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K Balachandran Oct 2015
You are the  invisible canvas on which I am a painting indelible,
every minute you reflect in this mirror, my thirsting soul,
history of this love immortal,  begins beyond the portals of time,
but my love, for ages, I've been searching relentlessly for you since.

What do I call this love, that consumes my every life,remains anew!
in wake, sleep and in the realm of dream, I feel your sublime presence,
my heart, filled with wonder, but at times  slips in to a haze of despair,
then your presence becomes  palpable as wind, rain or purple sunshine.

There isn't anything perfect,than this  love, chants the Milkyway
invisible you are, but never ever, for a moment your presence is not felt
isn't it your mantra  of love immortal, my heartbeats repeat?
*You are perfect,  that glory I too reflect; I am within your embrace.
*"Poornamada, poornamidam, poornal poornamudachyathe.."
"That (the ultimate)is infinite, this (each being)is infinite; from infinite emerges the  infinite..."  opening Shanti (peace)mantra of Bhehadaranyaka Upanishad..
Wuji Seshat Oct 2014
To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries

Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written

Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical

To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself

To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets

The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy

In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur

To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words

And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar

On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems

I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.

— The End —