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George Krokos Feb 2014
Oh Swami Muktananda Paramahansa that bliss of liberation you attained
by Guru Nityananda's grace emancipation in this very life you had gained.
You were a representative of the lineage of poet-saints that had gone before
showing how easy it was, by chanting the name of God, to meditate for sure.

You stressed the importance of repeating the mantra 'Om Namah Shivaya'
and that if done with love would bear fruit regardless of who was the sayer.
There was so much energy about you that one could feel, like an ever present force,
the supreme blessing of Guru Nityananda was with you always being its very source.

You were a living embodiment of chitishakti or divine power-knowledge-bliss
and most of all those who came before you could also easily experience this.
It appeared at times you were unapproachable if one was by your presence overawed
and that you were on the constant lookout for any sincere aspirant who was not bored.

You also emphasized and revealed the true nature of the guru-disciple relationship
stating in plain modern words what was expected of one like in an apprenticeship.
Many secrets of the inner path you divulged and laid bare in all your writings and talks
saying the receiving of Guru's grace was what made a difference on the path one walks.

A book called 'The Play of Consciousness' explained some of the inner experiences you had
your spiritual autobiography for the world at large making many inspired and extremely glad.
To many it meant that someone was still around living these days who had been through it all
and was available to instruct and guide others on the path to the goal he'd been to well before.

You were a living True Saint, Sadguru or Perfect Master to many it seemed
and showed the way or path of the Siddhas being the one which you deemed.
Living at a place called Ganeshpuri in India nearly fifty miles from Bombay
many came from all parts of the world to see you and in your ashram stay.

In the abode you named 'Shree Gurudev Ashram' in that land of yoga where people came
many found what they were after becoming your devotees to whom you gave a new name.
There was a strict daily discipline of chanting certain scriptures, work, study and meditation
and also the occassional all night chanting of the name of God which was a holy dedication.

The atmosphere in that place was so pervaded by the energy radiating from your being
almost as if one were living in another world and could not help what they were seeing.
The whole place resembled that of a temple palace attracting people from far and wide
who came to experience what with your grace you said was to be found but only inside.

You opened up a whole new ancient path of spiritual experience leading gradually to the goal
that people from all walks of life could participate in and regain the lost treasures of their soul.
By one-pointed devotion, self-effort, obedience, meditation and the blessings of Guru's grace
anyone could practice Yoga easily without much struggle and attain that inner peaceful place.

There were many new centres that opened by enthusiastic devotees in far away lands;
with the money, sweat and labour of all those who selflessly gave by their willing hands.
And it didn't really matter at what distance or place this centre was situated from you,
although not physically present your spirit, being all pervasive, was subtly there for you.

You also visited many of the countries where your devotees lived both in the east and west
giving darshan to all those old and new followers of the Siddha path you said was the best.
Initiating many people by either a look, word, thought, touch or even by your physical presence;
and all who received of your grace getting a real buzz, were invited to tell others of its essence.

It was mostly at a certain two day program, held every one or two months, called an "Intensive"
anyone could partake of the Siddha Yoga Initiation offered, at a price, which wasn't expensive.
This was also designed to enhance and recharge those who were already practising meditation
involving chanting, meditation and talk sessions including a lunchtime meal and brief relaxation.

One had to participate fully, from about nine to five, over the two days, usually on a weekend
to get the full benefit of what the program had to offer and experience Guru's grace descend.
This was really the main date on the calendar for all those into meditation that were not to miss
if they had nothing better to do and wanted to get a lift in their 'sadhana' and acquire some bliss.

It remotely seemed to be a bit of a fund raising venture with all the money seen changing hands
but to those who couldn't afford it, must of been painful missing out, one somehow understands.
There was also the question, which crossed one's mind, as to what was being bought and sold?
- a meditative experience the result of Nityanandaji's grace through Swami Muktananda's hold!

Although no one was ever heard to complain about not getting their share of what was being given
and with the attitude of 'the more you put into something the more you'll get back' one was driven.
It also depended a lot on how much in tune you were and what prior preparation had been made;
how sincere you were in your effort also what devotion and faith at the feet of the Guru one laid.

There were no restrictions, it appeared, to either old or young, male or female to begin meditation,
all could profit and benefit in one way or another in the process and practice of Self contemplation.
One had to have an open mind and heart to receive and partake surely of the Grace that was there;
that power of the True Living Master, which was so all pervading, being available for any to share.

Sadgurunath Maharaj Ki Jai
_________________
This is a tribute poem to Swami Muktananda Paramahansa who I went to see and stay in his ashram back in 1978. From my unpublished book "The Seeds Of Life" compiled in 1996.
K Balachandran Jan 2012
Like those green hills
in an undaunted meditative silence
in front of the house
i was brought up

               my secrets are pretty open,

i am still a gun with full of bullets
if i spill the beans
i'll be compromised, some one pointed out
so what?

yes, i did fornicate a bit
most unforgettable one
was with an intellectual type
under the 'wisdom tree'
highlighted as a tourist attraction
in the municipal park,
on a full moon day,
that was a condition she put,
i found  no problem to agree.

this was the time when we were wild
smoked joints, did theater,
and went about aimlessly
but read a lot, as if our lives
would come to a grinding
halt the very next day;
so we had to finish all that.
it was as if we are mad.

Oh! not to forget the Ashram
over looking a lake
where one learned few things
on life and other matters of interest,
how can i forget the fiery  poet,
who got there to get
enlightened if possible in a week
we slept and created a lovely scandal
(you should forgive me for all that,
quite coincidental, not at all intentional)
noted in my diary thus--
'poets are no less hot than other mortals'

Once in drunken stupor
i went to swim in the lake across the Ashram
with full of crocodiles that relished
eating people's limbs
not all, but one at a time,
the girl who found me floating
inviting attention of crocs
dragged me  out, took me to her room
in the Ashram, and at that night
she said:"how romantic!
let's go to bed together
your punch drunk meat
would have been eaten
by crocs by now..so celebrate"
she was so much better than crocodiles
in heat, left me in a state of dazzle
Yes now it can be told; one of my secrets is this
I believe in eclectic wisdom,
as ephemeral life has  
wisdom alone offers salvation.

i have no great secrets,
no Swiss bank accounts,
affairs with  enchanting courtesans
in any Maharaja's court.
The last and only Maharaja i met face to face
had retired long back
and during my interview with him
addressed me "Sir"
how could one tell a Maharaja
though he is a paper tiger that
one is averse to colonial manners!

                                        About certain secrets to be unearthed:
                                         I will recount this in a later date.
K Balachandran Oct 2014
In his dreams the Vally in the throes of efflorescence call out
in a language heart alone understands;
from the hanging bridge over Ganga, he views the ice-capped peaks,
Vally's ***** extravagance and the river's turbulence.

The river runs too deep, at times he finds,
the currents treacherously strong,
from the window of his *Ashram, the view is clear.
She bathes naked, alone on a step submerged in water,
eyes feast on her moonlit curves,
the pleasures skin deep, camouflage the existential dilemmas ! he smiles
In memory his Guru speaks:"Eat only those fruits that make one immortal"
Yet another Himalayan journey in search of the fruit tree unknown

It's too late to redefine, life and love when the avalanche thunders above
on his lonesome path, every step uphill is fraught with slippery stones,
one way leads to the top, to bathe in the light of  the star reaching down

Some days end in too long nights, too cold, the sun shows up hesitant,
her body has the warmth that reaches to his icy depths,
a ****** alone could penetrate, but it still wouldn't melt
Himalayan silence, chant of Ganga, the ghost of a ******
that follows him  like a faithful dog, are all these fragments of a dream
or realities stringed together from many different planes?
Ganga---river Ganges       Ashram---monastry
Kuzhur Wilson Nov 2013
Saw women
Waiting at the bus stop

Heard the new cinema song
From the advertising vehicle

Asked the stranger sitting near me
Whether he was not going to Potta ashram

In conductor’s seat
Slumbers a traveler without a ticket (stowaway)

Under the label of defence forces,
Two school children
On the Ladies’ seat,
Padre from the local church

“The lady who brings this card is an orphan
Her family was lost in floods
She is the only one for herself and her child
A blue card fell in my lap.

How did I become blind?
Beating time on the stomach,
A Tamil song stretched its arm
Became deaf

A girl became mute
“do you remember this face?”

Sat on the seat for handicapped
With a sense of belonging and righteousness.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Connor Apr 2015
A firetruck races past the isolate Blue Fox and infinity. Dulcimer clatters fading brickwork on the cross markets and churches where blind men are the imagining heaven. Luminescent Volcanic leaves heated from sunfire beautiful in the Spring choke lanes which are battered by abstract cavern homes. What happened to the Orient Harpsichord Serenity? Where does the Blue Fox go? Incense Markets Sauna with Smoke are busy in Denpasar while I'm here at a North American shopping mall where Ivory Columns cradled in violet fauna do wait sturdy and enchanted in rows.
Here I'm waiting by the leather clay shade bench in silent meditation breathing community whispers and listening clear to water pour from the lionhead fountain. Parrots caw atop a wide gated ceiling facing Empyreus.

There is a fire in America. The Blue Fox is hidden beneath firs and palms bathing in humidity. The Blue Fox is writing prophecies of economic collapse and rampant pointless murders making the newspapers. Ash storms blazing while banana painted trucks row on row attend to Victorian wood panels cooling to onyx powder in too short a time. There is no room for learning when The End Times go too quickly.
I'm listening to Bob Dylan scream instrumental prayer on harmonica rough against my ears. The Blue Fox treads February Beaches a few hundred miles from Australia and whistling the words of flowers in his head. He chews on wheatgrass jangling change in his fur pockets like those cartoons. He is the vision of Bohemia, he is an active star dazzled in this beguiled galaxy, yet in his spine he carries the turmoil doppleganger kept by all and known by none.
The firetrucks are doing all they can to quell the lung-poison vase boiling an apartment dancing inside but it continues to grow in its enraged fury.

There's a fire in America boys and girls, come around and see.
Canoes of memorial gold row through oppression and genocide, the Inuits and First Peoples of ancient years are wondering too where the blue fox went when agony cries the air. Stories of wisdom replaced with stories of war. Balaclavas labyrinthine through  exotic Bazaars thick with music and plants hanging off fishhooks and brass coat hangers while I write and dream of such Valhallas in my shopping mall on a quiet afternoon.
Bill is playing the banjo with faded paint and a single broken string, there he is on Yates! Cowboy hat made of charcoal velvet holding a meager collection of change.  
Stephen Schizophrenia is lying on his back watching aluminum kingdoms hover on by expanding nimbus clouds. He has eleven dollars to his name along with a damaged half torn belt with his initials engraved on the buckle  He taps his feet to Edith Piaf howling "La Vie En Rose" while an Airplane collides with his sacred personal aluminum palace, suddenly he can't block out the repressed memories he's fought decades to hide deep and dark in his bleak jazz enthralled brains.

Maybe we're all supposed to fall apart. Maybe we're designed to hurt and cause hurt. Where is that ****** Blue Fox? He's ebullient, thoughts fragmented in sharp bliss glass cutting him through while he rolls around the sands catching Buddha particles in his paws digging holes on Kuta Beach to his Idyllic land where happiness is forever and therefore false.

The Blue Fox falls in love overwhelming with everybody and every soul. So many souls by the billions every place! Even the tyrants. Even the demons. Even the necrophiliac scoring an OD'd brunette at twenty six from Anaheim who collapsed flatlined by prescriptions on a 3rd floor Complex.
He adores the narcissist who loves everybody as fully as The Blue Fox as long as they are herself. She is the harmonic untainted flytrap unaware of its own venomous nature but jealous of Summer and jealous of those whose names are heralded through generation to generation.
He adores The addict who is hollow of everything but the ****** sizzling under his patchy skin while he sinks from divinity swelling through his heart. He smiles while the remaining light dies inside him, left with only the regret remedies of suicide.
He adores The artist who fled to the big City and became nothing but watered down pigment after the Capitalists tossed him off the nearest skyscraper shouting pretentious metaphors.

The Blue Fox loves them all! He has no concept of the corrupt, or the lazy, or the greedy and needy and crazy and forgotten. They are all equal to him! The Blue Fox is knelt on paisley carpet smooth and spectacular! His regular India ashram, uplifting his body and his mind. The blue fox knows no doubt. Or anxiety, frailty or tears. He has no impulse or desire. The Blue Fox is joy in form and breathing spectrums of color mixing to combinations we cannot perceive.

There is a fire in america. It rages on unstoppable. It engulfs countries thousands of miles and histories away. It swallows the morning, noon and night. It protrudes disease in its wake. It heats up the ozone layer allowing radiation to make us more than cancer the zodiac. It causes our terror. It blots out our ardor. It havocs our heroes. Nothing is clean anymore. There is a fire in America.

And America is the world!  I'm watching out the front doors of this shopping mall where an elderly man trips at the food court escalator and becomes more renowned with every lethal collision down the tiles of freedom. Paramedics arrive shortly after and attend to another scalded by that same fire.
Up and up it goes!
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2014
Saw women
Waiting at the bus stop

Heard the new cinema song
From the advertising vehicle

Asked the stranger sitting near me
Whether he was not going to Pota ashram

In conductor’s seat
Slumbers a traveler without a ticket

Under the label of defense forces,
Two school children
On the Ladies’ seat,
Padre from the local church

“The lady who brings this card is an orphan
Her family was lost in floods
She is the only one for herself and her child
A blue card fell in my lap.

How did I become blind?
Beating time on the stomach,
A Tamil song stretched its arm
Became deaf

A girl became mute
“do you remember this face?”

Sat on the seat for handicapped
With a sense of belonging and righteousness.
Translation : Anitha Varma
David flew into my bedroom
light blue eyes flashing excitement

"Sonya ki," he gushed

"We are now the proud parents
of a newborn baby pineapple!"

For two years David fathered
and diligently nurtured the
pineapple cutting from
the Yoga ashram

Cooing, lullabying,
coaxing, fertilizing

I threw on my sandals
and dashed into the
bucolic nursery

There peeking up at us
it's amber pink body
swaddled in spiky
leaves
was our own little
darling pineapple
My advice to fellow geezers?
Just say **** it!
“Roll up to the magical mystery tour!”
Just like John & Yoko!
Smoke a big fat doobie each morning.
Step out the Hogan door, just greet
The East and walk in beauty.
After a few weeks you just won’t
Give a **** anymore; just not give a ****
In general, no longer care about what’s
Not important: The Guv’ment.
Politics. The rate of unemployment.
Inflation. Even radical, freaking
Muslim Jihadist TERROR!
Yes.  Just light up, Babaloo,
Do one’s bit for the Decline &
Fall (dropped you, didn’t I?)
Let’s mourn the dying ***** goddess.
America: that shining city on a hill,
Colombia in all her senility, insolvency &
Not even D or I, just Lusions of grandeur.
Let us contemplate the decrepitude,
The crumbling, up-in-smoke spiritual infrastructure,
The USA: the United ****'s-Creek of America,
Going down, down, down . . . ALERT!
NEWS FLASH! It’s Rome & Great Britain,
It’s the update, the demise of Empire all over again.
I remember those sorry-***, pathetic Brits,
Met them all over while hitchhiking around
Europe, an intensive, closely observed tour of duty
Abroad: a gift to myself, in fact a scholarship,
I rigged for myself back in the early ‘70s.
Going abroad: once a reserved right of passage for certain,
Privileged children of the 1890s, lucky spawn from
Families known as the “Well-to-do.” And why not add:
Dubbed the “Mauve Decade" because William Henry Perkin’s
Aniline dye allowed widespread use of that color in fashion.
The "Gay Nineties,” referring to a time not of buggery, but
Merriment & optimism, & lest we forget, Twain’s “Gilded Age.”
Got the time, spare a dime, got the freaking time-frame, Mack?
It was a dark & stormy total eclipse of Jupiter.
Spiritually speaking, I was free-floating.
And what of those same-self, sad-assed &
Sorry, pathetic Brits?
Well, consider the specific years.
Experience in Europe in my early 20s,
Meant 1972, 1973 & 1974.
Surely, a time for English disillusionment,
What with the sun finally setting,
A vague, prismatic twilight time,
A virtual requiem for His or Her Majesty’s Empire,
“Rule, Britannia ... Britannia rule the waves.”
(Cue ruffles & flourishes, fifes & flugelhorns)
This was pre-North Sea Oil Bonanza days.
This was England before Mrs. Thatcher
Gave her good people a long overdue,
Richly deserved kick in the tuchas.
“The Iron Lady” they called her.
Stopped Orwell’s future, doornail dead, she did.
“Maggie’s Miracle” they called it.

Those Brits I met & knew back then,
Those “Used-to-be-Contender” types:
Self-deprecatory, apologetic & cynical,
Mocking the Union Jack,
Shedding salty tears for Lost Empire.
“This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England.”
Ironic & bitter to a man,
“Gulping gin & bitters later,” observes
Current tenant occupier, 221B Baker Street,
Sherlock finding the word at last,
The definitive literary term,
That one precise mot juste, that says it all.
In a word? Sardonic.
The USA is going down, down down—
“And away goes trouble down the drain!”

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That’s right: $KA-CHING$!
An ad right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Always the sensible poet, I kept my day job.
But now in my 60’s finally figuring out:
HOW TO MAKE POETRY PAY?
Bow down to Adam Smith & Ricardo—
Not the ‘Splaine me, Cuban bandleader
Of that surname, but David, the classical economist,
The “Iron Law of Wages” guy
It’s time to make money.
Call in the Madmen.
Send in the clowns.

Mad Men – AMC - AMC.com www.amc.com/shows/mad-men Official site for AMC's award-winning series Mad Men: Games, making-of videos, plus episode & character guides.

$KA-CHING$! $KA-CHING$!

And Dan Draper: an alcoholic, chain-smoking,
***** magnet & Korean War ****-up, shifty
Name-changer, last seen at that Big Sur ashram,
The Esalen Retreat & Jingle Inspiration Center,
**** Whitman coming clean, at last:
Hovering a foot off the ground
In the lotus position, receiving **** *** from a
Coke bottle incarnation of Vishnu.

Search Results I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony ... https://en.wikipedia.org/I'dLiketoTeachtheWorld . . . Wikipedia "I'd Like to teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony)" is a popular song that originated as the jingle "Buy the World a Coke" in the groundbreaking 1971 ... Writer(s)‎ ‎Jon Hamm AKA Dan Draper; ‎Label‎: Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce.

Money: FUNGIBLE GREEN.
$KA-CHING$!

Those once sardonic Brits,
Now have Brooklyn accents.
We’re going down the drain, Babaloo!
The barbarians are at the gates,
A horde of hunger, a ******* rabble,
Green-eyed monsters, envying America’s poor,
Craving what little Uncle Sam’s indigenous poor have left,
Ragtag migrants, short, dark compañeros,
Swarthy Huns & Visigoths,
Whitman's last yawp, the last gasp breath of
Work Ethos, be it Protestant or Papist,
A colossal mélange of famine, hope & prayer,
The usual suspects: “Your tired, your poor,
Your wretched refuse & solid waste,
Your huddled, yearning masses.”
My advice to Emma--Sephardic-Ashkenazi,
Proto-Zionist, years before Herzl:
Get yourself a nightclub act, Ms. Lazarus.

America: I am hidden in a high grass savannah,
I watch the hyenas pick your carcass clean.
Adam Smith: he displaced the term greed--
Smacking as it does of deadly sin baggage—
Replaced the term Greed with Self-Interest.
And the only invisible hand I know of is
Down my pants, jerking me off,
Mesmerized by slogans, divine metaphors, like:
“A rising tide lifts all boats,” a Big Lie, for example.
Today’s economists call it “The Multiplier Effect.”
You pay me and I pay him & he pays he or she,
Merry Goes Round, Goes Round & Round the Merry-Ground.
All is just so cool & groovy,
Life is just a copacetic bowl of copacetic until
Some self-interested ****-*** decides to export
Your ******* job right out of the country:
Casus belli? Most certainly. Class warfare,
Always our hitherto history.
It’s not like that fat slob Michael Moore never warned us.

**Roger & Me (1989) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0098213/ Internet Movie Database  Rating: 7.5/10 - ‎22,470 votes Director Michael Moore pursues GM CEO Roger Smith to confront him about the harm ... Roger & Me -- Michael Moore's controversial but popular film is a highly ... Plot Summary - ‎Quotes - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards
K Balachandran Jan 2012
In this gypsy street
where past and present
are juxtaposed,
and stealthy future
incognito fornicates with  both,
we live like a family
(dysfunctional !)
under attack from aliens.

I let out a shriek
in the middle of the night,
in creative frenzy
as I hit a high
and can't contain,
the ecstasy to myself,
and to alert the neighborhood
to see how they take it,
isn't it, jolly good
a fine display of  anarchy
harmless and enjoyable?
Just wanted to check
how it would look,
if some outrageous
incident happened,
at the dead of night
amidst the thousand
silly and serious stuff
we all  are engaged in.

every morning a lovely woman,
bit worked up, if not totally moonstruck,
who does nothing in particualar
other than living a life
as a business,
goes out in to the streets,
winding, without an end
if you decide to measure it
with your moving legs.
She  is a walker through the streets
most of the time of her life
(a mystery still, why I ponder)
till late night, when the night birds
are out on their rounds.

Some times when I come out of
a hospital after visiting an ailing girlfriend,
or while paying my bills in a counter
I encounter her, an enigma sans clues,
symbolizing the life in this street.
some times she throws a parsimonious smile
like a nickel to a panhandler
(I've seen you somewhere, take this)
sometimes she has a blank stare
like a temple cow, shaking it's head
at a devotee, the meaning
is what you think, good or bad,
she seems like possessed by a spirit,
that has restlessness as a curse.

An old couple, only out in the evenings,
are seen in the art gallery
fighting over perceived meanings
in an abstract painting.
(A wonderful way to fill
the vacuum of life with artistic gobbledegook)
"Read it the way you like
no harm"someone intervenes,
"No need to take lessons on art
from passer by nincompoops"
comes a lance, as a retort.

Free roaming bulls and cows
gate crash  and eat banana plants,
and attack our poor Amaranthus,
eye catching in it's bright purple flowers.
they had tried even a cactus,
with strange pattern and soft thorns,

this street has many voices that whisper,
about old time mishaps,
love birds killed by relatives
in the name of family honor
a horror still haunts dark nights
(quickly swept under expensive carpets)
with muffles voices(I never succeeded to hear)

A cut throat banker, at the height of
his business success,
gave away everything to an Ashram*
where meaning of life is being explained by Gurus
juggling lucid metaphors, every day.
strikingly similar to the myth of Sysiphus,
the banker condemned himself to learn
Yoga postures which he would forget at the end
and try to learn  all over again,
year round.

Last night we saw two lovers,
under the lush bamboo grove,
in an intimate state of trance.
one by one from from 80 houses,
men , women,  and
senior citizens,  came out,
with the happiness comparable to finding a new spice route to India,
when Turks took Constantinople.
We have a hope
their hearts should have chanted in chorus,
a new tender leaf has sprouted
in this withered tree of degenerated life.
*A spiritual hermitage usually Hindu or Buddhist
I poked my head outside
the temple door
scent of fading loquat blossoms
and damp wood reminds me
of nights in the forest

Green glades of the ashram
redolent with serenity and succor
infuse peace into our spirits
during  these stressful times

My hubby David
offers fresh plucked gardenias at
the goddess' altar  

Beautiful Shakti
pearls spilling, cascading
from the royal diadem
onto Her Divine brow
eyes glowing stars
pervade the candlelit atmosphere

David and I hold hands
as we leave the sanctuary
and orbit the blessed lake
sparkling with heavenly fish
We smile at each other
happy and content on the sacred shores
of Yoga Shakti Ma
We hurl coconuts to the ground
circumambulate the Shiva Lingam shrine
at the Yoga Shakti  Ma Ashram
my grandsons little Sean and Alex
tug the temple bell after each round
ringing in the New Year
above, the moon full, white candle
glows
in Shiva’s dreadful locks
and cobras looped around
His sapphire neck dare not hiss
Auspicious One!
drink the halahala  poison of hatred, anger,
lust, jealousy and pride lodged
like an arrow deep in our hearts
churn the ocean of nectar
and awaken the
sleeping Self
cradled softly in a  manger
swaddled, peacefully
within
Red bottle brush blossoms
swirl in the steamy Florida heat
despite the sizzling temps
the ashram is always a
welcome refuge

Softly, I enter the
sacred premises
doing namaste to all
the hallowed murtis

Soon songs decorate the
tranquil atmosphere
Smiling inwardly waves of
euphoric bliss well up from
a Divine spring

The sweetness is Non-Stop
truly my heart is a honeycomb
dripping with holy Love

I break off pieces of this
nectarine prasadam
an offering for you
Bijoylakshmi Das Jan 2020
SILENCE
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
Silence is the Best
Silence is sublime
Silence is Vast;
Silence is all-transcending -
Beyond mortal acts.
It too is profound,
Makes us spell-bound,
Even though unexpressed
Reveals the Supreme Blessed!
It is the One unique existence
In its inane solitude -
Sends message of greater depth,
From Soul even when Being is asleep
Beyond Space and Time,
Cause and Effect ;
Wins the heart of Godhead
In her sweet soft golden glance! !
Silence is the celestial bridge
Joins the amazing heights
To Earth's forsaken soil,
And her attempted flights,
To reach the Unknown height
Of the underlying Godhead.
All vain desires and toil of the Brown
Meet Decadence -
Along with Ego's sky-touching crown
Man's arrogance and ambitions
And his derision of self-asserted pride,
To make Nature serve to his indomitable will,
And insatiable greed!

It never succeeds!
Inner silence is lost
As it served as the Golden Bridge
To meet the Supreme Will!
Which in each moment sees,
Our every act even if we hide;
His eternal Gaze -
Writes on Silence's page.
We humans create chaos -
Everywhere around us
To devastate the inner harmony.
Blind and deaf to mankind!
We have lost silence of our inmost mind!!!
Silence communicates the best,
Transfigures the language of the Lord,
In Nature's heiroglyphics
And Her innumerable ways.
Like when Dawn descends upon Earth
Heralding the joyful birth -
Of a vernal Creation
Awaiting to meet Humanity in the higher illumination!
The Soul's awakening -
Where only Silence reigns.
Dialect fails,
Speech loses semblance
Silence deciphers Creation:s unending rhyme.
Repeats in ceaseless Harmony!

We are born in Silence,
And to that Sole-existent Silence -
All have to go
By our Ego's transcendence!
Life's journey brief,
Ends in silence deep.
In Silence we must live,
And to it we must give -
Our listening ears in Knowledge's
Revelatory ascent!
We must make our life the greatest success -
In Supreme's Blissful Art!
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram,
Haridwar. 31.05.2019)
Sitting on the bench, hontoni arigato and hakagawa bows
Brushing my hair, thankful for a different language
Touching my knees, thank you errantly erroneously
Sit and gardens stare
Wildflowers in two words
Twos often wonder what was the word
Parallelogram vans wish they could be sentences
Pass me with the deans
Two summers bravery Illmatic plays
Slavery washed on me and flowed words with wabi-sabi
Ignorantly searching for simplicity, and intercepting
Lugging learned that he was sober and insightful
Things change inciting when he says I love you, but, I lost Arizona, leaving with LA pallbearers speaking in hymns for the lost weekend
When the two words, change to three words
And the different hangovers for different times
For the lively souls, rap still pays a visit to the nation that held millions, front and back
There lies a line of shining boundaries on the war that fire
Moving like a lava lamp
Back again, frontal lobe pulsates those ups and downs
Delightful lively and where did I lose my shine, and the fire of eyes flickers with the midnight spoon of flickering night streets
Uh soon, **** is a disease masking the ability to change
Politics is where greed wears the mask of morality
But, **** man the less I know them better, right
in the circus of an ersatz clown, as the frugal fire of the murders of the shining and the power of music, burning your conviction in my heart
Dying with the fires of hell, anecdotes of simple fools who can understand simple things
Fools are the wise men when they learn to sharpen their knives
Leave themselves in the sharp mouth of gorillas in the lava iridescent friends, grins writing your heart, your light, your life like a monolith
I miss your thoughts and knowing, and adding what's my own
What can I add to New York state of Mind, does the midnight strike the good night, and ask it to be gentle
As morning cup of tea of burning brilliance of dull months of April under the arid love, that's a moral desert I cannot stop, I'm on the road of life, the battered suitcases catch the candor of deserted times under the train, had it told me you'd to leave the intrigue of the speakeasies, with your French look and glib iridescence of shyness, Canadian stealing cars under the mobsters that leap out
Falling in love and breaking bad would start chasing you
Understanding good and evil, I've been the prisoner of the holy child
Antediluvian time and all that crap, mice among men we crawl the streets in the friend that remembers on the outside
Familial uproar bringing up the baby under the ****** footprints, under drama and cine lights
Life needs a little soul, and a little love to grow imaginative
These years go by, and the pensive life doesn't find solace in good company on the streets belonging to the streetlights, and angry streets with desolate angels

Desolation angels looking for their place in the sun
Fortifying a lot of observation, and marching band with their meters
Challenging themselves, music and jazz, we talk about inconsistency of the eon
Poems, of thee Buddhahood looking for a friend, in the supernatural darkness
Sagacious beams from the life dedicated to accepting the life of cause and effect where I had only but silence
My faction of the Eastern Bloc, we are looking in all directions and running in de jure circles
Facts of scientific, joking in your book and hysterical and naked surly curs on the fruit covered by the dust, I need to embellish these claps
In the fire times, of the watered Cupid in the Venus allegorical girl
Beezlebub lost his mind paraphrasing in Hell, arrived in Lucifer on the cross steeple
In the land of milk and honey, in the passion of the church
I'm laughing at my typing, and the technology has changed and so have the women
I'm the living embodiment of a ceiling now, spinning like an embryo or test tube vestibule
How am I gonna survive on the ability to live like someone has committed suicide for me tonight as it grows hoarse
Stand the generous suicide, it was painless
You know o'er head her still face has madcap laughter at her soundful something, I don't know after I climb the ladder and yell this is the answering bell to doors of Heaven and Hell's doormat, I am a plenary one
Virile yelling on the catatonic piano, we are imagining peace and lost like a dreamer, just like the flower that grows like the uncle in Albert, we just lost our only photographer from the ashram
Lost weekend- May Pang
"Are you real?" Ravi whispered hoarsely.
Shyama the Mataji from the Yoga Shakti
ashram in Melbourne, smiled,
"As real as any of us," she replied.
Tenderly she tucked warm blankets around Ravi
as he slept on the cold, concrete, cement
steps of the Hindu temple.

Now it all seemed like a mirage to him, a fading dream.
Ravi anxiously waited for David's dark blue van.
Today he was finally leaving the austere environment
of the Buddhist Temple. New born vistas were
blossoming before his astonished eyes.

That morning he had broken the news to his mother.
"Mom I am coming home in a few days!"
His mother gasped with delight on the phone,
nearly swooning. She had just engaged in a
week long sadhana of intense prayers and
pujas in Bangalore pleading for the return of
their only son, Ravi, to their loving arms.

Soon, David and Ravi scooted down the
road waving goodby to the Monk and fellow
Buddhist practitioners. Ravi breathed a deep
sigh of relief. Everything was going so smoothly.
Later in the day I met David and Ravi for lunch.
Ravi had a slightly dazed appearance on his face.
So much had transpired in the past year. It was
as if he had been reborn. Each baby step he took,
God was there urging him on, catching him if he
seemed unsteady or unsure, infusing him with
fortitude, strength and great love.

I asked Ravi if he planned to say
goodbye to Shyama, the Mataji at the ashram.
Since time was pressed he decided to say farewell
in a phone call.

We wrapped up our lunch, David had errands to run,
so I took Ravi in my car. On our way home
we stopped at Walgreens to get some
chocolates for his Mom. We noticed a
woman pulling out of the parking lot.
"Oh My God!" Ravi exclaimed,
"That's Shyama!" We dashed over to her car.
"Ravi's leaving!" I gushed. Shyama Ma
got out of her car, gently embracing Ravi
and blessing him. We chatted briefly, then Shyama left.

Ravi and I stood there gawking at each other
in bedazzled ecstasy.
We both could feel the Divine Hand of God
showering us with His astounding leelas.

We resumed our errands and made our
way back to my house. Rama, our
inquisitive cat greeted Ravi rubbing his
furry little head against his feet.
Ravi relaxed, settling down on the wine
red couch in our front room. We flicked on
the TV. Ravi stammered like an innocent child,
"I haven't watched television in years!" He looked
at me with a befuddled grin, "I still can't believe
this is all real."

The weekend flew by and soon Ravi
was standing at the Check-In counter of
the airport preparing to fly home to
Bangalore, India.
"Ravi," I said softly, "this morning I had
a dream with Sathya Sai Baba."

"Oh really?" Ravi said excitedly,
"Please tell me about it."
I related the dream to Ravi:
I was sitting at a table, I believe my husband
and another man was on my right.
Swami was seated across from me.
He had such a beatific, radiant countenance.
I gazed at our glorious Sai, love surging
through my heart.

An attendant came over and poured juice
into two glasses. I said,
"Please give this to that man first. The attendant
moved the two drinks over.
Swami looked at me with a very
happy expression on His holy face.

As I finished describing the dream,
I said to Ravi, "I think Swami was
letting us know He is pleased with the
service rendered to you."
What a wonderful blessing.

Ravi shoved a package of Pizza flavored
crackers into his Carry-on bag.
David and I watched as Ravi trekked
through the security line of the airport,
his eyes glistened with thankful tears.

We both snapped pictures with our
cell phones of our sweet friend and
blew kisses which he eagerly caught,
a pristine beginning, a magnificent ethereal
bridal bouquet glowing on the rose pink
threshold of an extraordinary new day.
SG Holter Mar 2015
I do believe my days withing these
Concrete ashram walls are
Coming to an end.

It might be a slow ending, but
It'll be a good one.
It began the day I saw the

Beautiful truth behind the ugly
Mask of everyday insignificance.
Beauty and meaning;

Soft hand in a mild one.
Water strength.
Cement frailty.

Thoughts are like air; find their
Way from A to another
A.

Looking at my friend fitting
A door, cursing at the promise of
Adjustments,

Or enjoying the way the Project Manager
Leaves us never knowing whether
He's joking or not with a face

As cold as his project's foundations.
I fall in love with Life every day.
Even when I hate it.

I've learned that I never stop learning.
I'll be a slightly different man tomorrow,
Yet still myself.

Always still myself.
There is wisdom in flexibility; the
Holding on to nothing,

Even ones definition of oneself.
I was a construction worker.
Now, I'm a

Construction worker.
I take comfort in the fact
That the only comfort I'll

Ever really need, is the
One I give
Myself.
Steve D'Beard Jul 2014
I would see words forged into action
by these hands of broken memory,
memory that still haunts the darkest nights.

The barren tongue of sparse reaction
concealed in cocoons of silenced delight
decorated in jeopardy and lethargy.

The ramblings of an assumed madman
spent wandering these unforgotten years
comforted only by the monastic echoes of ashram
left to deliver his final illuminated message
unto the radiance of waiting ears.

The days have been long,
hastened by the majesty of moonlight
perishing in cirrus cloud formation.

Like the nightmares of crippled machination
and sheathed divinity more man than hallow.

Caressed by warmth of the morning sun
and in it a song for every fleeting shadow.

And this was the message:

Like all beautiful things:

We.
Must.
Fade.
It's a beautiful day
I've been wasting away.
Sitting in silence,
All thoughts are astray.
I think to myself of the time I have lost.
I think of great things and how much they will cost.
And how can it be the body can't afford?
The things that my soul will try to adore.
It's all time and money. These things I don't have.
When I'm dead and rotting I'm sure I'll be glad.
When space-time is time-space and nothing exists.
Even though it's all there and my thoughts will persist.
Then I won't worry of the waste I've become.
There won't be emotion inside the ashram.
Woodlands by the ashram
inhale and exhale
sweet incense and prayers
I gaze up at tall pine tops
waving in the breeze
like celestial steeples
and tell them how
fortunate they are to be
part of this holy terrain
if you listen keenly between
singing bowl chant of the wind
morning and evening Aarathi bells
you may just hear
the sacred eternal sound... Aum
Oooh a bouquet for me?
Thank you....
The Earth lovingly presented
an effusion of beauty
saffron blooms garland
the path on our way to the temple

Davidji and I tiptoed into the
quiet, serene sanctuary
majestic Murtis surround us
with dazzling eyes
as we prayed and
sang fervently

From the jeweled throat
of Durga Ma
To the Blessed ******
cradling baby Jesus
the parade of Deities
charmed our minds and
lifted our spirits

O Resplendent One
I wear an endless mala
drunk on your Sweet Names
Amrit fountains
flow incessantly
JP Jan 2016
There is always beauty in loneliness coz you start traveling
inside. People go to ashram to listen discourse to learn the
meaning of life. The final message delivered was to travel
inside. There are different type of loneliness. One is feeling
lonely, when you are waiting for your partner; second was
a soldier waiting at the border expecting an enemy; third a
sage waiting for an enlightenment; fourth a patient with
incurable diseases; fifth was when you attain old age,
even when you surrounded by children and grandchildren;
Six was poet waiting for an idea to describe an event or the
pain of separation of his girlfriend; Seven was the celebrity
where he was surrounded by people, not to be by himself;
eight an accused, waiting for a death sentence. and finally
when you travel to take up a new job or new place.

Loneliness was a beautiful feeling to think about yourself
with the factor. The more lonely you are, the more you learn
about the factor affecting you and help to understand the
factor. I have seen in history, lonely people always moved to
prove something, the whole development of this world in term
of invention and discovery born out of loneliness coz the search
of escape from loneliness has proved great to this world.
Il arrive que parfois le feu comme la glace
Fonde et qu'en nous des icebergs
Brûlent.
Il arrive que parfois des volcans sous-marins
Emergent un beau dimanche
Et que de leurs chapelets soudain incandescents
Jaillisse entre feux d'artifice de lave et de canne métissées
Du fin fond du cratère
La grand-messe liquide et démentielle
De la Vierge diablesse Mina
Prima inter pares
Toute forêt de corail noir et gorgones
Ni déesse ni maîtresse
Juste muse granivore aux mille tresses gourmandes
Perchée dans son ashram de coco sans graine tridimensionnel
Qui ne jure que par Jung, Bakounine, Anaïs Nin et autres yogi plongeurs
Dans la posture du demi lotus
En équilibre sur les orteils de l'âme.
JP Nov 2015
An employee of
mine took Voluntary
retirement to became
a 'Sage'.
After 5 years
he turn up to his ashram
So, I went and met him.
I advised, why he have to
suffer like this… what
different it made
becoming a sage.
He replied, " Before I
came to see you.
Now, you come to
to see me."
JP Dec 2015
to attain Nirvana
my friend went
to ashram..
I went to party,
during celebration
sauce spilled
on my white dress
felt naked…

but my friend
yet to…..
Those days in Prashanti
devotees cue up at
Brahmamuhurtam
that time
when dew and God's sacred
presence saturate the dusty
red colored earth
soft chirp of birds just awakening
and the Islamic call to prayer clings
to mogul clouds gliding serenely
over the ashram
our anxious minds pray for the
precious chance to enter the Mandir
cloistered in that sublime sweetness
faces glisten with bliss and the
holy sound of Om orbits the earth
Bijoylakshmi Das Dec 2021
THE PLENITUDE OF SPLENDOUR
(Re-edited)
The breath in the air,
The whisper in the breeze,
The whistle of the nightingale;
All pleasant surprise!
The sky bares the *****
For the mirth of the seas;
Raptures rapt around
in Morn’s miraculous release.
The rustles in the leaves,
The murmur in the brook,
The Love in the zephyr –
At the new Blossoms’ bashful look,
Make waves kiss the shore;
The Ocean dances with joy;
The message of the Beloved rings in the woodland far away.
The spirit of the Soul listens to the invisible call.
The song of the Silence
Is writ in the clay,
Im desolate and forlorn left on Night’s eerie solitude far away..
The twinkle of the stars
Speaks of the immensity vast;
The silvery white Moon unveils an amazing forecast.
The clouds over the hills
Heralds hours of Bliss infinite:
The flutter of the wings
Of the birds at the sight
Bring tidings from the Realm Recondite.
Creation is vast, beautiful for the Godhead to alight.
Time’s torrential outcome
Human mind fails to count;
The one sole-existent Entity
Keeps track of all account.
The twilight splendour
That our eyes encounter
To vibrate in its Harmony
Without the least fear;
Make it your Goal.
You are the exalted Ecstasy –
Rapture’s well-chosen envoy,
All the rest goes to the revolving wheel to be crushed
You are the exalted Ecstasy :
Rapture's well-chosen envoy,
All the rest goes to the revolving wheel to be crushed asunder at His One behest.
Go deep within from the turmoil of the shore,
Keep your door open for the Heaven's elixir to knock at your door.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram, Haridwar. 4th October 2019)
Bijoylakshmi Das Dec 2021
THE PLENITUDE OF SPLENDOUR
(Re-edited)
The breath in the air,
The whisper in the breeze,
The whistle of the nightingale;
All pleasant surprise!
The sky bares the *****
For the mirth of the seas;
Raptures rapt around
in Morn’s miraculous release.
The rustles in the leaves,
The murmur in the brook,
The Love in the zephyr –
At the new Blossoms’ bashful look,
Make waves kiss the shore;
The Ocean dances with joy;
The message of the Beloved rings in the woodland far away.
The spirit of the Soul listens to the invisible call.
The song of the Silence
Is writ in the clay,
Im desolate and forlorn left on Night’s eerie solitude far away..
The twinkle of the stars
Speaks of the immensity vast;
The silvery white Moon unveils an amazing forecast.
The clouds over the hills
Heralds hours of Bliss infinite:
The flutter of the wings
Of the birds at the sight
Bring tidings from the Realm Recondite.
Creation is vast, beautiful for the Godhead to alight.
Time’s torrential outcome
Human mind fails to count;
The one sole-existent Entity
Keeps track of all account.
The twilight splendour
That our eyes encounter
To vibrate in its Harmony
Without the least fear;
Make it your Goal.
You are the exalted Ecstasy –
Rapture’s well-chosen envoy,
All the rest goes to the revolving wheel to be crushed
You are the exalted Ecstasy :
Rapture's well-chosen envoy,
All the rest goes to the revolving wheel to be crushed asunder at His One behest.
Go deep within from the turmoil of the shore,
Keep your door open for the Heaven's elixir to knock at your door.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram, Haridwar. 4th October 2019)
Bijoylakshmi Das Dec 2019
THE DISTANT DREAM
The Earth is a wonderland
A Privy to underworld dream,
Will you dare to scale the heights
To reach the Invisible Realm?

Scares you in dark the scribbles unread
Words on its sheen,
Lustre-clad lies deep
The hidden miracle's mystery within.

Do you long to fly to its azure sky
Spangled around with divine hues,
Day shines bright with the Sun at its helm
Night sparkles with splendorous dews.

The wind wraps the soft sweet murmur
Of the distant mountain stream,
O Man! Be not lost in your stupor
Awaken to its oracular visionary dream.

The indwelling Deity lies unworshipped
In the inmost heart's sacred Shrine,
You have fallen prey to the senses
Of the most tenebrous beastly kind.

The Playact ever goes on around you
Nature plays the magic wand,
Your Soul is given as ransom
To treasures of the fictitious merryland.

The maiden's beauty maddens you
The allurements of her enticing lips,
Your freedom of choice is at stake,
You are Antony in ******* of Cleopatra's kiss.

You are playtool in the hands of the Supreme
Swing to and fro in anguish and ecstasy,
For you know not how to stay uninvolved
Not to get merged into mind-rapt phantasy.

Your body is made of flesh, bone and blood
But you are the Spirit blithe and free,
If only you could make the Tryst with Supreme Soul
In His celestial spree.

You are tiny blossoms in His vernal garden
Open up petals to spread fragrance,
Life on Earth is a sacrifice perpetual
You are only witness to His Mystic Dance.

The Real seems to be far away from you
But He sits silent in your self deep within,
But you dream of Paradise in the vacant naught
Things transient are your only cherished dream.

Go not wild in the life's welter
Seek for the Bliss incarnate thou art,
You are not born to mingle into the mundane mud
Your human goal is to reach the Omnipotent.

You are pure, immaculate, the magnificent Soul,
Dream no more the earthly mire
Make dreamless Infinity, the Vast your goal.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram, Haridwar. 27th June 2019)
Bijoylakshmi Das Dec 2019
THE WONDERLUST(48)
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
The world is far away from me with azure touch of the sky,
No earthly turmoil, but amazing splendour far and nigh,
The beauty of the timeless Vast, the Green humming with Delight,
To that remote realm I want to soar in my amorous flight.

The plash of the fountains, the soothing murmur in the brook,
The close-clinging touch of Love's sweet lips and the bashful look,
Are ever vibrant in air around robed in aureate hue,.
The glad smile of the cherished eyes to begin the life anew.

The Heaven's surprise in the spilth of an ecstatic beatitude,
Makes me more mirthful in life's wonderlust solitude,
Longings turn insentient in an eternal Elysian clasp,
The Soul seeks release from the mundane transient grasp.

The heartbeats cease overjoyed with Bliss infinite,
The seventh heaven opens doors of rapture recondite,
The gladdening glamour of the glistening stars of the moonlit mirth,
The vain loiterer finds his aimless errand's Goal at last.

The fragrant opulence brought by the babbling breeze,
All rivers' routes of the ravenous journey in the Ocean cease,
The truant spirit seeks sojourn in an ascetic heart,
Desires die the death in the deathless Vast.

The lisping lips of love speak soft whisper sublime
The sylvan woodlands are sun-clad in an argent rhyme,
The radiant blossoms are bathed in the brightening mirth,
To welcome the newly-weds in the ****** vernal birth.

The Absolute sits alone, immobile in the Immortal firmament above,
To greet the new-borns in the greatness of His immaculate Love.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram Haridwar. 13th October 2019)
Bijoylakshmi Das Dec 2019
IN FREEDOM OF GREATER HEIGHTS
(YOU inspire, I write)
O Clouds of the sky!
Heaven's miraculous magnificent Mirth,
You are pure, pristine and sacrosanct.
Unsullied by the human mind and
Its petty desires of the Earth.

O Journey of the recondite Vast!
Towards Infinity's Bliss forever to last,
The Lone Voyager is alone, all alone
The stretch of Eternity is lost out of my human grasp,
Still lives in Rhapsody's resplendence
At the mortal physique's transcendence.

O Dream of the Distant Dreamland above!
To reach your dreamless state I do always rove,
The Ecstasy afar though forbidden but the Mystery profound,
Alas! I don't fall asleep
I am in your sweet soft clasp.

O Beauty of the soaring heights of the Immortal Sublime!
Your innumerable hues sing the never-ending rhyme -
Of the timeless Symphony that goes on untold in the Supreme Playact.

O Love's Elysian outpour!
Keep your door azar,
Do wing my forlorn moments of vain despair
With unforgettable mirth,
And moon my sleepless hours
With your gleaming Delight living-worth;
Your star-spangled rapture plays hide and seek in the azure Blue,
How I wish I could reach your deathless abode and the summitless
summit forever new!

O Splendid Splendour of the formless Eve,
Mystic, marvel-rapt with the bachhic felicity,
My mind untrammelled tries to fathom the fathomless Epiphany vast,
You sit sovereign enjoying my frolicking past.

O Freedom's frontierless Elegance!
Eternity's celestial everlasting Romance,
The firmament's elevating exuberance,
You sit formless, shapeless in an all-pervading Illimitable Existence. Your Love's lisping lullaby
For the toil-torn fatigued Earth -
May enliven and enlighten her
In your magnanimity's magnificence,
To breathe anew and blossom forth
into the New Angelic Birth.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram, Haridwar. 2nd October 2019)
Bijoylakshmi Das Dec 2019
IN MEMORY'S MIRROR
When memories turn into silvery snowflakes,
Beauty loses brilliance in her bright sunlit path,
The Moonlit marvel speaks no more Delight of the forgotten past,
Your sweet soft footsteps tread upon Mind's woodland vast.

Your azure dreams to explore the forbidden fathomless beyond,
Where Love plays miracles with her ever-compassionate heart,
The Earth turns into El Dorado at One's all-pervading Glance,
Your eyes I do admire in infancy's long-lost playact.,
All that we dreamt on Earth and all beyond,
All that we aspired to reach the Unknown Summit,
Where sits alone, all alone the One illilimitable Ecstasy,
We are just tiny specks of dust fallen down from His Feet.

Our Mind mirrors in Consciousness' all-embracing expanse,
Earth's pleasures turn futile in the shoreless Beauty's magnificence,
We have crossed limits of transience in Omnipotent's transcendence,.
No longer two Souls apart but united in a single Whole in Infinity's unique Trance.

Life no more enchanting, Death casts no more its sordid snare,
The endless journey repeats forever with no mortals to admire,
The Soil is too much for us, Breath becomes air with heavenly exuberance,
The Elysian marvel delves into our Being's immensity vast.

To brook the beatific brilliance in our new Divine Birth,
The Godhead seeks Body's chamber illumined, ennobled and sacrosanct,
The celestial twilight's splendour revels in the aureate ascendance -
To make the new Journey iconic, noble and classic in a Puissant Vast.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram, Haridwar. 28th September 2019)
while being quarantined
inside our own invisible bubble

Transcendent meditations
while athwart oblate spheroid
allow, enable, and provide
deft capability deciphering
snap, crackle and pop
accepted as mere static
to the untrained ear.

Each inaudible silent cerebral
deaf utterance doth ricochet
across avast heavenly expanse
broadcast far beyond the realm Hubble
telescope detects faintest sound
signaling when cosmos began.

Courtesy near futile results
after jogging me memory,
the following individuals
(unbeknownst if still alive)
helped diagnose mental faculties
concerning yours truly
approximately comprising last two thirds
of mortal male named Matthew Scott Harris;
Ray McNeil
OVR Counselor;
Paul Sachs
licensed psychologist;
Elba Dorley
her professional title unknown.

Unsure who if any among
three aforementioned named
specially trained persons
coined diagnosis (mine)
I accepted (until now),
and blithely communicate
Schizoid Personality Disorder,
and crafted oodles of previous poems
concerning said malady.

Nevertheless profound social anxiety
plagued my every waking and sleeping hour,
scuttling many (née countless) opportunities,
whether series of unfortunate events
encompassed academia or
string of abysmal employment endeavors.

Sequestration of self
most often housed
within bedroom walls
(defined narrow realm),
where alone within
emotional wilderness (mine)
branded passive aggressive lad
(appellation brainchild
of late mother dearest)
as the world turned,
he remained holed up
(except for bathroom needs
and meal times)
inside most secure space
since he exited the womb.

Back in the day Kripalu Ashram
Sumneytown, Pennsylvania location,
which intentional community
(no longer flourishing)
offered peace of body, mind and spirit
found writer of these words
relief from parents,
whose ultimatums couched decision
livingsocial among macrobiotic residents.

Although welcomed for brief hiatus
against domestic backdrop
of psychological torment and trauma
(yes verbally skewered
gratis those two people
who helped beget their sole son),
the tranquil physical environment
extensive acreage incorporated
wooded hillocks, which topography resembled
324 Level Road - boyhood home
(an abode long since demolished
to make room for vinyl city)
afforded consciousness expanding
sensory perception awakening.

Since spiritual immersion
fostered by Guru Dev (i.e. Amrat Desai),
(whose reputation sabotaged,
violated, and yanked off pedestal
by his own stealthy appeasement
unleashing hormonal secretion
granting call of the wild
concerning tenderloin temptation
read carnal concupiscence
(impossible mission to maintain celibacy)
flagged above iterated transgression
blatant barenaked lady
espied flagrante delicto,
amazingly enough, which fall from grace
explains reason residents abandoned facility.

Mindfulness philosophy toward existence,
especially listening to structures of silence
constitutes mantra that endured
since familiarity learning heightened vigilance
(more'n half my life time ago)
experiencing honing sensation
with laser like focus
that buffet five senses.
Bijoylakshmi Das Jan 2020
IN SILENCE OF THE SOUL
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
Breathe not my Dear! In the silence of the Soul,
Earth is asleep and Night's splendour
adorns your feet;
Go deep within your breathless sleep
The solemn silence gives you its sublime kiss.
You are born pure,
The celestial Beauty keeps knocking at your ****** door.

Fear not, dive deep into the sombre depth of the dark,
To meet the Fire of enlightenment afar -
Denied to futile human births
Never ready to keep their inner doors azar.
Let me be reborn to make life anew,
Sanctioned from above, clad with magnificent hue.

There you sit alone in solitude's embrace -
My eternal companion, my Sweet Love!
At all cessation to the life of flesh and blood,
The Lotus-eyed Beauty lisps lullaby by the Grace of God.

Merge into the limitless expanse of the Infinite,
Sings sweetest psalms of exalted Bliss;
Earth is now not fit for you to alight,
Nor to embrace you in her sweet soft kiss.
Born forever in the Eternal Poise,
All in Harmony, all in Splendour -
No more mortal's discordant noise!

Songs of symphony vibrant in air around,
No slightest whisper of man's lips, no more sound;
Music jubilant, mirth profound
Nature is Rapture-clad.
To make Union Supreme,
Oh Dear all alone in Soul's lonely realm
Bliss' invincible King!
Heralding a shifting world's romance,
Changes subtle, sibilations silent
Under One Immortal's eternal vigilance!

Sail on Comrade Oh Sailor forlorn!
Fatigued by the toil of earth,
Grieve not, you are enlivened and reborn -
To rejoice in your new vernal birth.
Silence speaks a lot,
Speaks of immaculate Vast!
The measureless expanse of the Ocean ahead of you,
Plunge deep into it to be a glorious participant!
The fathomless depth longs to lisp -
The One Message undeciphered -
Never put into any human script!

Get not lost in the maze and mud around -
Try to hide our Mystic Play,
The heavenly blossoms send myriad hues
To make journey a grand success and to enjoy.
Songs of Cuckoo alive in the smiles of the Green,
Never bids adiue to the Spring's joyful Qween!

Oh Soul Sublime!
You are born to shine the brightest,
The mortal in the making!
The Supreme rules the invisible kingdom of your heart
In Soul's awakening!
To reach the goal,
Rise above body and mind
To explore Thy Soul!
(Bijou Das, Anand Utsav Ashram, Haridwar. 19.06.2019)
Bijoylakshmi Das Dec 2019
THE ROSE OF MY HEART
There blossoms the rose
In the far off land of Bliss,
In Dawn-dewy petals
United with Earth's vernal kiss;
The silent sobbing sky -
At the plight of the Brown,
The grey clouds serving as a long beautiful gown;
The fiery rays of the Golden Sun
Plays hide and seek,
The earth is half-awakened and half-asleep
In her soft satisfying moan,
The sought-after nectar in the celestial morn,
Is dripping slow,
Like drops of sweat in a new bride's brow
To make her beauty glow
In her ****** visage.

Oh distant Rose!
The Angel of my heart!
Bloom with your bewitching smile,
Do rest awhile;
Soothe my heart with the inmost Delight,
Love at first sight,
In my Soul's soaring height.
Never possessive,
Sit sovereign in your Rapture's -
Kingdom native.
Well-assrrtive-
Of your expression sublime
Undemanding!
Fragrance pleasing
The inherent spirit of giving
Never expecting!

Oh Blossom of the Far!
The Rose of my heart!
Never to part
Still we are apart.
Your flitting glances
Not to cast
Over Brown's dust and dirt.
Not meant to be plucked and
cast aside,
Your smiles hardly to hide,
The blush of the Blue to -
make you enlivened and vast.

The Rose of my Heart!
Your gesture condescending
The Supreme's Law-abiding!
You grieve not for ever-giving!
Bloom! Oh Beauty of invisible mirth!
For every aggrieved heart.
Smile - Zephyr's worth
Where Nymphs sing and Seraphs dance
In the enraptured domain of the Divine romance -
The mortal loses semblance!

Oh Blossom of Love!
Of the beatific realm of the Vast!
In the elixir of love with utmost care
You are kept apart
From the mundane heart.
The Supreme Godhead's rarest Artefact!

All around heard the whisper of the
unceasing rain
Keeps me awake in my Spirit's gain;
In the new awakening
Foretells a joyous offering
Of the long forgotten tales of immaculate love:
Gifts from above.

In life's journey's ascendance
To reach Eternity, the all-Transcedant!
The Rose of Love!
The real sojourn of my Heart!
Do not part!
Make me forever asleep
In your sweet soft clasp,
The Divine Muse lisped by
your divine lips in the Immortal Grasp.
(Bijou Das, Anand Utsav Ashram Haridwar. 12.08 am 14.06.2019)
Bijoylakshmi Das Jan 2020
AWAKENING
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
Silence all around,
Solitude reigns over the earth;
I sit in my soul's repose -
With visionary eyes cast
Upon a distant immeasurable Vast!
Night descends slow behind her veil,
Soft are her footsteps -
Spreading sweet fragrance.
It adores the dark,
Enlivens Zephyr's touch and
Brown's vernal mirth
Speaks message subliminal
For the fatigued Earth.
Blessed sits my Sweet-heart
Shares the kingdom of Bliss
Of infinite treasures worth.
Betwixt heaven and earth
The line of separation fades slow,
The horizon loses semblance.
A remarkable Mystic significance!
One seeks the One
The Creator and the creation -
Ger united in the greatest communion!
Actor turned into acts;
Dreams and Dreamer are now together -
No more poles apart!
Love is One's yearning for the One
In the Supreme Art!
All is eternal and in eternity all do last.
Infant longings of the past
Toils hard across sands of Time
To meet the long-cherished quest
Since the mortal birth.
In Soul's highest awakening
The seeds sown on memory's clay-bed,
Awaiting to reach the morning rays
Of the golden Dawn.
The Unique Revelation!
Paradise of Union -
Behind the curtain
With azure surprise
With gifts of hope and beautiful surmise,
Sweet hours of the night
Clad in apparel dark
Offers ecstatic smile
To greet the starry firmament stark.
Splendid is the message
Writ on sky's blue page
The ****** vesper Moon
Speak delight pure
Send myriad hues
:Know not why...
All is joy around us
Forever sublime and to admire
The Mystic Fire!
Hid from man merged in mind's mud and mire.
It's tardy process of death and birth.

The Flute of the One sitting above
Sings Muse of Divine Love.
If awakened and awake
"Can hear the never-ending rhyme
Ever sublime
Goes on forever
Since time immemorial
Beyond space and time".
Deaf to ears
Merged in stupor!
Denied to the one
Dipped in mortal fear.

Silence all-pervading
Unending Bliss profound
Makes us spell-bound
In the heavenly play ground!
Be a part of it,
Oh dear mortal Dweller!
Your body is just a mask;
Evolution ceases not
In petty limits of human birth.
Man, not the summit
Infinite is ecstasy
To reveal the Supreme and His Unique Art!
To reach the highest realm of spiritual splendour
Of its summit's gain,
Not in Matter's false glamour and Ego's disdain ;
But in the sojourn of an illumined Vast
To unveil the TRUTH.
Awake and arise
In this wonderful compromise
Meet your Soul -
Omnipotent,
Omniscient,
Omnipresent
In your new Immortal Birth.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram,
Haridwar.  20.05.2019)

— The End —