The day after my Aunt Ro died
a doe approached within a few feet
as if confused about where she was
and what she should be doing.
I could neither comfort nor advise her.
I let her be not considering until later maybe
I had witnessed the transmigration of a soul.
But in the end I applied Ockham’s razor—
you rarely see what you believe.
A mile further along my morning stroll
I was greeted cheerfully by a flock
of cedar waxwings I always consider it a blessing
to encounter. Such social, amiable beings
I hope Aunt Ro will join, so sure are they of who they are—
In the beginning of the end of this life,
I shall say to you, as we go into the Light, hand in hand,
“I told you so… Now, let’s go.”
In the very end, the truth is we can always begin again,
Simply because life never truly ends.
Onyx
dark silicate,
descendant of agate
echoes inspired by nighttime sky;
a calming focus of the deepest void,
spiritual transformation
awakening the soul,
translucent black
onyx.
Black hole
transmigration,
transformational sight,
the never ending seeing eye
vision of Tetragrammaton essence;
majesty of heaven’s splendor
enlightened souls will fly
darkness alight,
black hole.
"On the Transmigration of Souls"
Wordless.
Music speaks.
Angels sing
to remind us
(LadyLabyrinth/2021)
September 11
John Adams - On the Transmigration of Souls (2002) [Audio + Score]
https://youtu.be/oNTBzkpnKfk
A Follower of Pythagoras
and the theory of transmigration
wish to prove to his friend
the fact of reincarnation.
Although the man presented
how life to life was sewn
his trusted old companion
wished he’d just go home.
Yet, he persisted
“I can prove
that you have lived before,
You were a miller that I knew
from the town next door.”
Feeling injured
the old friend agreed
with his patience all a scoure
“I was the Miller
and you were the ass
that carried my mill flour.”
MONITOR'S PREMONITION
Your heart is the size
Of your fist
Is it a hearsay?
A tell tale
A belief-
He is booked
Tentacles arrested him
With vacuum locks.
Lying pale in blue open coat
Chest, right and left
Ankles, wrists and abdomen.
Lines on screen dances
With eerie steps
Primitive dance of aborigines.
Is he sleeping
A dreamless sleep,
Lustreless, but final
Dripping capsules locked.
Succession of births
Immanent sense of sin
Of births previous
Last step to transmigration
A drop of blood
Libation and flood.
Graphic lines weary
Ending up
Straight line to infinity.
A muffled cough
Chocked
Bladders pumping, shocks
A tornado, frightened silence
Hush-hush-
Tentacles withdrawn,
Mummified in sleeping bag
Alarms, sirens
Traveller to Zion
A long ride, the last.
With icy hands laid
On prey
LCD is switched off.
I stopped by your desk to say hello today
As I so often do
To a lovely, young secretary like you.
Others may have thought something was amiss
Because I’m an older man and therefore,
My intentions must be nothing less
Than stealing your sweet kiss. But of course,
You and I know better than this…
Our conversation centered on the very stuff of stars: Creation Itself,
So near and yet so far. We wandered through the labyrinth of
History, time and space; debating transmigration
And the nature of God’s own face.
You quoted Jesus perfectly
As if you knew Him sure as rain;
While Plato, Philo and Pythagoras
All joined in our coffee break game.
Until we both agreed in the mystery
Of love, life and death;
Then saying goodbye with a twinkle in the eye and
“I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
Just another day with a beautiful girl
With a soul as wise as the wind…
Secrets revealed from invisible fields
Where beauty lies deeper than skin.
So forgive me if my intentions
Look less than they truly are.
But beyond the smile lie miles and miles
From the soul to the first bright star.
Exacerbating,
falling in dust,
searching the dead truths
on pills of abandoned bodies of lies.
The dawn brings out
the trapped victims of transmigration
from capricum to capricon.
Then they commit a mass suicide
around hymns to seduce the
god with thousand smiles.
A flock of memories lands on the grey
body of moon for the last rites.
One by one they walk away,
the ironic actors of secular wake,
asking for forgiveness from abyss,
gazing at the eclipsed sun for the last time.
Satish Verma
Rushed along to triage
with time storming out
despite the flow within
just dying to spout.
Memory wraps its bow
with ideals devout
before launching a berth
along a fresh route.
Oh Lord Buddha relic of art
Wise man of clairvoyant awareness
Your charge is to discover your rareness
Give yourself to it with all of your heart
You have images and colors for each day of the week
And the day you were born is a color unique
This Sunday is the Day of the St. Valentine
Will you wear red or that of Capitoline
Sunday’s red tone could suggest suffering
And Monday’s cream dispelling our fear
Tuesday’s pink means Nirvana is near
Wednesday’s green respects each living thing
Thursday’s orange indicates meditation
Friday’s blue - thoughtful contemplation
Saturday’s black or purple is for protection
For all Buddha’s people colors impel transmigration
When were you born? - a Buddhist will ask
Meaning the day of the week is your task
You will be colored by the day you were conceived
Have we ever asked what Buddha believed?
Well versed person in never enamored,
As Mithya consorts to transcend to childhood,
Youth or the aged physical consciousness;
Neither affected by good or bad in life.
Joys and sorrow like cold and hot weather,
Touch not creative or destructive senses,
Residing as unique undefined being,
Within our soul we garner to suffer.
Atma plays with Maya in novel rebirths,
Dons different wombs to one's salvation?
Ref:-
Gita Chapter 2 verse 13
next time you look at those twinkles in the night sky
and sigh, there'll be a glimmer in your eye ...
what if light is the language of Star
and Star is the language of night
and night is the feeling of ineffable space
where the infinite writes insight,
with plasma roiling from its transmuting pen
into particles 'n photons that zeal;
that seems to me, to be so very real ...
then our shadow we see,
slow diving on the ground,
is a reminder of the night we carry,
everyday around
*
*
*
on journaling: if you don't know where you've been, you'll not see where you are and can't
get to where you ought to be - the transmigration of writers is with ink - then there are
curious circles that fill our days and when we write them out and really look and see, a
turn of phrase that changes us conceptually, as the circle becomes spiral, a vortex to the
sky, where the Stars of hope wink 'n blink, and beckon us to fly
Coldly chiming beyond the veil of rain, how hard
It is the shut out the refrain,
Of bells in echoed discord on the mossy wall, from the
Chapel in the graveyard in the fall.
How the village seems to welcome autumn chill, and home
Creeps the darkness from the hill,
As it rolls with fluid stealth into the trees, and whispers
Rattle branches in the breeze.
The resonance of ages sweeps the grass, with breath and kiss
Of times that come and pass,
Where spiders spin their webs that turn to frost, I fear
The transmigration of the lost.
How long will it continue in this vein, the appetites
Of love that must abstain?
And how much will the hungry heart endure, the tainted
Fade of echoes sad allure?
The cold sweat bead
slow-trickled down my spine,
fears in transmigration,
yours then mine.
Imagined kisses lingered
twisted mouth,
as the house of waxing lyrical
rotated south.
The fly-trap night gave
terminal time to think,
as poison wine
became your favoured drink.
nostalgic times strung up,
no more remain,
pray God they never haunt
my mind again.
The self absorbing words
the stuff you write,
the doggerel of self pity
black and white;
a blind beholder’s eye
no tears shed,
a love that never was,
forever dead,
The churning bile I feel,
when rears your name,
hypnotically revolts
and bucks with shame,
repulsive sickness stabs
my fevered brow,
enough is quite enough,
forever now.
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