Holy whispers

 

I’ll whisper

loving words

in your dreams

when you feel lonely.

The dreamer of love

 

I bear no concrete illusion

of being separated from the surroundings,

Yes, it exists,

but just like a passing cloud,--

a wispy shadow

scattering feeble fencing now and then,

which temporarily

shuts me off in my ego chamber,

But soon the clouds of ego pass,

The sun of unity shines

casting away all separating shadows,

That’s when I feel like

I can fly without wings

and share my ‘being’ with the birds,

That’s when I can flow

with the fluid essence of streams;

can kiss the sky with lofty mountain peaks;

can rest like a turquoise calm lake;

can spread myself to infinity with stars,

And when I’m such,

I can easily meet you in dreams

and whisper solace and succor in your ears

on lonely nights

when you fall asleep with a sad heart,

My words will get a smile on your lips,

And I’ll watch it as my own smile.  

Salted wounds

 

Drift ice floating in coastal waters,

The wounds getting salted,

And iciness (hope)

clinging like a leech,

sucking the frozen blood of effort

to remain ice,

Everything is caught in the

intersecting zone of

being and nonbeing.

The stillborn

 

What follows a revolution

is even worse than before,

Because it stands on too much

blood, gore and violence

within a short time,

It’s a nasty kick on a pregnant belly,

Forcing a bloodied miscarriage,

It’s an immature strike

leading to a premature stillborn child,

If not for the violent kick,

there would have’n a healthy baby,--

a mature delivery

at an appropriate time.

Tyranny with life

 

We have limited

the idea of happiness and success

to a very few narrow paths,

Walking on these thin trajectories

some people become so inactive with life,

So much musty

in the staid, stale monotones

of what they do on a routine

without feeling any joy,

So much demure with life

that even dying seems an activity,

This is like death’s

petty household tyranny with life.

The haunted, haunted species

 

Walking on powdery sand

hiding many corpses

under its crumbling crust,

Saving the feet from coils of barbed wire,

Afraid of rifles

peeking from behind the sandbags,

Surrounded by countless bullet scars

on the walls,

Stared at by the corpses

of once lively houses and shops,

we walk in the bloodied maze of life.

 

We are a very scared, insecure species,

So to feel our fears with more depth,

the war zones we have to create,--

this vast scary game of violence and anger.

 

We carry immeasurable inherited sorrow,

The entire species dabbed with

the clammy colors of sorrow,

Plastic smiles we carry at the most,

And even this vanishes

just with the clicking latch on a

creaky door with complaining hinges,--

a trigger, a fuse for blasting the fears in us,

Ribbed and ridiculed

by the captivating madness,

we carry our cranky self

on the thin paths leading to

wars, strife, violence, blood and gore.

The subsurface chaos

 

We believe we know a person

till some happening

finds us staring at a stranger,

All familiarity gone,

Because it’s hard to have a sense of

the vast expanses of the unknown

hidden inside a person.

You may have heard a million words

from a mouth,

but we are also full of

trillions of unspoken words,

You may have seen tons of smiles

on a charming face,

but these hide rivers of tears as well,

You are acquainted with love

but it swims like a thin layer of oil

on deep waters of hate and pain,

Beyond the familiar stale stimulation of

superfluous comfort,

there is a stealthy man-whore

prowling in the shadows of love,

Beyond the lovely musical whispers

emanating from beautiful lips,

maybe there is a scream

imprisoned in the curvy lithe body;

vibrating inside,

looking for a way out.

As you play at the level of body,

don't forget the pain locked inside the soul,--

the epicenter ready to unleash earthquake

upon the outer shell,

Because below the apparent stable crust

there are thrusting, shifting plates.

The hidden hole

 

All of us have one primal need,

An emptiness, a deep desire,

A hole in the soul

that works as the core of our existence,

It fuels the impulse to live and exist,

It shapes our body, thoughts, emotions

like a pot maker

shapes wet earth on his wheel,

We spin to its force,

We bend, curve, mold

to the expertise of its hands,

This want or need is crystallized

with clarity in our soul’s pit,

Buried and hidden under

a thick, black cloak of confusion,

But below the rubble of what others see

this is the most real thing about us.

 

The warrior woman

 

By giving your hate, lust, greed to me,

you can’t change, redefine, transform,

or undo what is essentially me.

The shower of your scorn off balances me,

That’s natural,

But I’m not a product of

what you do,

Yes, the bushfire of your lust

burns my luxuriant canopy,

But there are seeds under the ashes,--

the carriers of my legacy;

the seeded me;

the tiny container of my fundamental code.

It just takes some time

for the rains to wash away the ashes;

for the sun to kiss infant saplings,--

the little me pampered by mother nature,

And the small me will be a full me some day.

I’m inching closer to that reality

from the nightmare you’ve held me in;

from the prison of self-loath, anger, helplessness

to the beautiful grove of love and light.

Not yet ready

 

Soiled with shame,

Scratching the crust of grief

on the skin

to make it a live wound,

most of us are not yet

ready to heal;

just not in acceptance

of the idea of healing and wellness.