#samadhi
You may call it Sky.
I call it Blue Breeze.
You may call it Sun.
I call it Zen.
You may call it Rose.
I call it Reason.
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 1:32 PM UTC
It is the capacity only to act for myself.
It is the capacity neither of self-subsistence nor without
self-reliance.
It is neither the epitome of wisdom, nor the epitome of
ignorance.
It is not the epitome of beauty nor the epitome of
ugliness.
Lack doesn't make for worry and excellences
are counted as special gifts of life.
Like a ****** pressed between my fingers is my soul
in God's Presence.
Thus, do I recognize my karma as not the
best, but not the worst.
It is surrounded by pretty, but not the equisite.
It is surrounded by clutter and dirt, but
not grotesque filth.
It is as a middle ground from which any quality
would cease the ground's existence.
It is not mommy or daddy, not child and not adult.
It is not old nor young.
It is not sun nor moon, but star.
It is not perfection, but comfortable imperfection.
It is not as fair as pastel, nor as gaudy as neon.
It is not known, but not unknown.
It is not host of a soul, yet does not exclude
any soul.
It does not grasp, nor release.
"Why is your skin orange?"
It is joking about vanity.
It is not slack, nor is it strong effort.
It is not wickedness, nor is it judgement.
It is not righteousness, nor is it evil.
It is not astray, nor is it unastray.
It is not a party, nor is it loneliness.
It is the monk of reality.
It pretends not to harness all of my memories.
Nor does it pretend not to conjure memories.
It is not shadow, nor light.
It is the plastic-self, unable to be immortal,
and unable to abide mortally.
It is the spirit of self, yet the spirit of others.
It is not empty, nor full.
It is construction of the simple.
It is construction of the difficult.
It is cleaning the toilet.
It aligns with no group, nor does
it not exist in any group.
It is folly through shallowness.
It is wisdom from shallowness.
It is not pure, nor does it lack
purity.
It is not popular, nor does it fail to get attention.
It is desire, not not sin.
It is her, but not Her.
It is resurrection, but not life nor death.
It is not heard, nor listened.
It is not unhealthy, nor is it strong.
boyhood crushes.
It is not power, nor is it incapacity.
It is not opinionated, nor is it opinionless.
It is not blood, nor is it light.
It is not long, nor short.
It is not curved, nor straight.
It is not solid nor gas.
It is not water nor is it not a liquid.
It is not salt nor is it not saline.
It is not belt, nor backpack.
It is not car nor home.
It is not bed nor is it not rest.
It is not gold nor bread.
It is not giving nor hoarding.
It is not meat but it is cheese.
It is not poor, nor rich.
It is not career nor retirement.
It is not fair, nor unfair.
It is holy, but not pure.
It is not heresy, nor help.
It is not metro nor country.
It is not the center nor is it the side.
It is not age nor mind.
It is not body nor heart.
It is not skin nor bone.
It is not brief nor long.
It is not sink nor swim.
It is not lesson nor tale.
It is not story nor biography.
It is not virtue nor vice.
It is not a lie nor a truth.
It is not shallow nor deep.
It is not structure nor process.
Samadhi.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 12:32 AM UTC
like a monkey at a temple
I want an immediate response from the world
my brother-in-law fights the same depression
he turned into a Cowboy
I stayed an Indian.
Back in Queens I see a man across the street
he's in an Andy Capp hat and twead coat
he used to hem my pants (he's retired now)
he knows my thoughts but doesn't recognize me unless I say hello first
see that girl on the stoop, the one with her hair veiled over her face, staring at her iphone as to a shrine
I've seen my mother-in-law bow down like that at Meher Baba's Samadhi
I should not have been watching her take darshan
in front of her Lord - in supplication - she folded into herself like a napkin
on the way back, we stayed at the Leela and had a lot to drink before we flew home
I wish she knew how lucky I felt being with her - praying and drinking
but last night she called and couldn't remember a thing
it pains me she is losing her memory
I had to repeat again and again, 'yes, I have your ticket and passport'
or 'remember we flew in together and now we are going back'.
so naturally our conversations return to her growing up on a farm in Virginia; the second oldest to four brothers, her swimming in a creek and charming all the boys, and leaving home at seventeen to dance with Margaret Craske in New York City (how she loved Miss Craske).
she married a priest who crusaded for the poor in the Lower East Side; pregnant with her first daughter (and me, having the saving grace to have married that daughter) she met Meher Baba - a meeting that changed her course and late in life she became a Psychologist (a PhD at 74!).
her natural graciousness was born of the wild flowers of Machair (her people are from the Hebrides),
her love of dance, now transposed and expressed in a light and buoyant outlook, made all a fools mimicry disappear like morning vapor on a Maharashtrian plateau ...
my fortune seeing that.
one day she will forget me and the world and not come back
or when she does we will have a certainty of meeting once before.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
Out of midnight sky
unboundedness
one
dusky bluebird flew
straight to me.
Spreading his perfect wings
across my heart
I felt his feathers, felt his heart,
beating with my own.
"I will not leave you now."
"You have finally understood."
"And you have won my trust."
"For always."
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 3:47 AM UTC
High above the Holy River Ganges
where the water flows like Brahman itself,
is an ancient cave, a place of sacred pilgrimage.
Entering silently, our small gathering
sat together, meditating here where the great
sage himself transcended in deep samadhi.
Wrapped in warm shawls, dhotis and saris,
eyes closed gently in the stony half-light.
Early hours had seen us awake, readying
for this auspicious day, and the sleepiness
of a little child began to overtake me.
With that same innocence, a childlike feeling,
I curled down into a woolen bundle, asleep
in the inner depths of that holy, dark place.
Sleep was sleep, and not sleep,
as awareness shone within me.
Limitless akasha unfolded inside me now,
and the ground where I rested expanded
into that same unbounded, cosmic space.
From far beneath the cool, damp earth,
a radiance travelled into my small frame.
Renewing energy suffused and blessed me.
Bowing in my heart, I touch the lotus feet
of Maharishi Vashistha. His darshan
shines on into our present day, and
throughout all of Ved Bhumi Bharat.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC