I had gotten so used to self-hatred
That when he called me
"Beautiful"
I wondered why,
Why in the world
Would a bee leave
Roses, marigolds, sunflowers
And choose to be in the mud?
"Because YOU," he said,
"You are my lotus".

In the circular lily pond--
desolate, surrounded by lush growth of
tall, entangled ***** pine plants
spewing amorous scent
in to the humid tropical air
from musky flowers, golden yellow.
hunted by swarms of bees,
                                        --  you step in.
Peeling off  your clothes to the last bit,
with a jubilance freedom bestows
you spring down, delve deep
to take bathe, knowing, I the owl
that has an eye on you always
keep watching you from the other end
in a stunned surprise to see you ****
for the first time, after long last!

In a fix you are now about my presence
when  celebrating the freedom
of a village belle, that comes rarely
on such occasions, away from all eyes that pry-

You swim a few laps, my water nymph
on your back you glide, setting the water aflame
now, you pretend to see me all of a sudden,
then, swim towards me as if your secret plan, did succeed,
I am caught in your net of love, but your ploy is different,
plead not to look at you as you swim naked,
a wily love cat, you are,  that knows her alley well.

If only, I were a water lily,I'd pretend to be your waist band
made of the stem, supple soft; the petals would jealously conceal
the secrets of your lotus, while circling the slender waist  tenderly.

A raga of another time, from another day,
plays in the head:
grime of the day, stuck on my hands.

You shot an arrow across the eastern skies.
Senora, a hundred cries you carry
in your womb, yet I never
found you in the peasant woman
in whose arms I fell asleep, when
at noon you disappear at the horizon.

Maiden of the moons, at dusk I lost you
to the trail of lotuses blooming westward.

It is raining in gusts but this storm
cannot wash it away:
Guilt, like turmeric, stains the soul.

Its Christmas! Its Christmas!
The skies have early said,
As the winter brings the bliss
Of berries blue and red;

The dew that chanted the tale of his birth
Gleamed in the palm of the lotus leaf;
The flower which stood for his grace on earth
Spread their aroma to void all grief;

Its Christmas! Its Christmas!
The skies have early said,
As the winter brings the bliss
Of berries blue and red;

Loud and clear, the skylark sings,
A cluster full of joy it brings;
Dancing in glee, the tulips many,
Clouds and mountains too join the symphony;

Its Christmas! Its Christmas!
The skies have early said,
As the winter brings the bliss
Of berries blue and red;

                                                                            -Anil Kumar A R

The lotus wades

     Shallow water

          Even and calm.

Her petals brighten

     In the beating sun's rays,

Glowing of tranquility.

          The onlooker grows jealous

     Venom green with envy

While the lotus rests,

          Mockingly green leaves.

When she told me she loved me
I didn't believe her.
So i killed myself instead.
A fairy came to me & whispered enticing secrets in my ear.
He outlined a closet upstairs
where I live alone inside my head.
Tidal waves of white roses grow in & out my of spine.
Suffocating the fishes prancing in a field of raving vines.

Lunar Lullaby plays hopscotch in a cloud of flies.
She licks cherry red ice pops & sings bird hymns to oak trees withering in the wuthering skies.  
Swarming dragon-lies fly in lakes upon Monet's canvas.
There he paints a beauty of Thumbelina whose grave resides in the darkest corner of my empty heart.

A red cape looms above & flutters without wings.
My cave is growing vaster
And so I sail amongst its seas.
This Psychosis is no more wearing thin than Rigor Mortis can begin.
I'll live sedentarily as a maid serving rotten apples to men chained as apes.
A lotus will float on by down this bloodstream & into the night.
As a crater on the moon your corpse died suddenly as when fruit bloom.

I met her in Cameron Park
I don't remember her name
but i call her Padma
(padma is the sacret lotus)
she was a little asian girl
about 9 years old
her mother was going
to the food co-op
and she let padma stay
with me in the park
we shared a sandwich
she probably shouldn't have
accepted food from strangers
but I guess by that point
we weren't strangers
we fed the pigeons and a squirrel
she told me she was going
to dance lessons later that day
she showed all the moves
in very french sounding names
she loved dancing
and she was great at it
we talked about God
funny thing to talk about
with a 9-year old
but whe was eager to tell me
about the Buddha
I told her I liked Buddha too
but that I didnt't
believe in God
she ******* believe
that I didn't belive in God
but she said that
some day I would see
"look at the sun" she said
"look at the tree"
"look at the pigeons"
"their feathers"
"is that not the work of God?"
I could not disagree
and I didn't have the heart
to say
"lool at that homeless guy"
"look at the front page of the paper"
"drugs"
"war"
"****"
"******"
I didn't have the heart to tarnish
her heart of gold

Sometimes I wake up to
spatial tension
and awkward sting,
where there are fractions of
unwanted proteins and
dripping enzymes.
Sometimes I wake up to
obsidian corpuscles
of unknown origin
and encounters with
sentiment-shakers,
dream-eaters,
and rafter-rattlers.
Sometimes it is as simple as
dripping beige,
intangible amber,
and cold, cold, blue.
Sometimes I wake up
to nothing, too.

Mind - tripping eyes subconsciously getting lost in grandfather clock.
Thoughts frolicking through fields that time could never stop.
From a lotus flower shinning bright from rejuvenation.
Born to all things new, putting the past in stagnation.
No matter the hardship, there's never a need to let petals start wilting over time elapsed.
Grandfather clock never stops, there's only so much vitamin d the day allows to grasp.
From this it's learned we must water our own apple blossom, one commonly missed,
As we search for the perfect bouquet of eternal bliss.
Yet it projects good fortune and releases hopeful vibes.
Grandfather clock couldn't let memory forget it, even if it were tried.
Apple blossom in hand, into daisy fields memory wallows about.
Holding tightly to what’s left of innocence, youth cannot run out.
What a gentle smell carried through the breeze, the sun with warmth to share.
When grandfather clock strikes a certain time, reflections will take me there.
When time is due, a valley is to be embraced.
Within which lay a single lily, in which happiness is grace.
Grace can be given all around, especially to those closest.
Even when you’re the only bud bloomed, the only lily floating on the surface.
In fact, the lily of the valley is grandfather clock’s key.
The only one to break through the surface; the code to set time free.
With not much else around, we work with what we’ve got.
But happiness doesn’t exist so give it another shot.
Happiness is something we must create; our own bouquet of eternal bliss.
So as grandfather clock tics & tocks…. tic…. tock…
I toss a single black rose at twelve on the dot…time stops.
Farewell may be forthcoming, but rebirth has already been assumed.
Thanks to you my bouquet has been created, my blissful soul has bloomed.