"mantras" poems
We perpetuate heartbreak culture,
teaching girls the man who holds her loves her despite the bruises,
or it was her fault; she looked older.
We fetishes shoulders,
prize youth from the young in return for pre-chewed gum,
swallowing down the same tired ideals from those who still wield them like flags,
waving their patriotism on poles of bone before a throne of medieval ********
They chant mantras with beer stained breath about how 'our' country 'bested' the rest,
but what about the brutality?
The blood split on foreign soil in return for prehistoric oil?
Our land is deemed pure so long as the violence on our hands never reaches our shores,
but the ocean is red and staining our sands.
How can you have pride in a country who's sole identity is based off having the worlds largest navy?
Congratulations. You bombed your way through countless continents, collecting cultures to gather dust on pedestals and alters
We sin on Sundays, drink till we're ****** then wave at the seven deadly's (they don't apply to us here).
We teach preschoolers nationalism before they can walk,
indoctrinate our children before they can talk.
George killed the dragon.
Hood gave to the poor.
we all jumped on the bandwagon before we realised the princess had no choice and the rich still ruled.
There was no voice in the tale for those whose wail could be ignored.
What about those without lines in the script?
Those kicked to the curb, then kicked from it?
Our pavements have no room for nonconformists,
they're tailored to for same mind, same mindless wanderer,
squandering on the lasted polyesters even though that mouth on the street hasn't eaten in over a week.
'God save the Queen' from the vermin;
the homeless have been tossed out of the trash.
Why help them when you could save your cash by turning a blind?
After all, out of sight, out of mind.
Welcome to England, we hope you like what you find
Because we’re not changing it.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
Even if the season of lust blankets loneliness in a tight wrap
smothering those fragile emotions in the winter months
of a lifetime of cyclical wants and needs
waiting for the summer to send its life giving mantras
deep into the ****** soil of waiting,
the hibiscus waits ready to grasp the first finger of sun drenching
warmth to burst out into beauty
above ground and spread its dense green leaves
with crimson flower and trumpet shape
into the minds eye of acceptance.
Soon the valley changes hue as altogether
the trees spring to life shedding their softness
into every nook and corner, crabbing into crannies
and leaping wings of delight into welcome air.
The hibiscus will soon take ownership
of the entire valley bringing to the forefront
our own wanderlust.
Author Notes
Changeover between summer and sunshine.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
तत् त्वम् असि
*for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons,
washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo*
(*the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute*)
Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the ***** water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots
Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight
Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day
Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.
Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.
Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
THE MORAL:
(slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp)
Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.
“This is God –worship Him, worship Him –
this is God – let us worship Him now…”
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
FINGERTIP
( for Shyam )
as a little child
I travelled
up & down the Ganges
its sister Yamuna..her brother Brahmaputra
their names
upon my tongue
my voice calling them
into being
awed by their sound
mantras for my mind
riding their waters
in the little ship
of a
fingertip
traveling only as a child
can
now
here I am
still that child
become this man
still offering
my devotion
from the Dev Bhoomi I come
tracing Shiva's hair
from here to there
"Ganga Ma...Ganga Ma!" I cry
herding the river
from Gaumukh
watching her
spread her fan
into the Bay of Bengal and beyond
still sailing the same old
fingertip ship
a bit old and
battered now
soon I will stand
on Indian soil
call all my childhood rivers
to me
bow as they
flow into me
their names
upon my tongue
calling upon
all the Gods to come
as
one
"OM!"
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
our conversations are all in blue.
i try not to mind it,
like i try not to mind the hair falling out of my scalp.
you're just busy being unattached to me.
i make excuses for you as easy as i double text.
they flood my head like mantras,
but not the kind that make you feel calm or loved.
it's more like telling yourself you won't throw up after the twisty roads up the mountain.
but i want to see the view with you.
so i keep sending you blue paragraphs filled with 'sorry's and 'i love you's.
you send the same grey 'i love you, too's.
and we call it communication.
i'm the driver and the passenger
the carsick kid trying not to throw up and the toddler asking over and over if we're there yet.
but i want to see the view with you.
would it hurt to send a grey paragraph? or ask me,
in your best whine,
if we are at the top yet?
throw up in my lap. drive me crazy.
ask me for the aux cord and i'll give it to you.
i'm done listening to this album on repeat.
i want to hold your hand without worrying if your fingers are numb and you just don't want to hurt my feelings.
this car needs more you.
and i don't mean the you dressed in grey half messages that you probably rewrote three times.
i need the you that talked about faking our deaths together
like it was the only part of life worth living.
wearing that laugh you always say is too loud,
but really it sounds like music.
i like my music loud and angry.
and ****** at your parents for being expired versions of themselves, always expecting you to be organic.
i need that you like i need a vice.
because that's who i want to see the view with.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 3:13 AM UTC
in ashes hidden, smoulders god of love
from matted dancer's focus conflagration purely come
continues still perhaps in empty homage
of a sa ta na ma
personage of ((Shiva))
white bones pierce the sky
in upward curtain-seethes of heat
beyond imagined burning hells...
the triad ventures into zero-zones of anti-life,
sands of absolute defeat.
shadow trust imparts
a silent teacher's mantras;
soothing psychic words,
"Bala" and "Adi-Bala"
carry over dunes of morbid thirst--
the gape of ancient serpent-maws
choking dust of frightened, elephantine skeletons
fissured by immobile sun--
their inner sound become cool water of a summer stream
in timeless desert, traverses strain of royal line:
god-fated tutelage of seedling savior,
lightning skill with bow and virtue sinew
shining arms horizon's arid form:
despite begrudging honor kings expect
when offspring given after years
in hard-earned sacrificial grace:
yet still obeisance ends in facing demonaic rage
to which is pitted youth to slay--
despite allay by symbol feminine,
as if to question her abode would conjure her
in dire storm and quake announce gigantic step and hairy gulf--
with arrow sprays destroy Thataka's trident, curdling throat
the slitting of, rejoicing pantheon proclaims heroic,
forever railing under epic breath of tacit page theodical:
"we gave you progeny, now grant us our theocracy;
before your son our asthras lay their weaponry"
.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
Some get that way by playing it safe,
memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules,
some get there by cutting seams,
lost in purposelessness, partaking of
ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything
that's buzzy enough,
some find their sweepstakes in curls,
in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath,
some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept
determination, some divorce their wives,
some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals,
some review albums and cut down the ********
some write love stories for our grandmas,
our moms,
our ex-girlfriends,
some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging,
some in bomb threats,
some find it in supremacy,
others in melting pots,
some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats,
some in **** ***
some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs,
some when they have hit the bottom rung,
some by rationalizing,
boosting themselves above half-wrongs,
to coast on the half-rights,
some by breaking up,
some by declaring war,
only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars,
some kids dance to experimental music,
some write blogs about capitalism,
some find it kicking it with bitter vegans,
others while murdering their parents,
but everyone is a winner,
everyone is right,
everyone has earned the paycheck,
the vacation,
the **** wife,
and the key to eternal life.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
Hustle and bustle brings
Grins frozen onto faces
Mantras pounding rhythms into
Sunken eyes
Hollow out a space for me
Within yourself
Please, I wish
To know what makes you
Tick
To put to fire
This opportunistic kindling
I stumbled upon
While on the run
From my greatest enemy
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 12:50 PM UTC
Phanerogams are plants which produce seeds.
The wanton harlot may be laid against the wall, with legs splayed, and may also have given birth to unbridled rage.
However, even though such stages of development can be entitled as “son of a ***** it is worth noting that all behaviour has meaning, my darkened companion of presumed sophistication.
The scholastic scribes will etch their wisdom upon the hardness of our vile vanity.
I hold in my hand a gothic stone, where those who stand before the courts accused of heresy and witchcraft can plead innocence before chanting crowds of bloodlust.
The reaper will gather the harvest at Lughnasadh, whilst the olfactory nerve propagates her funeral games amidst the cutting of ancient cornfields.
As we perch upon the gallows end, let us join hands and chant the mantras of old.
Photosynthesis is a forensic entrancement where there is no rest for the sinner.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
Prelude
"Let's go" his soft whisper
the mantra, in his voice she hears
the esoteric voyage through
the cryptic high seas of self,
fathomless, unmapped,
uncharted and reachable
only by the most fearless
ready to unbind and make
the self free for it's adventure,
begins thus for the peaceful pair
complementing the absolute
for a life time, til they reach there
and find themselves one with
pure consciousness.
"Let's let's, but only together"
she chants in unison,with him.
1.
Bidding good bye to ego, clad in red and black
a beast, not easy to bring to it's knees, submit,
the high horse proud,raring to go,having sharp horns
sticking out, fierce, that goes berserk,on seeing white.
Altogether a curious construct, that dictates terms-
they set about, invoking the blessing of the flame of light.
2
They stood together, eyes widely shut, bringing
both palms together,in front of their chests
creating a lotus bud, symbolizing hearts,bowing
each other in "Namaste",-bows the divinity in thyself-
chanting the mantras of peace, thrice, each time, repeatedly.
3
"Lets go back to the begining of every begining.."
the primordial hum, transcending quagmires of time
in the path of our ancestors,who did see the" unseeable",
without eyes, knew the "unknowable",diving in to the
ocean depth of self,going inwards chanting"Neti, Neti"
Not this, Not this, inquiring each till the essence did reveal.
4
They did this, focusing the eye of the mind, on the eye
beyond all, that watches every small thing in universe.
Mind, sharpened like the blade of a sword,efficient to cut
the Gordian knots,of paradox, duality and illusion,
encountering the silence that thickens at last, speaks
the words of wisdom,patient they are, to know the ultimate,
right there at the source of light that is the true essence of all,
5
Celebrate the pure consciousness, that pervades in every thing,
the thought that begets all thoughts,that moves on to be karma,
that becomes purer, through the cycles of lives, one after another.
"Let's be humble, utmost, sans the ornamental clothes of pride.
May the thought reigning cosmos, the spirit of peace,chanted aloud,
take us to it's sanctum sanctorum and melt us in to it's divine embrace.
Only one there is, all are it's integrals,the divine cosmic hum 'Aum'
that enliven the universe within each cell, remember , is eternal"
#@@#
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
warped,
weird,
whirling,
wonder-filled,
a garland of words
eulogized by occidental cosmologists today
to deify the milky way
for five millennia,
in clandestine chambers of
the temple of the lord with a lotus navel,
oriental sages, finely tuned into
ultimate mantras of the cosmos,
initiated ‘twice born’ namboodris of kerala
into a mellifluous sanskrit verse....
a potent heart melting hymn
where our star-studded galaxy,
milky in complexion,
is seen as a spinning jagged-edged discus,
worn as an ornamental ring
around vishnu’s slender index finger,
from whose whirling lotus navel
originate the birth of inseparable twins:
warped space intertwined with flowing time
now this is a garland of exquisite beauty!
© 2019
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 11:29 AM UTC
my grandmother too, is love.
in the weeks before she died
she writhed.
in pain and suddenly,
her attention shifting inexplicably
though no less pain it was in inner diastrophisms of the falseness carved in masks she shuddered forward all herself
at 97 and in shining reservoirs of urgency
she went through bouts of chanting:
'i love you' moans and 'so much, so much'
and 'thank you, thank you, i love you' for whatever hours
there were visitors
to hear.
her cat still slept on her head.
she with all her flaws expressed it to the point of drymouth,
perfecting mantras never known so well
her brink of death an apex in our hearts
.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
I was a no name worker bee
Yet I had a million bees all working for me
I was a caryatid, house wife, never had the life of a queen
Stole my honey from the wasps with the wax in their wings
I was a comatose burn victim
I could hear the nurses whisper sanctum sanctorum!
They fed me nutrients and cleaned my ******
They either didn’t care or they didn’t think I could hear them
I was alive when the lightning struck
But I was dead by second, to survive my luck
I wasn’t anything special
I was a mass produced individual
They had no names worth knowing
They had no future where they were going
And I never thought twice about what I did
The quiet megalomania of a caryatid
And then my patience turned to rampage
I took a page from Genghis Khan
I wanted the roaches gone
I hatched suburban escape plans
Because my angst was delayed
A generation late & afraid
Now in the presence of the gods and goddesses
And in the confidence of infinite this is
Another power grab a singularity
Another force to fight reverse polarity
I’m all about the lust and not the wander
I am the lingering presence of a long goner
I’m here to clarify the **** of daughters
The spider stink in the breath of fire
If we could **** for utility instead of a performance to showcase our species’ ability
Then we’d be hunted by viruses
The gods and goddesses with the instinct to extinct humanity
Chaos is healthy, its part of reality, essential to symmetry, like night is to day
When life is weighed on a pendulum
Like sanctum sanctorum
The delicate faberge
There isn’t anything to bother with on top of the monolith
I’m shouting mantras from the mountain peak
There isn’t any time to practice with a modern creation myth
A lullaby in a language I don’t speak
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Love was the lone window lit,
in that long wintry night,
beacon light of his winding path,
the lips that softly whispered and
evoked dreams, that'd become real,
for his wonderment, later, much later.
When he slipped and fell in to
the deep pit of long, endless silence,
love was his ladder to climb
to the rainbow bridge of hope
she used to frequent in evenings
though won't recognize him
not once, even for the old times' sake.
Love compelled him to compose,
soulful songs that'd stop the flow of tears,
his eyes never went dry until then
even while sleeping, his head was
on pillows of fire.
Love was the stone wall, that shielded
him from the raging fire of misery,
the rain that came down in torrents
when his long torn, desolate heart
was parched dry in cruel drought
too was love itself.
He was washed ashore alone,
when he heard the whispers,
love was speaking to his psyche
from near in a comforting tone,
then love held his hand,led him
across the marshes and swamp
sharp thorns and stones wounded him
gathering nightmares chased
and haunted him.
And then, love came along, in a disguise,
but his eyes waiting for long recognized,
love, comforted, chanted potent mantras
that helped him endure pain, gave him hope.
Love was his brave charioteer, the messenger
who told that all that was thought lost
is still in his possession as light within.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Siddhartha sat steady on a the hearth of an apartment, eyes closed
mouth closed, mind open and enchanted
Zen-man lingers in a dark park starting,
to realise indiscretions of his past lives avatar
(but don't for a second believe the lies you've been fed by the brother of your brother and the father's of the jingoist mafia because eyes blink often and the accumulative effect is a life of temporary blindness and in that blindness it's not possible to be enlightened)
Your mantras are a lie but the belief remains still
and so rolling over wild green hills in some Welsh country village it dawns on the spirits of the ether that humanity is struggling
to find absolution of even the most relative peace
- but so, and Siddhartha still sits, cross-legged and barely breathing
Emaciated; fast, faster
Losing her nerve
Zen-man died a few months back but you always live again and so a beetle on a hot car hood scampers in some intrinsic folly, semi-aware of being something or being at all
Towards the walls of weather-beaten towns the levee finally bursts and all life ends -
until a gathering mist pulls absurd faces in the simpatico rays of a third-eye sun over the bayou of some forgotten rock in the cosmos
and the ethereal temptress of existence rolls the next dice on a green matted board
and our unified oneness speaks a solitudinal greeting to the sky.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
throw away all of our material ********
our iphones and credit cards and television sets
throw them in a bonfire, take off our clothes and
dance around the flames naked chanting freedom mantras
we could do anything we wanted
climb to machu picchu and try to feel the past
drink ayahuasca and play shaman for a day
be wild and open and part of the earth again
for once in our lives we might feel important
unrestricted, powerful
like we have a purpose
and even after the hallucinations fade
maybe the plants will still whisper to us our destiny
when we are sleeping in hammocks and eating bugs
i guess i just wouldn't care if the guts got stuck in my teeth
because you'd be there and encourage me to give up my ocd habits
of always being clean
because you'd make it worth it to not care
i'd give you my soul if it meant we could always feel this way
so wonderfully lost in each other that nothing else matters.
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
Here.you can have this one easy, I wont struggle i wont even look.Here you can sharpen your pencil and jot me down in the book.Here....... cant spell CAT less I give C and T to U. And you think creation bubbles and boils in you. Sad sack of !!!. .....When I wanted my turn? oh no, you were way to busy reading tea leaves, mumbling mantras,consulting the zodiac Now you want me to rub your head and tuck you in bed,pull your blanky chin high and then tuck it, Hmm, too easy.
Verses with curses, you call that a poem ?
Here. right here between the C and the T. good boy. Now. Shall we begin the beguine.
There once was a man from Belize
Who was stung by the poetry bees.
He read books to distraction
But couldn't get traction
less I pushed for action
To clear up his those from his these..Duh
So Here. go visit Nantucket. Dont forget to take a bucket !!!.
Next stop Limerick. Here we go again. Next time I crawl back
try to at least offer me chair. A " hey dude it's
good to see you" or I swear I'm off again like a
***** shirt. Just you and that keyboard and
blinky the cursor.Blink, blink, blink................
There.I finally got that unchested.
Feel so much better now, so Here take a letter now.
Here you can have this one easy.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
Around Mayadevi Temple (Circa)
Surrounded by pillars of our age
Cultivated with reminiscence of a
graceful child and his mother
Smiling ruins reflecting the history
A child of destiny who stepped in
with his seven birth steps over lotus
A tribute from Ashoka,
Cylindrical pillar inscribing his regards,
To the one who chose world enlightenment
over easy royal luxury,
To the one who turned him knight of peace
from emperor of wars.
No Shoes Allowed Inside
Leave your turbulence and rush out the gate
The chanting of mantras will cool down your hot head
The cameras of tourist will bring smiles to face
And at reflection on sacred pool,
Where Mother Mayadevi shed down her motherly sorrows
Over the transformation of Beloved Prince to Holy Buddha,
Let you find the lost purpose in ripples of calmness
The place where Sidhhartha played as child
and grew up to be Light of Asia
Nurture again the true purpose as for being Human
For Peace , For harmony, For Love
As you nap under revitalizing shades of Peepal trees
Inhale today, the air that whistles your resolves
Inside garden of peace, Around Mayadevi Temple
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
it was irresistible
coming
with you, unmistakable
saying "come in".
only touched myself
with the idea of freeing you
from your encompassing nightwear
—my red lipstick's affair
not even a feet away from your front door
grasped my wrists and dragged my needy body close
and touching, fumbling with my burning core
without hesitation—lips crashed and clasped in yours
greedy intent pulled me deep in
slick, silky, sweaty, **** kisses
erase the innocence of my tongue
make me pray mantras as mewls become sultry hisses
your name on my mouth, your mouth on my name
a pleasurable orchestral masterpiece in the night
dainty fingers down south, flicking flame
bodies intertwined, bathed in candlelight
push, pull, push... pull...
pushing and pulling and tossing and turning and moving in and out and in and out in a never-ending dance your fingers make
until you suddenly
stop
frantically tried finding your lustful eyes staring right back
only to find you looking down the feast—thighs blossomed open wide
i, the devotee offering to your altar
and my god, you devou—
lick and suck—play and prowl—drink and slurp
voice cracking, sweat trickling
gasping for air, taking your musk hard... breathe in...
breathing you in... so deep...
faster, and faster, grasping your hair for hold
melting and burning and igniting for each and every stroke
and i don't regret coming with you
coming for you..... coming in you.... until it comes... we come... come... co—
crashing down, shaking, crying hard from waves of euphoria—panting, breathless, lustfulness
with the stained bed only becoming more crumpled
when hot puffs of your breath trickled my rose-flushed ear
your voice telling—"this isn't yet the finale you've been waiting for."
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 10:22 AM UTC
as the rush comes
on the dance floor
it envelopes me
beats rising up my spine
and we are all one pulsating
beautiful body moving
losing inhibition
as we spin and writhe
expressing ourselves
to that vibration
embraced and surrounded
by the flickering
tangible sparks
light we can almost catch
in our fingers and mouths
eyes like stars
or closed in our
own private mantras
entranced by rhythm
minds in haze
untouched auras
in colors a-blaze
scintillating in the dark
moved by our own
inner cadence,
we are all bonded
through
electric notes
downbeats alive
in quickening liquid metal
We inhale that invisible
sense of smoky escape
no thinking needed
but soul's center awake
So
rescue me
at least for the night
wrap me in bliss
just bring it on
an accent of sound
as the dam bursts
in spiritual ******
of musical flow
as we re-connect
to ourselves
in angelic dark
glow
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 6:41 PM UTC
clay-baked women beat their clothes
clean on river rocks at dawn
cook rice and dal on an open
communal hearth
beneath a natural lantern
of Indian stars
for 20 rupees a day, roughly
half a buck
I have seen men and women tie
rags to cushion their heads
towing heavy mortar
for new construction
yet there is always a
brotherly smile gleaming
and sisterly hands eager to share
what meager provisions earned
these are no feeble folk
no fashion slaves or mere mortals
melodious bhajans mingle with
the sweat from their brows
and mantras, leelas of God
echo through the
Taj Mahal temples of their hearts
I raise my bhakti glass to the
backbone of India
Her kundalini rising
innocent, humble
village peasantry
true priests
gopikas and gopalas
who actually live
the Vedic life
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
The mystic Sadhu
chants cryptic
mantras,
I hear
the Hammssss of his voice,
He is lost in his world
Like I'm with mine,
Above me, the bridge
clanked gleefully
announcing the arrival of her lover;
Shimmering in white, honking
it moves slowly like a big serpent,
Ending the tryst
with a flickering red light.
Several mounds, smoldering woods,
and one body stuck to
the trunk of the bridge
swirled in me the fear of
leaving this world early,
leaving all that I strived to
achieve, and leaving all of
it in the middle.
Buses pass on the next bridge
A hand came out
and aimed the stream with
something, probably a coin,
to compensate for wrongdoings,
Coin-collectors waiting like a
starving lion in a zoo
pounced on these throwings,
aiming the spot
with a magnet like
a trained ninja in nocturnal warfares,
After a few unsuccessful attempts
A boy yelled in joy
"Har Har Gange".
The Ganges was like this
from the beginning,
She was moderate in demands
offering so much
at the cost of a penny,
Throw a coin and
you are absolved from all your sins.
Oct 21, 2021
Oct 21, 2021 at 7:31 PM UTC
Α♥Ω
GNOSIS, my friends, is alive and well,
corrupting the hearts of the masses.
They fashion a fable to fit their need until their crisis passes.
An idol from here and a text from there – just a little dabble do…
for a do-it-yourself epiphany as the counterfeit passes through.
They lose themselves in names and mantras,
thinking they’re mining gold –
while the god of this world enhances the shine of spiritual lies retold.
So get out your old Santana records, pass the **** to the left.
Listen to Jimi and Marley and worse; it will leave your soul bereft.
It’s the same old trip – the first century
has seen all of it come and go:
such transcendent explosions of heresy
are worth less than the price of the show.
In the local body of Iesous Moshiach our pastor has faithfully showed us:
nonsensical notions of Gnostic obnoxiousness
fail to enlighten – but load us
with half-truths and fantasies, cosmic conspiracies,
spiritually false revelation;
which turn on the blacklight and dazzle the mind
but maroon you in dark desolation.
So I’d like to prepare you for several short poems
exploring the way of the Gnostics.
Though I love Elaine Pagels and Demian‘s Hesse,
they fail to provide diagnostics…
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC