Long Umbilicus Poems
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It seems, I much prefer my dreams
though times of consequence pass fleetingly.
It seems, I know while in those very dreams
of all that passes in between.
Matching my realities to messages
left within the ‘seems’ of fear and fantasy and light
of the umbilicus cord which snaps when I’m affright.
Yes, I’d say it often seems,
I’m so a home when wrestling with my dreams.
The I sees “I” , and oft compresses screams
Munch-like in hues of blue and green
on bridges to the nowhere and in-betweens,
ear-covering, muffling, silent screams.
Mesmerized, am I, by what can be,
reality dissolves within the ever-after seams.
Clocks melt, trees morph to faces, Dali emotes
tattle-tailing signs that float on reels
in rooms off kilter, windows bricked without.
Can you hear me?
Can I hear me, shout?
I’m right here, I just asleep
Please let me out!
a brown and curling maple leave hangs suspended mid-air
in the clearing by the lake, transfixed by the view and kindness
woven within the web it watches the rain fall
within the transparent lace-like web, it curls inward
its only movement seems a solemn gesture of reverence
with its last bit of I it sighs, what better place to die
shielded from the gentle rain within the prayerful curl of sable leaf
the spider waits for the Autumn wind to tear them free, to fly ... on
to see the conifers green among the forest's rise
brisk winds rent the leave from loom and upward rise the pair
a spider spinning on the sable leave of maple anchored by a strand
as we our spirits torn, are reborn, within the clutch
the center holds sound its claim nature's umbilicus, man
like the spider's leaf born flight, we seek on unknown winds to rise
gentle the breeze or harsh the Fall's feverous gale, still … we rise
First Published in Fall Legends - Kind of a Hurricane Press 2013
A simple scene a nestling seeks the comfort of the night
to lay enthralled, engrossed, in memories of past days,
the nectar drawn from rivulets that run past blackened lash.
A lidded eye roves left, then right, as if it’s been betrayed
a corner tick, a slight knee twitch, odd choices now made.
The blanket once a comforter now twists so very tight.
A falling dream, a horrid scream, yet no land's in sight.
Bloodless body, writhe, heave, callout, nobody's home
your casing calls, umbilicus, umbilicus, reel me down.
A flying lift of breeze ‘neath hips, a lofting, oh so, high,
brings soul to ground with sighing sound within the dream,
entranced, aroused, the coming light, the end of night, wake.
First Published in Sweet Dreams and Night Terrors 2013
O thou so fair fragrant flower Jasmine,
Ye love to live with stars, with them to go
And falling on the ground well before dawn,
Ye love nights, in moon’s silver light to glow.
The monsoon’s rain-filled cloudy sky ye like,
To blossom and be with the Harvest Moon,
Together ye play life-long malady
With moon to blossom, in its tune fade soon.
O princess Parijaat in previous life,
In love wert thou with the radiant Sun
Who thwarted thee, what life-shattering strife!
And ever since far off from sun ye run.
A divine tree, thou wert brought down to Earth
By Krishna to please Rukminee, his queen,
Used art thou to heavenly home and hearth,
To cool climes far from sun and so serene.
Utter silence of night be what ye love,
Quiet ye blossom, fuss-less falling down…
To me seems thy life’s sole reality,
As shy fragrant flowers art thou renown
To thy private life ye like non one’s let--
Possibly why ye fall down before dawn
To blossom only after sun has set,
Before sun rises again, thou art gone.
Perhaps, aware of thy love, Harvest Moon,
Smitten by thy captivating beauty,
Might have opted to rise in glorious bloom,
Both find it fair to fade ere sun’s entry.
Bare beauty be the litmus of thy life,
A single wrinkle ye can’t bear on face,
Slowly to blossom and slowly to shrink
Perhaps never be thy life’s preferred pace.
The heavenly grand damsel Urvashi,
Used to relax watching thy rare allure
Enhanced by thy ruddy umbilicus,
She’d sigh, not being endowed with such lure.
_______________________________
Ode | 02.03.2026 | flower, fragrant, moon, night, love, sun
She thought of herself as Dorothy
tornadoed into an unknowable oblivion
winded she rises,
fetal curled about an umbilicus of she
a shattered reality lays before her.
Shards of past self's pirouette, prisms
released from the boxed frame of sash
and nested frame of sill,
she rises.
The crisp whiteness of a slip sheeted reality
anesthetizes the tumult of pillows
and comforters left behind
she is trampolined upward
but blown inward,
no out lay.
Unpierced by cut glass
chin tucked, bookless, fairy groomed,
the she child exists within the blink
a flash frozen riser.
a poem regarding evil-company
thus do learn to tolerate the blow of wings
of the most inflammable flesh
after the successful sacrifice of the student-hostel
jumping into the peacock-foams
how dangerously is changing the total travel-route of the nail-polish
in the high tide of the coconut-kernel
that conquers the world
today the water-pigeon gets pain
only by the flute made of palm-leaf
can’t be written the pleasure-trip in boat
of the injured-knee night-queen that is deposited heavily
on the collar of the village-moonlight
even-then the gramophone would be playing on
even-then the courageous pheasant would proceed further
to throw towards the squirrel a dinner-sleep
then all the daughters in disguise of birds certainly
may come out from within the salted mosquito-net
burning open-ground in their eyes
even after
the small boats of the fig leaves
would slip from the chorus song
of the roses
then they are to be pulled forward to the river-bed
of the late afternoon
to make them understand again
that such Xerox-centre which can ignore its metallic-birth
does not grow even now on either side of this muddy road
so look at to see how the epenthesis
of the screwpine-leaf withdraws her beak from the old dome
and pours
all new mathematics
into the compact-disc stitched with the back of the sea-tortoise
if that’s not real
how in the left and right
such evil-company of the oxygen would creep
if the next part of this commentary
resumes from the umbilicus cavity of the x-mass
would the blood-sugar of the water-plankton be rising continuously
look there again
the feather of colour that is in her adolescence
touches the cold magnet of her gamut
to disperse the cherry orchards
now if the doors of this brown triangle be got open
you can see on the screen one by one
the projection of the apex-points of the red-palash
and in the night-texture of the kathakali-kathak
they are supplying continuously
small sun-shines in poly-packs
Seconds to go.
I am locked away, set aside.
Throat opens, body twists.
Face distorts, voice roughens.
The tangle man wakes up.
He is twelve, seventy, eighty.
Sick and lame.
Trembling and tight.
Blank eyes peruse him.
There will be tears, mania and lacerations.
There will be trauma, suffering and death.
Shall we begin?
Spit and panic catapult malignant declarations over open hearts and minds.
The targets are welcoming, knowing, bored.
Stinging verbal percussion slaps bloody daydreams into existence, leaving mental brandings smoking like cigarette burns.
Temples of his stories assemble and collapse from tongue to word as Gods and puppets arise through pages, letters and memory.
With a heaving gag he births a scene onto the stage and watches as it bites through its umbilicus and begins to suckle at the congregation’s teat.
The milk is thick and spoiled but the narrative reflection is a ragged lesion that will weep for days, maybe even weeks.
Their number is too small for hushed, safe exits so they remain trapped and immobilized as putrid projectiles shower them in the malady of his tale.
They are beginning to see what isn’t there and to hear what wasn’t said while he screams, giggles and grunts through his stained euphoria.
I don’t want it, I don’t like it, I can’t take it, it’s too much, it’s not enough, it makes me sick, it’s too dark, It’s too wordy, it’s not funny.
Are you all right?
Are you all right?
What’s wrong with you?
At last he is tightly swathed in the translucent skin of their propriety.
He can now anchor his tale and draw nutrients from their discomfort.
His parasitic imaginings have found a host and his triumph is now germinating in his own humiliation.
It’s not fair; all we wanted was a nice night out.
What’s so wrong with that?
~The Healer, I lay…Meditating,
The Shaman’s path is inward and up, up, from the bed up, up, my astral body rises.
Silence, surrounds …
Looking down I see myself in a pit of covers
my astral self slips from the window
viewing home and hearth from outside and high above…
No earth born sounds, awaken me from my flight.
NO earthly forest, lush or deep entraps the Shaman she.
NO bird calls fills the Predawn light…
NO dewdrops distract~
Astral I recedes in time… a Dreaming
Back, back, back without knowledge of time, or space
like a fallen leaf~ twirling and swirling,
letting the current take me, where it will
through lifetimes to the womb and beyond . . .
~The Healer, I.. ghosts in space…
my home but a speck lit with Chi.
Silence, surrounds…
Fair astral form of gossamer light, I…thread space on umbilical silk,
the healer...reaches, reaches for the light, the He and She……God and Goddess.
The Healer, I... reaches the World Tree, Yggdrasil,
white crystal roots tendril into the primordial sea
of space time, branching upward cradling Heaven.
There below the tree in the soft grass an ancient one,
a familiar soul, waits.
~Oh I am held by She, ancient Grandmother, and garner the wisdom of ages.~
But, the bodies time is now, and calls
and as the clay rests, it calls
down, down, down… I go
~Past the jumble-tumble between lifetimes, within the cycling universe of all,
The Healer, I, reforms, snaps to the umbilicus of prone body, within the tumbled nest of sheets, in the now plane of existence.
~Arms reach out brushing cheeks, eyes gleam, and sparkle
with the joy of sharing, kindred spirits having touched
the ancient wisdon of the Light!
Silence surrounds.
*revised
Arid, bony-shanked carapace.
Shiny, weathered patina
tells of desolation,
Belies any promise of richness;
Yet when inverted,
Becoming regal.
A tatty, crown implies
The ancient purport.
Tough, yet easily-torn in avarice.
Revealing, inner passion
Shrieks fecundity and blood,
Gleams with shiny liveliness;
Yet when sundered,
Serried jewels.
A secret, inner-order shows
The abundant warrant.
Red, a study of translucence.
Deep-hued, each perfect gem
Fades to stalk-umbilicus,
Foretells the unborn orchard;
Yet when amassed,
Bitter-sweet.
A fruitful sumptuousness gives life
The noble pomme grenate.