the teardrop speak?
Beyond the horizon, there is a
pillar of shadow that rises
in the firmament of my soul.
Clenching a song in my fist, tonight
I rise, drawing out like filings,
the magician of my world,
conjurer of truths, I am
the magnet for secrets, onward!
I have a shadow to resolve.

Beyond this our world of shadows -
where bloom flowers of peace
and grow trees called love;
There, no disease
that snatches our dear,
nor death that leveller;
No trudge to the slum
to work and live far from home
that need bringing us back
alive or dead at night;
No high-rises from where
to look down upon the hovels in fear;
No kings that having slept
through the low-tide,
ask to sings peans to the high;
No borders nor thieves
that eye our lives,
Beyond this our world of shadows​ -
is a land called Hope

In the heart of the cavern, light
that stands ancient behind time, beyond
phenomena, the observer of melodies;
This is where it all began,
those aeons lost when the mollusc
heeded the call to man.

Inward, stalked by worry and loss,
an inversion of the lines of time:
beyond the zero point of recollection,
where zoom microcosms of possibilities
a realm not realm, but like that
an existence beyond existence.

Here, arose an affliction, in
curled expanses that exist as some among
an infinitude of potentials,
worldlines, some dark and featureless,
others growing and meaningless
and some like here where sentient,

observatory, a shadow grows around
the probing ray of infant awareness.

and so the ascent, from light to light
through alleys of darkness. Vast,
the beginnings and interludes
between phantasmagoria; What
accedes of in slumber, the knowledge
of things and nothings.

And up even until the day when
the babe says 'mine'.

Part these waters, Lord: alien,
in this the land of our debts ,
long we wore our souls making
tombs for pharaohs of other men

Not a year that is passing
but another of our lives,
away from you;

Why wait for the crossing,
to show us you are that you are,
O word in flesh, raise us -
dead, worn of spirit;

Are you not the voice that
angles in the wilderness?
come part these waters,

that we may rush to you,
the light of our souls,
black rose, isn't that you exist
a miracle of our lives?

By the shadowy waters of the lake in deep woods,
amid owl-calls and shrill cries of crickets,
and croaks of a hundred frogs,
a kindly form speaks a word to my heart.
Clouds blanket the moon from the cold that makes
stars shiver.  On receding nights a warm
corner to bury my head in, from
advancing grey-arms of menacing dawns.
An accepting hug melts all that bothered us bitter
through the storms that raged the night
over. This was all required to begin
over, the morning after. The heart feels
what ears cannot hear. Blessings that miss the eye.

Blood in winter snow:
dying sun at dusk, filling
the skies in sorrow.

Ethereal petals
blue
unfurling a presence

on the waveless
shoreless waters

bathed in golden light

a smile, a portal
to vaster worlds
unfolding
on the placid lake

a golden peace
unending dawn

now the day is done:
gone all the song-masters
and dream-makers;
and now, I am alone
by your side.

Sometimes, you escape me
and then this giant stride
straight into my heart;

Ceaseless in waves.

Love scattered across your forehead
like stars flickering over
the eastern sky:

Is it your hair that flits
across your smile in the breeze?

Senora, the swallows have been
shot like a bow and they
go screeching over the horizon
echoing in the distance;

Let me hold your hand and
site by your side like this:
scarce these quiet hours
that mull like the blue moon
in the hours before dawn.

Who smote the barriers at the gates of dawn
that the worlds roll out from the firmament of time
Who pierced the sky releasing the waters
that bring life to matter dead, egoless,
the simpleton who concedes all in love,
artist who fashions the arrow that rends
the delusion of separation, blue-
necked, the Yogi drunk of poison
darknesses that emerge in enquiry,
auspicious Lord, the terror to death

For her sundered from space and time
at the dawn of phenomenon,

not the little pettinesses of our world:

and
a portal to the unknown beyond -

the sky flaming red at dusk,
still in the lake the late summer hill
little a bloom in the bush hidden,
even shy a smile devoid of guile,

little every joy here;

Thought they,
faint of heart she was:
but every swoon carried her across
the world of the river of lights

In Her presence dawned on this
forlorn our earth -

Beauty since the beginning of time
exuberant in the hills
in the plumes and vales
and in the cruel hearts of men;

And grandeur, of the kind
unbeknown before, as the king
her father sewed up an empire vast;

And perfection in works
unknown before -
in every weave and hew;

All that men ascribed to her
father the great.

And then draped in your cloak
shimmering like the dark night
hair streaking past your eyes
them leaves across the wet moon
when you turn looking back at me
I can believe in a hundred rebirths
and die breathing like the sun at dusk
drowning in the distant sea
bleeding across the horizon
mourned by the gulls
Senora, I don't know you
and yet I do, friend across the ages,
here we meet again

This is the night of the distant circles.
Tonight the gulls are in meditation.
Senora, tonight, I find your tracks
disappearing on the shores,
though the tide is afar.
I saw you, draped in a garment of colours, and
adorned of the golden dot on your forehead
vanish at the horizon.
In the morning when you
emerged fresh from the shower of mists
with your clouden hair still wet,
I was the wheezing breeze flying West.
I was the bumblebees returning to roost.
Now I am conversing with the echoes.
I want to decipher the language of the waves
whispering to the stars.

There's this doll you know:
got delivered to my home today,
it's all part of a disturbing game
and I found a key in its mouth:
it starts by sending
what we lack  most in our lives.

Broken illumination
as the fan flits;

Two naked girls started it all:
except for bikini bottoms,
knitted in national flags,

waving down a truck
on a bridge across the Dnieper.

Roll over the tanks!
nobody wants war:

Except our masked friends,
my maidan hero
your naked Fascist,
self-defending Lebensraum?

Gas them, gas them,
coz, we don't want war.

Got some butterflies to catch;
Tryin' to catch them since
the good ol' hippie days.

It's them naked girls
that started it all:
Havana girls,
there's pipe loads of gas
that's at stake,
drill drill off Alaska, Palin!

Four flowers bloomed this morning at the horizon
and the world is drenched wet in tears the skies
wept for joy, maiden of the dawns, I saw you pluck
stars for your basket of prayers before the hours
and now you are gone, past the windswept edges.

I see your presence that has filled the peals of light
peering into my chamber this hour before deed.
Sombre noons when the koel cries for her beloved
I hear your footsteps jingle in the distant wood.
When the lamps of longing are lit at dusk, send

rains that soothe the valleys and the winds that
caress the river weeping  for the sorrow of loss.

Deep in the nights, your silences more sonant
than the footfalls that waken the grazing deer.
I saw your smile behind the untended fires
in the heart of the cavern, but I did not hurry.
And now I hear myself echoing in the quarters.

Day and night vie for each other
now, but the darker is winning;

The moon mourns in her ruddy veil:
tonight, the garden's wet by tears.

Incredible, the attraction,
of carbon for carbon.
Even more, the attraction
of carbon for gold.

In the wild, they rarely bond.
But in man, inseparable.

Carbon and mammon: be not yoked,
says the jewel diamond of our race.

Who cares? The cross,
an adornment nice.
Mammon in mud? Silicon
too, says the IT guy.

Fullerenes in the sky: on this
Guy Fawkes night, sparks truly fly.

Carbon will **** for gold.
This the oldest maxim of old.