Mandalas Poems | Examples

Mandalas

Though I only focus on shades of aquas, greens, purples,
I am a witness of the wider spiraling spectrums
Of wheels of colours, karmic cycles, and ancient human natures.

Cuffed

Down a dark wormhole, 
cut short by nothing; 
We fly fast and fierce,
simply free falling
inside the abyss;

Mandalas form
tumbling circles 
celestial spins 
no gravity; 

Spiraling 
particles 
imprison, 

my mind 
my heart 

cuffed.

Specters of the Light

Ghost lace as thin as invisible souls from aude la 
attached to heavenly doors the only color is white
in this corridor of no return, symmetrical mandalas 
"We are being informed by specters of the light "

Gubernatorial tablets of gold on governed seats 
Hosting judgement on those not yet opaque 
Oracles of Grace ethereal, with perfect assonance 
Salve for the inflicted just before their passage 
Telepathic messages from the aude la ...

Ghost lace un-texturized soft against the eyes   
matching the shape of their molecular pure vision
in this tunnel of light, airy volumetrical devices 
"We are being reviewed, by specters of the light "

October 11, 2021

Mandala Muse

a cascade 

     ancient spirit healing, Asian artwork.     
     adapting mandalas around the world.
     Abstract designs articulate self worth.

Hindu and Bhuddist monks used mandalas
in creative, meditative, teaching -
ancient spirit healing, Asian artwork.

Today’s artists use the same principles
line, color, texture, shape and symmetry
adapting mandalas around the world.

A personal transformation occurs
coloring in my book of mandalas.
Abstract designs articulate self worth.

July 24, 2021

Nameless

worlds within
and without are all waning
insatiable
chaos
vacuum
the void
which sat between heavens
heavens splitting the waters
the waters, the weeds
create living geometries

etch-a-sketch drawings
of silent mandalas

now the dreamweaver
lotus
now the lucid unwaking ones
who appear at your bedside
disdaining your closet

while you lie
awake
sleeping
hypnogogically paralyzed
their eyes burning green
freeze your skies
red
as

Christ
comes

you
trapped in misogamy
you
flying through tattered air
you
stoned off this oxygen
burned by the stare
of a mirror

Mandalas

Tibetan Buddhist monks create
Mandalas out of sand,
A process that, to me, 
Is very hard to understand.

For colorful designs composed
With symmetry and care 
Are made by placing grains in patterns
Quite beyond compare.

It may take hours, even days,
Until the work's completing
And then it's swept away to prove
That all in life is fleeting.

In Denver's Art Museum, near
A mandala intact,
The visitors can make their own,
On paper, though, in fact.

With colored pencils we filled in
Our complex mini wheels 
And, like the monks, perhaps we knew
How satisfaction feels.  

But one big difference - when complete,
We got to take ours home,
As proof of vision and
An inspiration for a poem.

Mandalas

Many different directions,
adventures as yet unknown;
Nothing prepares you for oblivion,
doused in hypnotic battery acid;
All your dreams are sure to bloom
living in the moment of every turn; 
Always a stumble of pure perfection,
surely you will awaken.

Paradisiacal Retreat

My fragrances have guided you to my colourful winter gardenia 
A cobbled pathway will walk you to a vanilla mushroom house 
Atop with a fireman's helmet of red riding hood flower wine
Bee loved sunshine daisies spread their wax petals on the crimson rooftop
Clusters of blue lotuses float in my faded old bathtub in close vicinity
The small wooden well with an overhanging planked bucket sheltered above
Houses red geraniums and ruffled peonies in the backyard 
My skin peeled timber wheelbarrow rests being tired of traying
Blooming pink roses, green brushy ferns and purple asters
A pathway of coloured mandalas to step upon with sweeping skirts
Encircle around small earthen-pot fountains dripping lazily
From one clay vessel to another to ripple over creamy pebbles 
Leisure around the hibiscus bushes and you'll find a log table with stumps
Rest a while and watch the the stone swans resting their beaks on breasts
Pleased to carry their petunia backs to dwell in your warm arbours
I'm a paradisiacal retreat for a photographic memory to paint me in words

April 4, 2016

Infiltration Inks

Hop skip jump laugh and dance then for fear feeds fragile fornicating frogs. And as spots are squeezed and pus ejected. The falsities beneath are plainly on display. No more hiding in boiled bumps. Serving stewing stakes stairs stained stares. Minding the ever increasing corners of protruding print processions. Flags held high. Over twenty thousand feet. But no boots in sky paths. And no grass coloured cloud could ever play a clarinet. Now before I eat an egg with toast I must clarify one thing. The radius of a fridge freezer is measured only by balancing pillows on one's head and playing monopoly with the cupboard doors. Drawers are excluded. Denied access you see. Due their un orderly ways. It is very disrespectful to the spoons. Hook then a towel. And spear sausages. Goodbye and goodnight. Many eras. Many moons. Many mandalas. Haha candlelit  tables dancing in mid air. Haha hows the horse? Hmmm indoctrinated intoxicated introverted ignorant insect. And a beef cutlet wit melon jus. *** institutionalised z a big Z

The Lovers

I want to walk with you as Lovers do
to see the wild geese soar above our heads
like seraphim rejoicing heavens blue,
lush emerald groves, and sunsets apple-red.

My love, I want to read your favorite poems,
to sing your cherished songs, divine your dreams--
I yearn to touch, to know your body's thrum
all awash in light of silver moonbeams.

My darling, how I long to memorize
the spectrums of your aura, of your soul
I want to see mandalas in your eyes;
to nourish you until your heart is full.

       Our love could be a rainbow wonderland;
       oh, how I long to hold your weary hand.

Mga Katanungan

Mamakailang- ulit nang nangyari 'to?
'di maka- idlip man lang mga mata
Ilang ulit na bang nalihis sa mundo?
Hating-gabi, ikaw'y saksi!Sumagot ka!

Siguro mga sampong beses na yata?
Makisimpatya ka't ngumiti man lang!
Hindi ba? Kung 'di, tayo't ikaw'y magwika!
Hating- gabi, ngayo'y mangusap ka naman!

Ako'y iniwan ng taguri'y pamilya.
Imbi't ipit sa pugad ng umuusig,
Dito sa bangin ng siguro'y sakuna,
Tanong ko'y, 'Muli pang iniwan, o, bakit?'.

Kung babalik- tanawin ko ang nagdaan
Ay hindi ba't mandalas pa sa parati?
Sa gali't alimuom man dinamayan
Kayo! Ngayo'y 'niwang sa takot lugami?

Ganito ba ang aking dapat sapitin
Sa libong kabaitang aking napunla?
Ito ba'ng igaganti ninyo sa akin
Sa tulong kong sa inyo'y sukat nagawa?

O, hating- gabi, hiling ko'y sumagot ka!
Magkusa kang tugunan 'king mga tanong
O kaya'y hugutin yaring mga paa
Sa lusak- takot na niri'y nagbabaon!

Ikaw nalang ngayon ang ako'y mayroon;
Liban sa nasa kamatayan nang buhay.
Wala na mga naturingang katotong
Tunay. Sila'ng mitya na ako'y mama'mtay!

Bullet Holes and Broken Mandalas

subject
object
one hand clap,

kaleidoscopic
head trippin'
on the road without a map,

illuminated
confiscated
buddha’s holy rap,

no self
myself
nirvana's just a trap,

rocket trip
crashing down
head ringin’ trigger slap,

genocidal
herbal tea
messiah takes a nap,

broken flags
burnin’ toys
helmet hammer double tap,

win some
lose more
karma takes another lap…

Sacred Circus

A beast with no head
Frozen feelers hands on wheel
The sidewalk bones tell time sharp 
Red-brick lawyers again
Yet cells evaporate swift
Cigarettes like mandalas

The Book of My Soul

“The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof but canst 
not tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth.” John ch 3. vs 8.

In a plain bound book
I tattoo white paper in blue
Then wrap myself in this shaman’s cloak
To fly with the eagle to a sky renewed.

I sing words salvaged from the press
In the intervals of Te Deum,
Stolen from its church,
Sung so only its melancholy shines.

Pärt turned to church and tradition
Amidst a century of horror,
And I turn to these conjured spirits
In a world polluted by podcast trash.

Inwardly, I turn – not without question.
The simplest words are sewn with elaborate doubt.
But into the image of inwardness
I dive deeper, and there find reasons to go on.

In the mandalas, strange mazes, of this book
I encircle, tame, and then hold fast
The sound of the blowing wind.

Penitent At the Altar

My gypsy, mystic, music soul dances in ellipses
Down pathways of holy manta mandalas.
Ritualistic, shamanists trace circles in painted sand,
And, I stand in boots of slavery,
Like a penitent at the altar,
Seeking entry permission at
The vulvic door of your love.

You wallow in anguished, angry fear,
Hungering with your eyes.
the rosey velvet treasure clutched
Like crumbled heart-shaped chocolate dreams-
Of Valentine's Days forgotten.
You never even got a card.
It still hurts you deep inside;
Down in your "long ago".

Leaving teardrops like a breadcrumb trail,
My robber's feet run rampant
Trampling, as I scamper,
The Lilacs left before your door.
When you relent from your sorrow;
Stop paying interest on debts you don't owe,
You'll find me at the local pool-hall
Shooting darts and talking low,
On the pay phone in the back.

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