Turbid Poems

People Are Like Rivers

People are like rivers. 
The river water is the same everywhere
But every river is narrow 
In some places it's fast current
Some places is wide
Some is slow in water flow
In some places the river water is clear
In some places the river water is turbid
In some places the water is cold
In some places the water is warm
The same goes with people
Human beings are embryos
With various human characteristics
Sometimes people show its humanity
Sometimes people show its inhumanity
He often behaves, unrecognizable
But in fact it's all in him.

we wish we knew this

what is that clear knowing
by which everything is known
and please speak not in riddles
or preachings asking us to atone

we dwell in an organic body-mind
as do all other sentient life forms
each consciousness is capsuled
coping with turbid life storms

reflect on the truth principle
power that bestows gift of life
let us then meld with the source 
the current that makes us joy rife

upon freezing the frame of time
piercing the veil of vast space 
prior to all that is manifested
we see then our true face

who we are is living light 
label it as heaven if we must
we exist as pristine awareness
to grow descend on earth’s crust

bereft of love, wisdom and power
we are then in form crystallised 
after life’s lessons are learnt 
we become God-realised

treading gently on earth
aware of who we really are 
touch gentle and eye mindful
our aura shines like yonder star

Common

From beneath a veil,
A shroud itself hidden,
Anonymity It's masquerade.
Tired secrets languish,
Benighted by nature,
Emerald, to pale green and white, from jade.
A sough in the head,
Of their tepid maker,
Whispers nothing, wholly unaware.
Crafty camouflage,
For the crafter of secrets,
Who never knew they were there.
The irony aroma,
Stagnant blood without pressure,
Metallic, unmoved, unaffected.
Averse to sense,
Illusory marionette's,
Clear strings, turbid skeins undetected.
And the irony lies,
With an off thirst disguised,
By the growing pines of set minds thought unique.
And as trite as the urges,
Desperate purges,
Like mewls of the sheep seeking shade from critique.

307 Tui fele esechis Tagoreweb

Tui fele esechis Tagoreweb
 
Thou art an oblivion in forgetfulness 
Pondering a wanderer for a long forgotten soul, my soul whence wills met
Henceforth, a life passed by within the blink of an eye, nomadic bohemian, mayhem, my warmonger
The path you took had none to console devoid oblivious a memory lane, obscured
The path that takes you in, the welcome wind catcher, song, knows no way anywhere
Waiting as a turbid river murmur along, dropping a song, a nature tranquil 
Shivering she, a drifter soul, says to be in delight with those green leaves that sprung
Seemingly they are returning home , they left a clue with the chirping of the birds
Along the way leading to the starlight about the twilight, dimmed a soul. My soul, my reverie elite!

The Stirring

A storm in a teacup,
whirling silvery clouds;
Caffeine is cuddling you;
It’s so hard to deny 
that sky devoid of blue;

A storm in a teacup,
howling turbid beauty;
Gloomiest glitter drops
lick at a murky spoon;
The stirring never stops;

A storm in a teacup 
sweetened a little bit;
Lit up smile’s peeking out;
Something of a striptease,
steered by the slightest pout;

A storm in a teacup,
everyday is my time;
Focusing blinking eyes 
that tall hill now lies flat;
This fight is paradise.

Thought of the day

on waking from sleep, we discard dream forms ~
we should do likewise for life’s turbid storms

From Here

From here
I can see the morning ferry
pull out from the wharf
trailing its long tail 
of noisy seagulls, a churning
wake catching the sunlight
before healing to a calm.
I too would like to be healed,
to feel that quietening 
when resistance is laid down
and repair comes with a still.

It would be good to be
at ease with what is,
to be transparent and not impede
the course of light, to trust
and be at one with a drift
towards the unknown. 
Not to push against
the turbid swell of an incoming 
tide but to remain motionless
within it and ride its lift.

From here
I can see the trees along
the foreshore quiver in the slight
breath of a breeze.
Things happen.
From here I sense
an incomprehensible still
across which the morning moves
in a vast pantomime.
To be still is to let go
of all that is passing.



Note.
This poem is a counterpoint to
the previous poem “Yesterday”
which treats stillness in largely
negative terms. Here the idea
of stillness is seen as a means
to transcendence and a central
attribute of Being.

Zen mode

ripples in an anticipated sequence
in as a mismatch in time
if causing thoughts to go viral
are quietened betwixt bliss beat’s chime

such facilitations that are granted
require our eye to be single
that turbid winds impact not the flame
in heart of Self where pheromones mingle

An empty closet and cliffhanger

An empty closet and cliffhanger
A gift to little George,
A member of Windsor Castle.

Mood, over mindfulness , 
They are riverine songs
Moody, churned up
Uncertain and floral
Rejoicing whence
The turbid and morbid
Glum and glee
And a morn and
A corn
These all are

Cosmos and a cosmic

Emotions are changing textures
Where these all are
Changing surface 
On an eggplant
The purple surface 
Soothes 
Where the goosebump
Of the green begins

A goosebump and a texture

An empty closet are lonely wool, woolen warmth
Yesterday and a bobbling
Runs along, unsung
Over boards the present, 
Tense and I 
All infuses and surges
To surmise
Greetings again
Hungover a softer sky
And a  luminous, chandelier 

Even though an uneven sky.

The Wood Thrush Is Not Cheery

It's dusk, almost an hour from sunset
and the wood thrush is not cheery;
his melody is a whisper heard in a lot,
where he sang with others happily!

The wood thrust with auburn wings and round belly
couldn't find a stream in a nearby forest and fled
fled here to drink from the water fountain color grey
brushed by a sudden darkness that spread dread!

Sing out loud, little wood thrush and uplift my low spirit;
evening is approaching quickly with its turbid shadows,
we'll shiver thinking of the fear so frightening to admit...
oh, wait: we can alter the mood of our dreary thoughts!

I'm wondering why the wood thrush is not cheery,
has he lost all the enthusiasm for unclear reasons? 
It's a phase he must go though to regain full harmony...
when despair leaves and he'll sing again with his sibilings!

a sadness creeping in

It seems
A sadness creeping in
An errant breeze
Bereft of ocean scent
More an idle odor
Mercilessly meandering
Tingeing all 
With its turbid touch
Recalling
From the depth of joy
A hidden angst
A faded scar-like distress
Painless
Yet
Somehow
Calling attention
To itself

When Silence Speaks

When silence speaks, the noisy listens
Even the turbid sky glistens 
To lend ears to the mighty voice 
That robs the rightful of their choice 

For, when it speaks, it compels season 
To fight for reign of the right reason 
It brings more meaning than the tongue 
And vision cherished by the young

It compels favor from the mighty 
Like the solemn voice of the almighty 
For, it strikes the depth of heart 
To lend its warmness from the start 

When silence speaks, it commands conviction 
It hits the hard heart of devotion 
Like an implied common agreement 
That needs no sound and no movement

The tenth door

Liken the fontanel as the tenth door,
which soon after birth, slowly becomes closed,
whence blinded from truth, we feel not our core,
immersed in hypnotic trance self-imposed,
floundering about through life indisposed.
Freedom’s enabled when we pierce the crown,
which occurs when our turbid thoughts calm down
and heart purified, ego is decried,
that love entwined, in stream of bliss we drown,
in the vast void glide, amazed and wide eyed.

The way we are

The moments that have passed, have been erased,
in as we’re always present here and now
and as breath by breath, we are by grace grazed,
vibrant, pristine presence, takes a small bow.

In midst of turbid storms, we remain still,
because we know we’re not this body-mind,
so since God breathes us, voids within will fill,
thus we simply play our role as assigned.

With the bliss current cascading within,
it’s evident we dwell in the moment,
with each heartbeat reborn, afresh begin,
melding with God’s power omnipotent.

Sleep is death and life is play, every day ~
We’ve long since granted love, the right of way

Undone

Mistakenly believing we’re body-mind,
bewildered by fear and enslaved by desire,
we fail to see head and heart are not aligned
with love, so the objects we seek to acquire,
fixates attention, gripping us in a bind,
consigning our soul to the funeral pyre.
Adding to our woes is conditioned belief,
which unless undone, will give us no relief.

In the void of cessation, we’re always free
but presence soon returns to habit routine,
caged in turbid tempests, tied to our mind tree,
borne of heart’s dark desires, not easy to wean,
unless with soft whispers of love we agree,
for it’s then that the truth unseen may be seen.
Making thus in staid stillness, love our soul’s scribe,
we imbibe divine bliss, mind cannot describe.

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