When I awoke I was sailing among the stars..
No water below no gravity at all..
The ship was made of wood and her sails made of strange golden light..
For the moment I forgot about the Earth..
For the moment I forgot about home..
I was all alone on this ship sailing toward the center of our galaxy..
There was a guitar inside the captains champers..
I took it outside and played to all the passing stars..
I played and I played for light years that seem like seconds..
The stars shined brighter and brighter the longer I played.
That is until reached the center of the galaxy..
It was there I met with all the other ships.
All sailing from home..
To come home..
There were 3 of them..
Each one of them had a different instrument..
We stood there at the center of the galaxy and begin to play for eternity.
We spun the star circle..

i knew this was all too good to be true.

i knew you never really wanted me.

i knew i wasn’t the only one you were talking to.

i knew those poems weren’t about me.

i knew you were the same as everyone else.

i knew you would eventually fade away.

i knew you were going to leave.

i knew **** well you would never stay.

i have taken the idea of you
and i have crumpled it up again,
threw it into the trash can



i have pulled you back out
and i have smoothed you out again,
hung it over the mantel piece

LEARN FROM THE OWL!
Many of us think of the owl
As a foolish, ugly fowl:
It can neither strut like a peacock,
Flaunting colourful plumes,
Nor, like the shy nightingale,
Sweetly sing, every spring:
But the sages of ancient Greece,
Seeing  the night bird's virtues rare,
Said nothing foul about the owl,
Admired its bright round eyes,
Sharp and keen, able to see its way
And fly in the darkness of night:
Eyes, quite strange, looking not sideways,
But always straight and always right
And quickly turn its agile neck
And see all things happening
Behind its back as  well as front!
In all directions ,the owl can see
But, from different angles do we ever see?
Boastful humans, full of pride,
Who speak ill of the humble owl
Can scarcely match the skilful owl,
And a poet who loved this little bird, wrote -
"A wise old owl sat on an oak,
The more he saw, the less he spoke,
  The less he spoke the more he heard,
   Why can't we be, like the wise old bird!?"
                  *** M.G.Narasimha Murthy,
Hyderabad, India.

I thought I grasped it.
I repeated, "I'm free"
Yet I failed to catch the meaning.
Free should be open,
Free should be closed with the past,
Free should be me,
So why arent I?
I thought I could let go.
I thought It was smart.
People told me it was, i believed them.
I regretted it from the moment I saw you next.
But it's okay,
I know you have moved on.
So it is my time, too.
Time to get up,
shake off the dust,
and live on.

The love stretched out to two.
The entangled strings between us.
I let go of one, not to long ago.
The other, My mind was set to follow.
I clung, I hurt.
The confusion built up of the simple,
"He said, she said"
The one of whom I let go,
gave me valid advice:
To let go of the other.
I refused,
I clung, I hurt.
Finally, the message came through.
Written in the stars was the message.
Rain poured down as I told,
"This is the end, forever shes gone"
But instead I received nothing but sunshine.
I clung? No, I let go.
Im free.
Im free.

September 14, 2016

I can hear the angels sing.
As the stars glisten,
as the moon rises well into the night.
I can hear the angels sing.
Its very rare,
so listen,
to catch a glimpse of the beauty.
The angels dont sing often.
Therefore you must treasure the moments
Forever fleeting like a shooting star.
So Ivhold the angels close,
for hope that the song comes again,
once more

We were better off together.

The late night conversations, the happiness, the snuggling into the covers ad sighing at sweet messages from a dimly lit screen

We were better off paired, like jeans--who wants only one leg?

The intake of breath when our eyes met, the constant need to be touching in some way, the flurry of butterflies we gave to each other

We were better off squared, where we could always protect each other

And now I'm left to wonder--do you feel as raw as I do?

Rawer and more exposed than I've ever felt, yet little to do to remedy it....I want that second layer wrapped around me.

But when I reach for it....it's never there.

THREE MONKS
Morning sunbeams danced on the ripples
Sparkling on the majestic flow of Mother Ganga.
Noisy crowds of pious pilgrims from all corners,
Pestered by ash-smeared, bargaining priests,
Rushed towards the sacred waters for a holy bath ,
In a hurry to wash off their numerous sins
And save themselves from Yamadharma's* wrath.
Three solemn-looking monks in saffron robes,
Moved briskly past the motley crowds,
Looking for a less noisy, cleaner spot.
At a distance, they saw a colourful launch,
Carrying pilgrims across the vast expanse,
When, all of a sudden, the launch tumbled
And scrambling pilgrims, in panic jumped  
Into the river flowing fast over hidden rocks.
Seeing their desperate struggle, the surprised monks
Took a hasty plunge and swam towards the sinking launch
And pulled some of them towards the sandy shore,
While one of the sturdy monks carried on his back,
A woman clinging to the side, breathing hard
And left her after she recovered composure.
Resuming their walk along the river bank,
Two of the monks appeared rather grim and cold.
Breaking their solemn silence, the frowning monks
Called their companion a big sinner
For he had carried a young woman on his back.
Unperturbed, the robust monk said with a smile,
Although he had carried a drowning woman on his back,
He had left  her safely on the river bank
While the scolding monks carried her still in their minds
And they hardly knew what detachment meant !
Startled and rudely awakened, the two monks
Prostrated before Vivekananda, the awe-inspiring saint!
                **     M.G.Narasimha Murthy
  Name of the God of Death in Indian mythology.