Do l belong anymore
On that l am just not sure
Once it felt like coming home
Now it feels empty and alone
Once l knew it was for me
I had found my place of acceptance and happy
Now uncertainty reigns
The unknown flows through my veins
Once l had definite clarity
Now l feel no solidarity
Once verses now ….at completely different ends
Time has changed what once felt like ….a dear old friend
—Arrived & Passed On—
they school my hand where measured accents fall,
and bid each wandering syllable stay;
i listen, for their craft has weight through all
the long inheritance of word and way;
yet what arrives before the mind can name,
still warm from some unbidden inward flood,
i cannot bid it wait to earn its flame,
nor teach the wound to counterfeit its blood.
yet I claim no sovereignty of tongue:
i honour what I cannot make my own;
i hold one drop; it bears the whole sea’s song,
and let it find a heart where it is known;
let learned minds perfect their measured art—
one drop may carry all the sea to heart.
The key turned in the lock—a familiar sound…
The door sighed… just as we once sighed
Over lines of old and bitter rhymes profound,
So, gift, oh gift this loneliness till dawn’s light,
Love, with verses left unwritten, unbound…
Steps on the stairs like notes—a rise, then fall…
Words, doomed to the page, as if to the block, lie still!
I became the executioner of lines, killing all…
This pain, this bitterness… countless lines to fulfill—
Life, with verses left unwritten, stands tall.
Life, with verses left unwritten, stands tall…
I'm the vessel of your verses
The voice of your vice
The product of the dream you nurture
The nature you hide
I'm the vessel of your verses
For better or worse as
I killed as much as I healed
For your own selfish causes
Though like I
Sprinkled in time – a wrinkle in time
Distort this course of pattered patterns
As we try to advise
I come from a plight your voice invites
Yet through that noise my choice is mine
I'll rhyme with vice from time to time
But rhyme my course through what is mine
To frame my words:
Picture my verse reversing a curse and nursing a hearse
Purging the urge to merge with the merchant of murder or worse
Piercing the person that persecuted my pride
Piercing the Plight that worsens the worth of the words I write
Purging my urges, the grudges held from the judgment of hurt
Purging my hypocrisy, when it gave you hurt much worse
The stanzas alliterate to reflect the repetition
The verse of illiterate veterans on a mission
To verse you in their permanent "medicating" religion
Most mean love, while most only deliver what's given
Let me pen "verses in the ash" for you
With the embers of our passion fire
Take me to "where orchids dream..."
To where clouds wear a rainbow halo
To where the Zephyr kisses the cherry blossoms
To where fairies drink honeysuckle dew
To where weeping willows laugh
To where your love finds me lost
"Trapped in your pulse", let me tap
to a slow salsa,
rhythmic and romantic just for you
"I am the asylum of your ache"
I hold you captive with my charisma
You are the shimmer of my sunlit soul
You are Aurora's aura
in my kaleidoscopic world
With crab-like tendons
you crocheted your way into my heart
You are the song of the cuckoo afar
Who brings good news through her music
I am the bright butterfly of your benevolence
The humble hummingbird sipping our love nectar
The Angelfish gliding in your ardency
You are my magnificent Muse, moving me
with your metaphors and majesty
I am the ruby ring on your finger
Reminding you of our precious promises
~ Let our love rise immortal as Phoenix
from these "verses in the ash" ~
Oh, the choreography of a crescent,
Where orchids dream amongst the subtle dust,
Weaving visions of vermilion wishes,
Signing scribbles surrounding the stars,
What a mouth-watering ornament,
A flickering flame frosted for eternity
Like the crust around a metaphorical mess
Listen to the velvet croissant curled up in the constellations of a poet’s sky,
Cradling along the corners of our eyes,
The buttery beam of hope is in the clouds,
Gazing with a golden gloss right through a bruised heart,
Might the tales of the torn trust be of any use?
To the pearly silhouette that levitates,
Like a luscious lantern, fully fragrant and flawless,
Guide me, Arc of abundance,
Feed me, in the tenderness of your aroma,
Never let these fingers wonder when to let go,
Make the time go slow,
While the night blooms flow,
Mighty frozen snow,
Merging in a magical merlot mist,
You are the verses in the ash harboring the silence in my tears.
If life were all the silly words I wrote,
in my love's long, unwinnable campaign,
a losing battle, whose odds were remote,
it would have been lived entirely in vain.
If life were all the awkward words I spoke,
those signs that I could never make you hear,
which might as well go up in fading smoke,
I can only hope it would disappear.
If life were all the foolish words I thought,
dreaming things far beyond my humble reach,
I guess it would be, just as well as not,
scattered in the cold water by the beach.
So, take my corpse and my verses, in ash,
and drop them where no one can hear them splash.
My laptop greets me daily
with the confidence of a cat~
smug, blinking, and absolutely certain
I am the problem.
I type a brilliant sentence;
it responds by freezing mid-word,
as if to say, “Let’s not rush genius.”
(I was not rushing. I was caffeinated.)
At 42% battery, it sighs dramatically,
dims the screen,
and collapses like a Victorian poet
who has felt too much.
I write heroic journey,
it changes it to herbal jelly,
which is… a different story entirely.
But at the end of the day,
we make peace~
me with my stubborn ideas,
it with its mysterious moods~
two flawed artists
trying to create something
before one of us crashes.
I opened the old drawer, stories long ago hidden
beneath the dust, beyond the debris
A notebook full of eraser marks and hope
an unfinished page still waiting for me
what comes next, I thought as I glanced
poems written that now seem ancient to read
my fears, my wishes, my forgotten dreams
words that once danced with joy and ease
now quietly sitting in the shadow of time
some spoke of plans that don't fit who I am
some told stories of struggles and pain
others were celebrations somehow forgotten
I flipped through the pages
Poems unfinished, Ink slowly fading
A thought halfway started, but never complete
I grabbed my new pen with fire in my heart
When I started to write the glimmer in my eyes once dim
started to grow strong, stronger than it's ever been
Although unfinished verses may always remain
the pen and the paper are calling my name
Riding in the car, nerves in my stomach
I know that I need to tell her my truth
I know the word will lead to my mumick
But I must let my heart sing like a luth
A *****, what a pathetic thing to be
Yet when I told her, she spoke no ill words
Not a slur, not a curse was said to me
I always thought I’d be thrown out like curds
Then I roused from my sleep, from my dream
Truth not it be, my mother loving me
I cry stars for tears, they glitter and gleam
I hide my truth from her, I let it be
A real dream I had of my real taboo
A real dream, but never a dream come true
“The significance of the letter "a" is that the avadhuta is free from the bondage of hopes, is pure in the beginning, middle, and end, and dwells ever in joy.”
“The syllable "va" is indicative of him by whom all desires have been renounced, whose speech is wholesome, and who dwells in the present.”
“The syllable "dhu" is a sign of him whose limbs are grey with dust, whose mind is purified, who is free of all diseases, and who is released from the practices of concentration and meditation.”
“The syllable "ta" is significant of him by whom the thought of Truth has been made steady, who is devoid of all thoughts and efforts, and who is free from ignorance and egoism.”
Avadhuta means a realised sage,
detached, vibrant and illuminated,
in whose heart the fire of lust does not rage,
who flows with ease, never agitated,
never feeling from God separated,
who lives naturally, always awake,
no practice to adopt, none to forsake.
We knew Thee not—O Quiet King—
When Prison’s Gate was near—
Nor guessed Thy Step in Ragged Cloth
Nor heard Thy Voice—so clear—
We passed The Sick with hurried Breath—
The Hungry with bowed Head—
Yet Heaven watched the smallest Crust
By trembling Fingers—fed—
And when the Last Accounting came—
Thy mild, astonished Word—
Declared the Cup we gave the Least
Was lifted—to the Lord—
For Mercy—wears a Common Face—
And walks the Dusty Street—
The Soul that stoops to bind a wound—
Has knelt—at Jesus’ Feet—
Many voices ring clear, true,
Carved in verses sparkling new,
For a moment held in sight
To catch the fast fading light.
The brushstrokes are soft and deep,
Like a rippling stream, they seep:
Do voices of equal shine
Bear same weight in space and time?
More honor
in shame
than ever
false glory
The larceny
of time
cleft moments
abscond
Passion
untitled
prescience
but memory
Pandering
fantasies
prevaricate
long
Lost verses
of blood
all pain
in their letting
Remembrance
a shadow
of days
underserved
Redemption
a silence
that screams
in our absence
Placating
our fear
when the Sirens
— are heard
(The New Room: February, 2026)
“One should successively take recourse to the objects of concentration, as mentioned by the yogis, in accordance with their subtlety, invisibility, and attributelessness. When through constant practice one's concentration becomes objectless, then, being divested of merits and demerits, one attains the state of complete dissolution in the Absolute through the dissolution of the object of concentration, but not before then.”
All that’s manifest, is but a projection
of thought, borne by our heart’s befuddled desire
and as such the world deserves our rejection,
vaporising ego in the cosmic fire,
whence poised in the void, our presence unalloyed,
is no more by animal cravings decoyed,
paving way for space and time to disappear,
whereupon truth of existence becomes clear.
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