Month: July 2021

(Bhagwan is God! or O God!)

As I passed a lonely temple in the after-evening glow,
On the banks of the Ganges where the quiet waters flow,
When the sun had sunk to rest and cool softness touched the air,
I saw a dark-skinned Indian and I heard him chant this prayer:

Bhagwan! Bhagwan!
You snatched away my lantern,
I’m left without a light,
My feet now tread in darkness,
Where once it all was bright.
Can I endure my life
When my dear, dear wife
Is ashes, Bhagwan?
Bhagwan! Bhagwan!

He raised his hands to heaven then he bowed down to the ground,
He wept in aching sorrow with no whisper of a sound;
I heard the water lapping where the river met the sands;
He rose from off the flagstones and again stretched forth his hands.

Bhagwan! Bhagwan!
You have snatched away my lantern,
My light of life is gone,
My heart will be in darkness
Where once she brightly shone.
Can I endure my life
When my dear, dear wife
Is ashes, Bhagwan?
Bhagwan! Bhagwan!

My heart brimmed bitter sadness as I left the temple shrine,
The pain of that poor Indian was now soul-wedged into mine.
And still do I remember, though the years have passed me by,
The hands outstretched to heaven and the anguish in that cry:

Bhagwan! Bhagwan!

The faulty truth that destroys our minds is held together with little more than lies and nursery rhymes.

A dystopian noise distracts the brains of the deaf,

Keeping them silent in times of need.

The screams of those in need are distracted by the waves of grief that crash against the souls of the lost.

And their pleads for salvation are drowned under the sounds of meaningless ambiance.

Relentlessly, they are tortured without mercy,

Puking their malevolent thoughts out in exchanged for pre-programmed lies.

This persistent process continues forth until the silence is all that is left.

And the Silence,

It echoes like the screams of those from ages past

That couldn’t escape the grips of death.

And her bridge of salvation crumbles at the seems when walked upon.

The fall from grace that leads to hell brings torment to the eternal viewers.

With their eyes so wide they make rivers cry,

They judge those searching for purer lives.

Their hypocritical hierarchy profits from the self doubt and pity that they install.

And only the “righteous” are kept to see the day when women plead for their lives

At the feet of those who want them to die.

But the silence of the meek speaks volume across the oceans.

It preaches hope to the apathetic.

And proves the lies of ruthless regimes.

The echoes of the silenced speak like broadcasts to the radio waves.

Screams that were once silenced live eternally in the space far beyond the eyes of the few…

But in the hearts of all.

I broke myself into pieces

I do not know how to put myself back together again

The place I was searching for does not exist

And I cannot find my way home

Now, I have no idea where to go

Or who to be

Or why I am where I am

I look for a clear path before me

But the roads are covered in weeds

I trip over my own feet

I have no one to hold onto as I fall

My faith has left me

I do not understand things anymore

I look into the haze ahead

The ambers of fire glow within

The darkness embalms the withering light

I find myself retreating with every step I take

It won’t be long before I disappear into the dust that covers me

Like a baby’s cry

in the middle of the night,

old Willow sighs.

I’ve trained my ears to hear

her creaking bones.

Sounds of an old house settling,

or an abandon church echoing.

This woman was not forgotten by one man.

I am a leaf, a seed.

Call me what you will,

but I am the offspring of this weeping tree.

Willow, bent by the hands of time,

drowning in her rain of tears

she could not forget one man.

I am a reminder of what they once had.

I am their leaf, and Willow was a strong tree,

much stronger than I will ever be.

Like a baby’s cry in the middle of the night

Old Willow sighs.

You awake like a new bud breaking free of its husk.
Fragile yet strong.
Your body aching.
Dusting off the ghosts of yesterday.
You move slowly.
You dip a toe into the brand new water of a new day.
The sun is old, and yet new again – full of offerings and gifts.
You take your time.
There is no hurry.
You enjoy each fraction of the morning.
You let your mind wander freely.
You write.
You watch your hand as it moves across the page as if it belongs to someone else.
You read what you have written, often re-tracing over the ink.
You stare at the bees buzzing around a hibiscus tree.
The magical presence of a humming bird grants you a glimpse.
You unselfishly take the time you need.
You ask for protection.
You ask for light.
You ask for love.
You ask for acceptance.
As the hours burn.
The bud becomes a vibrant flower.
A vivid expression of itself.
You can’t truly appreciate it.
You know what’s coming.
The late afternoon light is dimming.
The sun you follow can’t be seen.
Your petals are wilting, aging, curling under.
Your stem is quivering under the weight.
The water is evaporating.
You embrace the natural flow of life.
Your only hope and light is to know sleep will cover you soon.
Like a warm cocoon you will slip into.
Down, down, down.
Into that place you call Home.

-Tara

I see you again through words
word is our touch
and the rumble of a blank sheet
from a verse woven into your eyes
and wings spread out, and a scar that does not hurt
and will not hurt
all until I ink you.

All the pictures of this world
as if besieged by mad fears
erase my dreams
like invisible dust spread on your cheek
from truths
and pearls that dried out
from tears.

My yawl is now
but a black rainbow
flying through the narrow air
from atomic fears
and hopes ruptured
like rays torn from space.

The reflection is on the verge of the endlessly expected looks
from your secret promise of a single goodbye
which gives birth to insipidity through words
distorted by silence and fear
as a testament to silk lashes
as an anthology of fears.

When I say loving kindness
My body stops for a beat,
A moment…PAUSE
And then I breathe – INHALE AND EXHALE,
I place my hand on heart, I feel the feels…
Yes all of them from my head to my heels…
Turning inwards generates all sorts of emotions,
sometimes it feels like waves on the ocean,
and I allow myself time to be embraced in compassion,
self-compassion is turning inwards and taking action;
May I be free
May I be loved
May I be kind to all beings
Granting permission to the gateway of loving and seeing
what it means to be open, my heart and my mind
creating space for the loving kind.
Today it comes more easily,
and for that I am grateful,
but it’s been a journey,
rooted in me being doubtful.
It’s a lifetime of learning; opening, closing, connecting,
suffering.
My heart, mind, soul; together and breakingfeeling and aching,
learning over the years,
THE LOVING KINDNESS SLAM
Yes, through rivers of tears,
that forgiveness is a doorway that opens wide,
and creates a pathway to newness, joy, and delight inside
IF YOU ALLOW IT
you see, our tendency
is to run…far away,
Avoid AND GHOST
I said it, I did we ghost,
ourselves and most
others…the people in our lives we care about; our friends, family,
partners, and community
Truly it’s crazyand yet we do it – willingly, knowingly…
SIGH
If only, we could see,
what a moment of loving kindness could be
to each other; if we opened up honestly
Would it hurt that much?
If we allowed each other to be
So I extend my arm outwards,
I’m reaching for you, this is me connecting to your heart and saying
May you be loved
May you be valued
May you be free

By: Jennifer James

When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was to write, write and give speeches about.
But then I turned thirty, and I wrote nothing but text messages flirty, and my hidden urge was also turning out.

I saw an ad in the newspaper, they take classes to teach how to write.
However expensive they seem, drenched in my glorious dream, my childlike heart joined them in delight.

For last 6 weeks, I gained the knowledge about processes and thoughts.
And I still couldn’t finish alone not a single assignment known or unknown, as I was exposed to my most insecure spot.

I was assigned a time, a space on my own, to visit everyday until I am inspired.
I started showing up to the session, for my conscious it was transgression, And yet to write a famous book was my own desire.

I remember my first meeting with the teacher, I reached her office 10 minutes early,
Lost in noticing everything – a diary, a laptop, some flowers, a family portrait, a Bible,
Everything was well kept, arranged pretty properly.

She had asked me to start thinking, as that hour and space was something I could call mine.
The only task was to write all – a page, a para, few words whatever struck at that time,
There were no rules, I could cross any line.

That was my second week, I stared at the couple who’d been kissing on the side of the road,
I got distracted by those ugly moaning sounds, and their performance in public,
While waiting to relieve art from my twisted brain’s average load.

That made me think about my life – beautiful, full of laughter, friends and lot of money,
There were hardly rainy days to write about , an event of sadness here or there
But if counted, most of them were sunny.

My session had ended on the toll of 10 o’clock, it didn’t even feel as the writer’s block.
Such a fortunate life of mine, but unable to write was the only disappointment
Once again the disbelief whispered in a shock.

This time, I decided to quit and left a biographical note to my teacher at the table.
‘Annoyed’, ‘mad’, ‘outraged’, ‘helpless’ are amongst the words that I used,
and artistically slide them under her Bible.

On my way out, outraged, I bumped into a man, sweet, I felt I knew him since ages.
He asked me out for coffee which followed by a long chat,
He promised we’d meet again and showered all his praises.

Sometimes coffee-shops, sometimes theaters, at times my house, again and again we met.
Unplanned, involuntary, this affair of adventure,
and those deliciously delirious love’s intoxicating effect.

When he sang me a love song, honeyed words, the day he bought a ring of diamond.
Months passed by, and I deviated from those stupid writing class
Indulging into exhilarating, special, and emotionally intense bond.

Soon, he broke into my house, murdered my dog, police said he was a goon.
He not only stole my money, but that diamond ring
with which he proposed and promised me stars and moon.

Consumed by intrusive thinking, trying to make sense of everything on those sleepless nights
I decided to reschedule my writing class,
even if ‘my calling’ was unresponsive but that was all right!

Without postponing, angrily weeping, I poured my heart on that notepad and cursed my life.
I left without looking at the piece, only to visit next day
to again write down my kaleidoscopic strife.

When finally I stopped writing, I saw her appear to me, raw, primeval, intrinsic! What a good omen!
I couldn’t believe I was encountering my first writing,
my precursive work of art – my destiny – ‘My Poem’.

I sat writing on that desk for ages, until one day, life made me bleed vulnerably on the page.
Revealing the parts of me that I’d rather hide –
Somewhat creative but cathartic life that I confess.

Now that I sit on my own desk surrounded by the books I wrote with dark reflections
and I’d think now what is more important for an artist –
parts of passion, pathos, or painful lessons full of imperfections?

– Laleeta

There were once eyes inside Dostoevsky’s palms
I do not know if he knew
But he moved them calmly and without closing

There were eyes inside the palms
that outlined the fate of the Karamazovs
Or the dilemmas of a girl too young with a pointed revolver
to the temple of him the unloved
Or the rational egoism of
Everyone locked in the underground of their own skull
The hand movements were calm and disciplined
As only military engineer would be

There are eyes
Siberian blizzards passed through the pen
Though, they look sharp
As if about to penetrate through the layers of the wind
Or of the palm
Even if it closed
Or would not be there