Make me a flower delicate and sweet,
spewing fragrance into the blowing breeze .
Make me a violin from whose strings
melody flows to soothe the ailing nerves .
Make me a rain cloud, sailing over
the breadth and length of skies
showering cooling droplets on to the thirsting Earth.
Make me a lamp shedding beams of light
dissipating darkness from the mazy depths of gloom .
Make me a vessel full with love to pour out
into all empty pitchers.

Let every atom of my being throb with Thy filling love
Let it spring forth in jets to form the gushing stream
Let the Earth wear a celestial charm
Let the plants celebrate the carnival of colors

In my basket, I shall gather many a fragrant bloom
to be offered at your feet with love
and remain squatted in Thy presence ,
not losing in the pageant of this transient life.

I wait for

The PEACE to dawn upon in a world where violence rules
where hate like worms eat into the core
and the air rent with fears – illusory and real

I wait for

The LIGHT to break into me to see myself bare!
to hear the music of your heart, over the cacophony around
and to sing songs of spontaneous praise!

Give me Light, Oh Lord! Clear brilliant Light,
not to enjoy the wayside scenes
but that I shall not stumble and fall.
...........................................................­.....................................

Fog dissipated to the sheen and splendor of
Bursts that broke through twilight’s embrace
Released from their cages by night’s keeper
Right before daybreak, awakened the sleeper.

The Man in the Moon
stares down at us,
craggy and cryptic,
a closet curmudgeon.

His face shows all
the bumps and wrinkles
of the lunar surface:
cosmic age spots, growing older.

He is isolated, stuck circling
the Earth all day and night,
cast into outer darkness,
blinded routinely by the sun.

What he doesn't show
is his vast loneliness. Until,
that is, he discovered a gift left
behind from the moon landing:

A huge, cuddly hare, hopping
over moon rocks, flopping
its big furry ears. O the Man in
the Moon is lonely no more.

Artists are often
broken people
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
and although
being healed
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art

My sea is far away,
let's meet somewhere closer,
under the same cloud.

My blue water is for the sun.
I sing beneath the waves.

My rose is for the show.
I am imbued in the fragrance.
Love is in the air;
the scent wafts into my heart.

My sky is open wide,
beyond the rainbow on high,
beyond the peacock's eyes.
It embraces the earth,
reaching far and wide.

As the wind blows along the way,
flying beneath the endless blue,
a mesmerising sight from the bird's-eye view,
a butterfly slips out and begins to sway!