"yogic" poems
C
is confused, so a little complex
I mean, one moment it’s top of the range
glowing
in the hierarchy of vitamins
but next it’s a little abashed and low
in a student’s report card –
you know, C is not as good as an A
And so can you blame C for its mood swings?
Its agony continues:
one instant C is Calm, in another it’s a Curse
And you know it also feels a little wanting
a little under-stretched, not fulfilled
like not being able to complete
all the stretching exercises
its fitness trainer metes out
“O, if only I could be a little more yogic,”
C intones
“I’d be as composed as an O” -
but O no, that’s not to be
And don’t you start
on the indignant possibilities
of the letter C, for C has always aspired
you see
to be genteel, cultured and debonair
and curls with disgust if the uncouth
should use the letter
to refer to any body parts,
be it that of male or of female
So, dear mortals, C should be left in celestial spheres
And so, in conclusion,
one Commandment I give unto you:
*Never drag C to ****** shallows*
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
It was so vivid I could
feel my chest compressing
as I ran, crippled with sobs.
The betrayal was a knife
It was a furnace and my
feet hurt as I flew across the
city. When I punched out my
bedroom window I could feel
the glass separating my knuckles
and I contemplated the destiny
of the larger shards. I awoke as one
resuscitated from drowning
resuscitated from death
gasping, shaking, reeling
d e m a t e r i a l i z e d
and began to cry as I
performed yogic breathing
exercises and went limply through
the worn out motions to
assuage heart attack symptoms.
They know they know
even follow me
follow me when I'm asleep.
My God.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
WHAT is a Hindu, a Moslem or a Christian?
Whence he comes and where he goes?
Ocean is a solution, salty, but-
Corers of Suns gleam on the crest of waves-
One, only One at the helm in the blue.
Pools and streams and lakes and bays
Wells and springs and rain and ice
We see nothing but a drop, in them drops
Nay, vapor condensed: Nay, H2O-right?
Think a little straight, sit up aright
Am I not right? -break, break that H2O
Baffling bright white-light you can see.
Of heat and Energy, Oh! 'Sivam'!
You may call it 'Noor' in Arabic
'Siv' in Sanskrit-what then-
Releases combustion in cells?
Nothing but very heat and Energy.
Uranium and Thorium release the same.
We find Energy unborn eternal
Omnipresent, Omnipotent
Omniscient, and Formless.
The Almighty is Brahma,
Paramatma and Allah.
Jehovah may be for some,
For some Agni, may be that-
Radiant and resplendent Yogic Light.
Cant you see Ocean in rain drop
Cosmic power in a cell or shell?
Cell or Shell-what is in a name?
Is chariot, coat or prison of the soul.
When walls get weak the soul will part
Out through the vent as air off the balloon.
Reading Holy Scriptures, not knowing the sense-
What use? -observe the Nature and think
Knowledge is a chain of fact as pearls
Stringed by Reason and Faith with a Coir of the Truth.
Tension brews as experiences tightly
Loaded on the string, still stronger by Faith.
Knowledge is light to enlighten the folk
Not to **** but for, co-existence in Peace.
=================
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 10:47 PM UTC
She is spontaneous poetry, no need to be written,
a dam burst of emotions subtle,on what I float along,
a whirlwind at an unpredictable time of the season
looking for an intimate space to churn and churn and churn.
By now, I know this without her even hinting,
all her dark clouds will rain in torrents nonstop
in to my landscape, sultry, broad and tranquil
I am an open sky, a stage ready for changing realities
a cloudless calm now in meditative expansiveness,
ready to change from dark, cloudy turgidity
to it's contrast, white feathery fluff that's dreamy.
This time round, when she visited,she did lie naked
on my bed supine, looking at me wistfully for a while
in my mind's sky beams of morning sun criss- crossed
all the nine openings of my body tightly shut, I sat meditating.
But I felt her chaotic presence in the energy field spreading,
she hurriedly removed her clothes one by one,smiling
in the buff she alights on my lap,a butterfly on a flower was her,
by and by a sweet heaviness enveloped my ***** in union with hers
I hear the primordial boom of the big bang, refining as an "Om"
travelling sans any medium it goes outwards to expanding universe.
to the 1"Chidakasha" where everything begins and go beyond.
Her storm energy, Tantric, seeks alleviation of existential pain,
I hear my glowing inner eye whispering in light to the far galaxies,
In one form she is so much, past present and future converged,
She is 2"Mahatripurasundari", great enchantress of the three worlds.
Shakthi, the feminine energy that moves earth, heaven and hell,
Kali, the dark energy, seeking sublimation through catharsis.
On me she moves like a tortoise deliberately,my nervous system reads,
She would defeat the hare and win the laurel, in yogic, trance I discern.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
*From above, the skydiver's eyes scan the verdant landscape-
rushing towards him, but she can't see that, he regrets,
though she too jumps, sitting in his heart, the quiet dove
dreaming immortality being his habit, he is in yogic trance as he land,
rushes to see her, as in here and now, is his foot hold as a householder
awaiting him for long, she kisses him ferociously on his mouth
"I can't wait anymore to roll in our bed"she warmed it for this moment,
If one is incapable of imagining the the higher reaches of particle state,
immortalities hug, after quietly going back, enjoy the sojourn here
It's a cycle, there isn't no two; Dive down from the air craft
over the clouds smiling, hear the whisper of the winds in both ears.
Live dangerously, raise to the sublime, before touching eternity.*
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
with
her tintinnabulating anklets
sullen ‘time’
now thirsty for blood
sticks her elongated tongue
at ‘consciousness’
threatening to annihilate him
and his tired creation
ever present ‘consciousness’
in his state of yogic trance
smiles to counter:
for me - ‘time’ always is still
at best, relative
so, if and when,
i wake up to perform
my ultimate twilight dance,
will you even exist?
© 2021
Jun 12, 2021
Jun 12, 2021 at 9:33 AM UTC
When I was in the start
of my mental illness problem,
I exhibited physical movements
which bothered me,
because I thought they
were crazy,
but now, some forty years later,
I realized
that what I was doing
was mental illness yoga,
which was the body's way
of trying to cure me,
and the first yogic movement
that I did
was rocking back and forth
as I was sitting,
so now
I have tried it
by synchronizing
my breathing
and my internal music
along with it,
and it becomes
very healing,
so my mentally ill mother
used to tap
her fingers
on her legs
one at a time,
so I have tried that
and synchronized it,
and a friend
used to pull down
on his sideburns
in a kind of stroking manner,
so that's a good one,
and another friend
stroked his legs
back and forth
just above the knees,
and that one is excellent,
so I move my legs
in opposite directions, fast,
back and forth,
and that one works well,
so I roll my head around
in circles,
and that actually is
a yogic practice
called head rolls,
and I move my head
back and forth, sideways,
like Stevie Wonder,
and that works great,
so I would suggest
that if you have
any kind of eccentric movements
like these,
to develop them
and turn them into yoga,
because it just might be
the answer
to many problems.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
Sitting in silent bliss,
absorbed in the Absolute,
that perfect smile
so at home
on your beautiful,
radiant face.
Regal as a queen, laughter
busts out of you
suddenly
like tropical rain.
A colorful flower opening
in time-lapse magic.
Hands of finest delicacy,
refined by teaching
the pathless path
to infinity.
A mind as clear and wise
as the heart is kind,
strong and loyal.
Infinite tenderness is
the Unity within you.
One early morning,
first of your birthdays
I was to celebrate,
watermelon juice whirred
to completion while I cut
two huge banana leaves
on which to place my gifts
before your door.
In the yogic flying hall,
just a little later,
there you were, transformed.
A Balinese angel wearing jade
green wings sat amongst us.
Soft dark hair swept up into a
sanyasi's top knot, and that
same eternal smile of bliss.
You were wearing the love I had
given you, making those giant leaves
into wings that would carry us into
decades of friendship, through
passages of loved ones, and
life's hardest challenges.
Unfathomably,
wherever we are on
Mother Earth,
we are always we,
even as you are you,
and I am always me.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
I beseech you my brethren of universal extrapolations – can we please engage in open and articulate *********** without apprehensive projections?
Connection fails whenever intensity prevails, and genuineness bows the knee to supposed sustainment.
Now that we understand that the quest for independence and that freedom is not divorced from pack loyalty; I cross my legs and contemplate yogic restorations of astral attainment whilst sitars command conventionality.
So, let us converse in a manner which is soul to soul. Doesn't that just remind you of baked fish and fruit punch?
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
I am late, flying the long detour
blocked my usual path this morning
another scaffolding
rising to grab a pack of the sky
entering the building for work
I see a thousand blinding lights
each emblazoned
with many shades and colours
of the same words
'I want' 'Give me' 'Done yet?'
'Deadline'
'Give me' 'Give me' 'Talk to me'
echoing many times over
I cowered into my cabin
crawling into the cave
dug in through the wall
and hung upside down
like a bat
this is a yogic pose
mindfulness meditation
I'm seeking out solace
when did the week end?
Swaths of air answered
in a language of hushed silence,
spat down by a giant Catherine wheel
hung from the roof.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
To all music morons
Glued to their earphones
The look-alike clones
Sunk in the dune of tunes
In the crowded buses
In public places
With drooping eyes like a yogi
Cracking heads and bursting ears
Thinking it the only escape
Salvation’s gateway
Balm for boredom
Pleasure’s pinnacle,
Don’t just fritter away
The one chance to be here
For a brief while
And leave with a blind existence
And a blasted hearing,
And before it’s late
Redraw your fate
Take off the headset
Open the yogic eyes
And in the yogi’s spirit
Give the world a good look
Recreate in her beauties
Make her melody your pastime
Her rhythm your heart’s rhyme,
So you don’t regret
When your time comes along
That you never could tell a bird from her song!
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
There is no such river or ocean of this world
(temporary, to which we pass through)
that I would not in a single breath
sink to its greatest depth
and rise again
for You
no mountain cliché
that I could not overcome
in a single test of my love
for You
I would go
one step further than hell
walking into the dark of Wal-Mart
for You
YOU
for whom stars collide
and new worlds are born
in my minds eye
I shall live in the dark of my inner world
(seated, legs crossed in yogic poise)
counting each and every breath
as if held back from death
and be born again
for You
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 2:24 PM UTC
Modern day heretic
With death filled eyes
Hand stroking long black beard
Sipping ambrosia tea of aniline
Smoking rolling snorting his pleasure
Speaking on Lenin, Watts, and the price of heaven
He offers nothing, slips of LSD
His mind a traveler, the smell of burnt almonds is everything
Ask him if he has ever advocated for the overthrow of God
He will coyly smile, and politely nod
Yogic Tantric, naked downward dog
In the morning, he salutes the sun
Christian, Buddhist, he accepts not one
Yet he will quote Jesus and the Dalai Lam
Born again, always dead, rock n’ roller
Passing through the karmic gates of fire
Going out where politicians fear to tread
Drinking whiskey with the devil, eating mushroom heads
He wears his hair long, despite what the moneyed men say
Not for glory, not for fame, not for one care who remembers his name
He only bows to the wind, that truth eternal
The bronze gong shatters
He knows he is mortal
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys
Sitting on the floor
Watching James bond overpower foes.
A complicated character with
A subtle ethic, ice-chilled wrath –
Most of all, a yogic path
Of duty and detachment;
Yogic while the villain,
Mega-bombs his own routinely -
Ligaments and muscles blown,
Royal houses overthrown!
And yet we have so much in common.
Villain cool, detached but mean,
Followers his **** machine.
Bond the Lancelot,
Jaw-dropping stunts his lot,
Fencing, boxing, crashing cars;
Fights and scars his calling cards –
And when in need of surgery
He heals quickly.
Evil lurks, Bond never shirks, and still
His life is filled with perks:
Hotel suites, girls en suite,
Dry martinis, Aston Martins (note the plural)
Sure of all
And unequivocal
Bond’s megastar, ideal and idol.
This poet rather fond of Bond,
Both yogis of a different kind:
He the running, driving soldier,
I, the yogi on the floor,
Each connected to a power.
Grinding skills the Bond-dynamic,
Mine the tranquil skill-iambic.
I give in to un-excitement’s
Ordinary daily yoga;
Bond the knight with right to ****
(Nice guy James with license, aimed at
Ordinary evil ogres -
There you see the box of riddles:
Bond the paradox in middle
Fighting off the oh, so evil bad guys!
Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys 2.10.2015/revised 8.28.2016
Circling Round Yoga II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;
Arlene Corwin
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
what to do.
where to go.
how to
get
there.
icy whitened teeth gleam earthy chartreuse canine slant glyph
is, really,
the only possession that
i have
on my person,
in my backpack.
---- well, err that, and
this flat slab of lit stone,
thought up by small gods,
and made by smaller people that live in
far far away binary lands that eat the sky
with rolling saturated ebony clouds,
which help smelt those inner beings of light,
and force them inside these tablets -
which I, then, use
to inscribe my
scream-of-conscience
wrought into thinky pixel arc
across the once blank page.
all is not well. sure. i get that.
but the visible spectrum
still bows forth colorings
in the hurt skies above,
over metro rush and mirth cursed.
but we still
can rewrite it.
this
is
why
i sit.
alone.
this monkish
quietude
i exist in:
living room consumed.
it's where, under a relatively nice high ceiling,
i do my
pirouettes,
yogic forays,
and taekwondo kicks
on the apt. faux hardwood floor; or
i am laid out in unmade bed
with a small boring hole 10 microns across,
drilling into my slurring skull -once removed-
it's lonely dome
grasped by two trusty amputated hands
of mine. my two floating seers roam free,
searching out a truer scene.
i mean, what im trying to say is:
the road
calls
me;
long languid abyss strip cruising
blurring lights through
spaceytime-ish. it's silly,
really, how i always
get ants inside my bones. home is not
a concept i know; nor wish to.
i have
resting glitch
syndrome.
new glyphs always are calling me,
like **** Sirens licking my every sense,
filling all my holes with fallen lily petals.
come
save me,
my poet.
ride me
into your
own. fix me into
your hip bones, protruding
toward it.
be
mine.
mover
too.
us
pushpulling
flux.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
Laugh
at a shooting star
Smell
up a yogic rainbow
Punch
keys in your shadow
Mime
a tuned opera
Swim
in little cobwebs
Drag
a perfect plateu
How can you..
Dream
but
not do.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
If you do not yet have
a broken record in your
mantra as part of your
daily life, you might consider
personal and spiritual
ear training from a college.
Development, you should
go to music school, so that
not only is the chanting
of music in your head A,
of sacred mantras a
kind of annoying music,
beautiful and harmonious,
like doe a deer, a female
practice, but one that
can leak out all over.
Song 2
But what is Dharani? It is
an inner song, that I sing,
a sacred sound sequence
that I got from the heart,
in Sanskrit that, from a
different point of view is
yogic perspective, can help
when am in pain, or
to align us with the
mind to the body, higher
frequencies of the universe,
and can help with trouble,
and prepare us, in many ways,
for whatever life gives
for advanced spiritual
everyday life.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 8:49 AM UTC
Brilliant sunshine on trees in bloom
On the majestic mountain slope
And the sparkling, sprawling lake -
A vast mirror to the bright, blue sky
And the gliding clouds, snowy white -
An exhilarating, heavenly sight!
Strolling happily under lush green trees
Along the side of the glistening lake,
Deep in my heart, I keenly felt
*A saintly poet's unseen presence
And recalled his rare, mystic experience -
Re-lived that " serene and blessed mood *
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things." *
An endless echo of the ancient Yogic voice
Revealing the ecstasy of spiritual communion
With the inherent, divine presence,
All pervasive in the boundless Universe!
************* M.G.Narasimha Murthy,
Hyderabad, India
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 9:47 AM UTC
Making Waffles In The Living Room #2
(a day in the life of an eccentric*) improved version
With no one home to say a thing,
She lives out her free spirit.
Not a misfit,
Simply unconventional.
She’s making waffles,
But she wants to watch TV –
A favorite program on on Sunday.
Which will take priority?
Must one take priority?
Why not do them simultaneously?
She grabs a stool
And drags it to the living room.
Step one.
Carrying the still cold iron
Without fear of burn, she sets it
On the stool and plugs it in.
Old appliance, it goes on,
No On Off switch for use therein.
Step two.
Bearing big bowl brim-filled with batter,
Setting it with yogic balance
On said stool and splatter free, where it
Sits snugly on stool step,
Fitting snugly into step,
Spoon in hand, she spoons the batter
Spatter-free onto the iron piping hot;
Shuts the top and starts to wait.
One, two, three and on to plate,
All while watching Sunday’s fav’rite
Sunday program, Sunday film.
What subject for a poem!
Happy that there’s no one home
to say a thing.
Fifteen waffles later,
Piled high and fully sated,
Not in tummy, but in mind -
Iron back in place
No drop or drip to waste,
And no one is the wiser.
*from the Greek ekkentros, from ‘ek ‘out of’ + kentron ‘center’.
Making Waffles In The Living Room 3.20.2017
A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; I Is Always You Is We;
Arlene Corwin
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 7:49 AM UTC
its struck
negligent tower
with terrible
lie in
a broken
yogic and
while here
she flung
her trapezoid
in the
wat she's
always held
near the
uneven bars
and could
retrogress such
a telltale
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 8:41 AM UTC
Thank you Amiee
for your sweet friendship
from across the water
you keep me smiling
with your missives
from silly to sublime
just like me
you smile and glide
on yogic seas
inside your mind
fellow poet
art lover
and fan of mine!
we share notes and wisdom
updates too
you keep me on track
and I think about you
mysterious lady
I've never seen your face
yet you infuse my days
with humour and grace
new friend from the net
whom I've never seen
may your days be of joy
and your feeling serene.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
Bull eve me (Adam, whether existence
fact or fiction),
his immediate legion heirs whole
heartedly partook
to regale no Joe king paternal prominence,
sans legendary, fraternity,
and consanguinity subsequently implemented
faux pas threatening Nittany Lions role
attested by this papa, a curmudgeon
resident of the North Pole
burrowed deep within tundra
necessitated drilling permafrost black hole
son, which boring task found me dissatisfied,
asper penultimate existential goal
thus, I decided to sell coal
to New Castle, transported
within loco motive conveyance
doubling up as fish bowl
decimated crossing Arctic
great barrier reef Atoll
lauded me with mouthy gift horses,
(one Mister Ed, adore
hubble hoof only high saddled
Equus caballus neighing boar)
feted me, a hay er raising chore
followed by Mister Barns Noble encore
generation standing ovation,
a deafening applause
resonated across the floor
then an electrifying speech
by (plan net fitness diehard) Albert Gore
describing ****** pillaging,
And looting dip lore
able incursions as heath n (moor
or less opprobrious upon poor
sacred Mother Nature
whimpering and softly doth roar
ring, now treated like a *****
telltale global devastation
impossible to ignore agog
pollution extant across
entire world wide web bog
gulls restorative legislation,
when offal debris doth clog
estuaries, where watersheds habitat
choking with despair,
thus imperative to grab hold collective
figurative (corny as this may seem) ear
cuz jackknifed, irreparable,
horrible gnashing fear
fully betokens catastrophic
environmental fractured glare
ring ****** impailment here
and everywhere.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
being dug down
to the yogic pit--
blue the pearl
that points no
return.
karmic threads
falling off by
a permenant
state of meditation.
the fore of abidance.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 12:45 PM UTC