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Krishnapriya May 2018
Born of Earth
To return to ashes
In the lightening span
We call this life

I pray
My Master Divine
To make this little light
I call my life
Your own song

Bless the last note
To fall
As dust
At Your Lotus Feet
nabi 나비 May 2018
in the early months we see beauty return to the world
right when we thought colorful art would stop returning
in these early months we learn so much
one of the hardest for most to accept and see
is that everything will die eventually
the beautiful flowers will one day wilt and return to being soil
the leaves on the trees will fall to the ground and become a playground for children
and one day the grass is going to be covered by the freezing snow
and just like plants, we will one day die too
this is simply just how it is
we die and will become food for worms and fertilizer for new life
but our spirits will live on and return to the beautiful spring
although most fear dying, you don't need to my dear
because the flowers have shown us that good always returns
you have existed before, you exist now, and you will continue to
accept this, for you are a flower too
im aware not everyone has the same beliefs as me when it comes to this and i respect that, but this is mine so just take it with a grain of salt and move on with your day if you disagree
Jack Ritter Mar 2018
Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva -
sit eternally on lotuses.

Shiva loves to destroy the universe.
He has as many arms as it takes.
Plus one, to hold a mirror.

Brahma rebuilds it all as needed.
He has four heads and four arms.
That seems about right.

Sitting between Big Bang and Big Finish
is blue Vishnu,
who symbolizes energy.

Iris and Murray Klughart of Yonkers
don't symbolize anything.
Neither do their children.

All their marriage the Klugharts have saved
for a trip to the Taj Mahal.
Each one secretly fears
the other will be disappointed.

They pray their kids will have more.

Iris lights up the place when anyone calls.
Murray lights up a dreadful cigar,
sits back like a living room ornithologist,
and fully hears her song.

The creature is in full cackle.
He'll tell her about his bad MRI -


They are no one,
and their aching backs
prop up every axis,
and out-of-work deity.

Iris cries when she reads Emily Dickinson.
Iris laughs in her sleep.

The Klugharts loved the Taj so much,
Shiva dropped his mirror.
(originally published in Red River Review.)
Jack Ritter
Vijaya Balan Feb 2017
I'd like to think that they are all One,
Even the old stories said so,
But the same stories created multiple ones,
Where is the truth in all these tales?
Hidden between the lines of the translator?
Or within the words of the narrator?
Or convoluted by the repeated writings of many hands?
I guess that a journey inspired by any one of a tale,
Shall also be a tale by itself.
You may not need to verify the source,
May you be the source for others,
When we look for inspirations Upstairs,
Why not look among ourselves ?
wrote while on my first trip to India
Val Vik Aug 2017
Do not fear me
for I am only time -
Do not dwell in the past
for I am your presence.

I am the mirror of your bliss -
all you must do is look within your selves.
Therapeutic Poetry for Thanatophobia, Chronophobia, Guilt, Rejection, etc.
Encouraging and Aspiring for dreams and good intentions.
The Law of Attraction and Psychology.
ConnectHook Apr 2017
Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense.  Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant...)

Note the third eye in the figure's forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a ******-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)

Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.

Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.

Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods' image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic... but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I'll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).

Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it's just a big lie...
bow before a multi-armed freak?  Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan's world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.
NaPoWriMo #15

TS Eliot
wrote highbrow literary
poetry (so-called)
ConnectHook Sep 2015
तत् त्वम् असि

for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons,
washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo

(the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute

Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the ***** water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots

Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight

Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful  heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day

Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.

Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s  bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.

Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

(slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp)

Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.

“This is God –worship Him, worship Him –
this is God – let us worship Him now…”
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