Your body is the temple I worship at,
your soul is the river in which I bathe, uncovering of your flowering mind of wondering that delicately hide away. Glistening in it's cave,
your eyes are the windows
that open for me.
Teleporting on a fresh flowing breeze,
one minute I'm earthly plane incarnate and in the next,
out of body celestial sea.

What is music?  The heart rendered?  What life
Is to a dream?  The eyes object in rapture?
What is the soul's shell, but a half note hollow
Contained with music?  Art is cold—
Echo, mute repetition, poor traits for nine
Dead muses of memory, a fiction after
The fact, nor can there be a shelf for credence
Without cadence.  And though the painter's eyes
Remember rainbows colour, his hands forget
All, save black and white.  Though the sculptor sees
The vein of nudes within the sparkled rock
That stone, still, looks back with grieving half-
Heartedness.
                         The chambered heart is beating,
The droning gales are sighing, but like the one bird
Who flies three ways— before and after song,
My middling wings pronounce two kingdoms part
Music.  The felt fingers of rain consort with well-
Tempered earthly quays and everywhere there is
There is the bright organic instrument—
And actuality is sidled with dead metaphors.
Music is but purest feeling given air to,
The mind soothed, the spirit seduced and a quell
For ache of heart, music is pure making—
Existence itself, another plain, a well dressed
Traveler, a border with life—
Body and spirit, who hand in hand and each
With each, are bound as wings are paired;
One flyer soaring.

Scarlet lips done in roses. She kisses
the sun goodnight, leaving crimson
smears on the horizon.

She ties black orchids to her ebony
curls; copper-colored hands weaving
redolence into midnight gold.

The night holds her close. She caresses
the leaves and play in
shadows that move like smoke.

Her amber eyes catch moonlight like
glowing drops of honey. The tears from her
eyes always the sweetest.

Operatic tones held in drifting  
petals; zephyr notes from her
soothing voice played by trees.

The sun lights a bonfire on the horizon;
she gently kisses the embers
and recedes like the tides.

Fire drains into blue light.
Orange seeds dot the sky. They look
on and see him kiss her in the morning.

In a bed of snow  .  .  .
She and I as children flailed,
  .  .  .  Left imprints of wings.

The Moon shines on in my eyes.
The air is cold and crisp on the face.
The luminescent pale face overcomes all disguise.
Three circles affection; forms for to trace.

My muse is made perfect for such a moment
and my saunter slows to a stand, still stopped.
Bathed in the dark light; so pure is my atonement.
Yet the height of my desire has not dropped.

The depth has deepened, and the width has widened
to encase such a pure celestial sphere.
My soul has cast a requisite to be enlightened,
While yet derived and bereft with fear.

The face I loved is gone, and the nighttime clings so tight.
My moon, which is blue, has stolen my gaze... again,
to give a new face for me; the visage of night.
When the morning shall come I cannot tell. I know not when.

Yet in the turpentine of my misdirection it's best to stop and stair.
for where the wind blows, only the wanderer will care.
All of life is a circle, flawless yet unfair.

The stars fallen
on the still water plane
of the lake
dreaming the sky every minute,
sizzle,
like the effect of cooling,
smile to themselves
thinking about the amazing
translocation,
from the foaming rapids of milky way
to placid dark waters deep down,
from an illusion of light years
to another, of transient reflection.
lie still for a while
taking stock of things:
isn't the real on the same level
of what we count imaginary?
when--
all the fish from secret depths
shoal after shoal after shoal
curious about the newly arrived
lightening bugs, that pulsate,
try to get closer,
propelling themselves
through water
like torpedoes sensing targets
wanting to gobble up
the whole galaxy,along with supernovae and black holes
thinking. "for us these planktons are an easy game
now right here, in our sanctuary,when we are starving"
stars, like frenzied school kids
after the last long bell
swim helter-skelter, ride
the unruly waves,
try to make it to the shore
but find dissolving altogether
was what was written on the book.
Anyway it's a"LILA"
a cosmic game illusory
all a grand opera in which
*Shakti  and Shiva play
transformation game.
But the big fish
ruling cosmic  space
with appetite voracious,
moves across galaxies,
crossing light years in a flash,
obliterating whatever is the matter