Tag: poets

Self Suspension happened
after a few miles
On the X-axis
mind was
meeting itself
On the Y-axis
matter was looking
for a gospel.

The thieves are thieving
The babies are behaving
The retirees are believing
and
The bellies are improving.

Now I’m 29hrs
more older.
Still
not yet wise
in the moment.
only
after the moment.

the slow movement of the engine
disturbed the
hard-won nirvana
after the food
but Mary Oliver’s
words have hit the heart

“Things take the time
they take. Don’t worry.”

but the raging atoms
hardly listen.

Attention is a phoenix.
It perishes
and rises in a second
at least it does for me
while I’m
pondering.

Behind me
was a bald head
swimming in the newspaper…..

I guess these are
those times
where nothing happens
yet we see something
in everything
in anything
even when there’s nothing.

---

We are
meaning
wanting
beings.
we cannot
take in a zero-experience.

Omelette burnt?
divine decision.
Owl outside the window?
angel’s curse.
Omen?
Amen?
common man.

A rock
be it
igneous
sedimentary
or
metamorphic
isn’t
just a rock for man
but a supreme interpretation.

Pending file
from the art of seeing
is karma.

Long queue
from the mysteries of mindfulness
is Wu Wei.

Always a thing
in nothing.

---

Death is
the crescendo and the zenith
of life’s wave.
The crest and the final spring
of soul’s journey into the
stars and the stones.
No, it’s not a pale poem
or a coldly thing
but a redolent perfume
perfected by the
the flowering of finished fates.
The captain did not
leave for a final dignity or
damnation to stay with phantoms
but just took a tiny repose
in the synchronous unity,
to again give ear to
the primordial songs of silence
and the melodies of the multitude.
it’s not martyrdom
not a flight into oblivion
just a
post carted by the continental
and the maritime air masses
to the infinite.
A small pause in the
comet’s cruise.

---

Under the sullied moon
the uncivil ways of the heart
stormed in
like the French revolutionaries
marching the Bastille.
the insomniac shadowy passions
concealed beneath the pillows
swooned the being
and reddened the rage.
the tipsy tongue
the Machiavellian mind
and the arrowed thoughts
woke up the wounded waves.
Freudian dreams
came in a starry caravan
very muscular but unnerved
yet
the sodden ones
could not do much.
the tousled and the wintered
hallucinations
drenched me into
sweet abysses
hitting the divine jingle bells.

---

Long before
the yellow star
rise up
the winds of hope
crack the sleep wide open.

Long before
the motor of the scooter
danced around
the cells were jolted
by the china tea.

The unwillingness of the darkness
to give way to the morning light.
The unopened cans of milk
oil the spirit of cafeterias.
The unyielding toughness of rusks
to get wet in the ocean of coffees.

The aridity of eyelids
Dozy bones
and the
sad face of the blanket to get folded
pull the subject into concave pillows.

---

So many poems written out
only to find one true poem of mine
and rest in eternity.

So much of churning the tongue
only to speak those
first and last words of mine.

So many songs sung out
only to seek my one true melody.

So many verbs vomited
only to write words untouched
by Walt Whitman.

So much of the truth is out
only to be as frank as my neurons.

So much of hiding
only to reveal all in the end.

---

The spiritual popping
electrocuted the
armies of thoughts.
The Nirvana states
have put down
the high noon’s
desires.
The yowling pain
of awkward nights
and itchy mornings
dissipated away in one sitting.
The subscriptions to life
flushed away,
not with newtons of force
or joules of energy
but through
effortless efforts.
The silence demanded
not
the Hiroshima or Nagasaki bombs
to incinerate the mental moths
but
the silence.
The light of awareness
searched the netherworld
like a bomb squad
with non-judgemental
devices,
not leaving even the swamps
and the muddier marshlands.
Seeing all this,
the bottled temptations
could not show their faces
to the mystic
who was flying in divine whirls
of here and now.

-From Settled Stillness.

---

Stars do what they can do
hence the light.

Poets do what they can do
hence the rhyme.

Chairs do what they can do
hence the wobble.

Drunkards do what they can do
hence the truth.

Cancers do what they can do
hence the remembrance.

Conjunctions do what they can do
hence the fusion.

Cigarettes do what they can do
hence the cravings.

Tea bags do what they can do
hence the baggage.

You do what you can do
hence the best.

---

May be — 
there’s a beatific life behind death
a lotus that’s dirty and sinking
U-force that pulls up
a morning that’s as wild as the night
a stoic teenager
sunny moonlight
a clock that doesn’t count
river running back to the source
a camel preying on a lion
a wise man who understands
a finished poem or a painting
a mortal who comforted gods
a dutiful cat
instant enlightenment
an idiot who doubts
a heart that listens to the head
a head that talks to the heart
a hand that could bond both
a prayer that can break the silence of the cosmos.

— Drunken Monk

---

Unhinged hair
from the halted window
and the dancing earphones
semi-plugged to the phone
caught the eyeballs.

the rural heart
couldn’t
resist the taxied fingers
moving across the hair.

Metallic skin
with the thickness
of one-horned rhino
could feel the warmth
of the half-moon
snacking
a few feet away from mine.

the glass eyes
reflected the guts
of a kinetic kite
or a hopping hat
lost in the Polar easterlies.

The discoing flip flops
sending
a seismic shock
touching only
the escalators
of my zen heart.

breathe in.
cough out
the weird neat talk.

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