Stillness
is a bridge
Emptiness
a chasm
Stillness
is a blessing
Dharma
to impart
Stillness
overtakes you
When your world’s
in spasm
Stillness
is the magic
Deep within
— your heart
(The New Room: September, 2026)
Life-oppressed, dont fail me now
Laughing mechanism.
With face lit up know its working.
Breathless; with each spasm!
locating the highest point on our head
we find there a node where magnetism spikes
assigning no meaning, by God’s hand led
as we give each bliss spasm a thousand likes
form sensing a shudder where rapture strikes
and as we pen these notes of bliss emotes
our vibrant presence in the void free floats
thoughts we witness impact us not
they arise from an unknown origin
in staid silence we are self-taught
grazed by bliss, each spasm virgin
The spirit world went into spasm,
emitting as it did, a new phantasm,
which pitifully cried and moaned
as a haunting voice intoned,
"I wish that I was protoplasm".
Why was it that the heavenly host
wouldn't give him what he wanted most?
Why did they leave him, oh so sad?
He was such a pleasant lad -
Casper the Friendly Ghost.
Why did Casper do what he did
when he was just a kid?
Kite flying was not his ball of wax,
so he played on the railroad tracks,
which his mom would not forbid.
His mother said, "Go soak your head",
but he played on the tracks instead,
and so, it was all his fault.
His mother took it with a grain of salt,
and now poor Casper's dead.
So, if you see that nice guy, now deceased,
floating from the west or east,
he's travelled many a mile.
So, return his gentle smile.
Don't shrink in fear, just when he needs it least.
heart’s creative urge
spurred by a bliss surge
invokes divine grace
as shimmering space
we feel each bliss spasm
bridging the void’s chasm
and we’re everywhere
awake and aware
the jugular notch
today is on watch
whilst blissful forehead
is to our soul wed
grace a disc of light
is God’s embrace tight
bliss beyond measure
rapture we treasure
the snake spreads its hood
truth is understood
He dances above
saying all is love
For the contrived inducement
of the fixated being,
an aligned identity personified,
changes in self-devised palette
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon,
slyly cocooned,
paints surreptitiously
shape-shifted deception portrait.
In ostensible enactment
of life’s incredible drama,
performance perfected in one-act play
with obsessed passion parodied,
gilds the corollary crafted by alchemy,
an axiomatic designed drive
induces the wily shift
from one actor to another.
Out of the limelight,
the covert colors fade
on virtually made-up visage,
the pallid original face
morphs mystically into
veracity mirror of actuality,
reflects the real identity depiction,
painted in primal persona hues
of distinctive disposition,
epitomized once.
The spasm of pragmatic perception
splits the mirror,
shards of shattered pretence
willfully abandoned as discarded debris.
Transformation creates the eluding entity,
an alien in its own reinvented realm,
completes the illusory pattern,
designed by the paradigm of contrast.
“There exists neither complete void nor voidlessness, neither truth nor untruth. The avadhuta, having realized the truths of the scriptures, has uttered this spontaneously from his own nature.”
When our eye is single, form is full of light,
as God’s flame eternal, self-existent,
manifesting within, bliss beat delight,
if we be pure, still and unresistant.
Both beyond space-time as also within,
feeling in heart bliss ignition renew,
having long since silenced mind’s thought flow din,
with each rapture spasm we begin anew.
We do nothing yet all actions are done,
spontaneously without volition,
for our presence is with God’s heart-mind one,
lovers dancing without inhibition.
We are in no rush, so just let love gush,
oblivious to onlookers who blush.
He’s heard before he enters:
you all know the drill.
He lurks in Shopping Centres,
as purposeful as krill.
Socially successful?
Like a waltz named ‘Emmet Till’.
His outcomes, too, are stressful
(see Wordsworth’s Harry Gill).
The death-knell at your dinner
with his punchline overkill,
a Jeanine Pirro ‘winner’:
each day a No True Bill.
His laugh’s as loud as mowers
or dad’s electric drill,
or over-taxed leaf blowers,
or an angry whippoorwill.
Denizen of the diner,
you know, for good or ill,
he’ll use his new one-liner:
audience feedback? Nil.
Why repeat the spasm?
Get up each morning, still?
He’s conscious of that chasm,
that hole he’s got to fill.
Realm of deep peace subtler than space,
where bliss mists rise, borne by God’s grace,
in staid stillness transcending time,
is our soul’s preferred resting place.
God’s pulsations divine sublime,
playfully conjure a love rhyme,
giving rise to magnetic heat,
birthing within form, a bliss chime.
With all nodes within us upbeat,
our vibrant presence feels complete,
simply watching bliss beats renew,
as polarities meet and greet.
Each rapture spasm we feel is new
and as we sip bliss nectar’s dew,
with love and light as our mainstay,
from ego cravings we unglue.
Remaining thus day after day,
by granting peace the right of way,
fullness in emptiness the norm,
each breath receives a bliss bouquet.
He knows his laugher is reflexive,
often inauthentic,
a need to agree or
a way to paint clowns on speech bubbles.
Overused words, trite meaningless words
are tossed back and forth.
It's a conversation, a convention or
a blank-firing discussion.
"I must be going."
Words hang like luminous finger bones.
Later reviewing in his mind
what had been said,
witty ripostes are invented,
inserted.
Finer points of fine points honed.
He shuffles magnetic phrases
on a whiteboard between his eyes.
He begins to cough - a yak spasm.
His only remedy
is to keep talking to himself
as if the other person were still listening.
Submission, sound thy service.
O slave, soar as ye fall.
Sacred vision, sacrifice.
Keel o'er, one and all.
Thunder on the mountain steep?
Storm, thy purple cloud.
O ye shepherds, guard thy sheep!
Burial, thy shroud.
Raw the wounded inside?
The pain is very fresh.
Poisonous snake, how you hide!
Chain mail, be my mesh.
Yellow queen in city old?
Warrior, be thou bold...
Cavern grotto, art thou cold?
Light issues from mold.
Gold on river bottom?
It's been there for some time.
Wargod evil, beat thy drum!
Hurricane, blow chime!
Deep the dragon's den and dark.
Dole and doom, thy health.
Spaceship massive, where to park?
Treasure, seek thy wealth.
Rake leaves for a bonfire?
It will burn hot and fast.
Will within me, on the pyre?
Never meant to last.
Roundabout the river runs?
Thousand-fold and taut.
Sevens, elevens, and ones?
Golem, what you got.
Dripping down the chasm?
Alert not anything.
Black abyss, thy spasm!
O fairies, dance in ring...
a pinch of bliss
at third eye and spine
sends us into a spasm of delight
wherein we as a mere receptor
enjoy the boons of grace
In sky called life beauty shined bright,
where butterfly flew free,
weaving the lattice of delight,
flowers bloomed charm for me.
My volatile mind wandered in a trance,
drifted in the draft of its dreaming wings,
floated toward the sunburst horizon,
made a fresco of formless fantasy.
The dawn splashed the spectrum of bliss.
As I was set to fly,
the realm of rapture I didn’t miss,
didn’t see storm clouds in sky.
Splintered by the flicker of twilight,
my sky fell in the vortex of spasm
with my crushed dreams in the abyss.
In its darkness I lost my path.
The garden turned to dry debris.
As the buds sagged in vine
storm clasped the petals to carry.
Butterfly lost wings’ shine.
toroidal heart spreads its wings
rapture rises, our soul sings
each breath renews love’s bliss hue
every spasm felt as new
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