Stone walled the feelings
Against a fragile heart
Broken in a million pieces
Healing….
The fractured lines still remain
Souls who are bereft of joy,
in whose minds, dark thoughts decoy,
though their aura grows dimmer,
we see in them light glimmer.
God’s light glows within each form,
felt as embrace of love warm
but if heart be not porous,
we’ll feel not the bliss torus.
From the beginning we ought
to have slowed down flow of thought
but even now we can choose,
to make God’s love our soul’s muse.
It is for us to begin;
this is where free will comes in,
because love employs no force,
so each life takes its own course.
Atom and Individual
- who are you
Really,
If one can go deep in mind, heart, Spirit?
Atom and ParamAtman
- a building without doors, windows
For you, the real you ( the I am)
Your Beloved is outside
Trying to get to you
- I Am within
Trying to meet my Beloved, our efforts
Will break down the walls without windows
a bench with ornate arms and scrolling
bathed in shards of early light
inside four walls of climbing roses
grown entwined and trained to height.
within the silence of mid morning
perfumed heat that melts the hours
attracts the bees that prey and worship
on life's purple passion flowers.
the symmetry of formal hedging
leads the eye in one straight line
to where a sundial in the heat haze
casts its shadow marking time.
the joy and beauty of hibiscus
flowering bright where no one goes
down secret paths in secret corners
where the scented jasmine grows.
into culture walk
we, amidst her history
smiling faces grin
.
The paint recalls, layered and petulant, groans
mindless in its ground, it decomposes.
Granules of hematite, pale traceries of gypsum,
the crevasses of cave wall are soot soothed.
Layered and petulant the palm of man appears
charcoal dusted, amongst the antelope and bison.
Do you hear the drum’s call, the hollow
wail of bone flute, the slap of bare feet,
the drone of chant?
Red-lead or orange crystalline roars atop
the gummy white in Pharaoh’s tombs.
See the deathly desert and the blood of power
as it paves the way; ochre, gypsum,
copper blue, groan mindless in its ground.
Do you hear the drums call, the hollow
wail of wooden flutes, the rattle of the tambourine
the clink of bell, as bare feet dance entranced?
Decomposed, composed, each grain
calls to mind pale traceries of the ages left behind.
Soot-soothed, charred coal outlines the faces
of God and man upon the walls of time.
First Published by Mused 2013
Drops of dawn
perching on the ruined
stone-walled house.
The ivy tirelessly
spreads its hug
around the walls,
a scaffold for the dreams
to build new life
upon their forgotten
existence
like music
fallen into oblivion
long ago
and now risen to life
again.
I sit here in this white walled room, not knowing what to do,
I sit here in my misery, thinking all my wrongs through.
All there is to do in here, is think of my mistakes,
And think of all the people that have blown me off like flakes.
This room is full of people that I truely do despise,
But I have done them wrong as well, see myself through their eyes.
Its really hard to understand why I mess up so much,
But in this white walled room it gives me time to dwell on such.
And why I'm so pathetic i guess we will never know,
I know I'm stuck in here because the punches that I've thrown.
So anyone thats reading of the white walled room I'm in,
I'm sorry for what I've destroyed, including ex best friends.
They're nothing short of infinite,
these thoughts, these rich ideas of mine;
though, crippled in reality,
for which there is no parting line.
Because I cannot slip away
from that which is sustaining me,
I'll mask the concrete sky and earth
with thin, artistic ivory.
Though blank at first, these paper sheets
are much like panes of ductile glass,
reflecting everything I am,
as I control their supple mass.
The mind, much like a document,
can be erased--or worse, destroyed!
Although, I am exempt from such
when tending to my pearly void.
The creativity I house,
evolving even while I sleep,
will one day change the concrete world
with notions I have sown and reaped.
And so, imagination reigns;
it drizzles from a flimsy sky,
within my white walled universe
where kernel-concepts never die.
I can’t even call it a room
Old mattress, no bed lamp, and fluffy pillows
Just a cabinet full of didactic books on the top shell
Some enjoyable comic books and dull novels on the middle
And DVD collections on the bottom of the shell
Couple of boxes full of crap on the floor
A broken radio and a wrecked watch nailed on the wall
In a pink-walled room
I only have this one piece of technology
A multifunctional diary to write my journal
The only way to express my feeling
Rather than to share it with those who act as if they care
In a pink-walled room
Some poetry are nailed to the wall
With words where others barely to understand
And others start to think that I’m losing my mind
But I think they are the ones who don’t even have a mind
In a pink-walled room
Where others put their junks on it
Filled it with wasted family keepsakes
I would call it a wastebasket
But they keep calling it, my room
What a beautiful life I have
In a pink-walled room
Where the rain keeps dripping from the ceiling
With an old curtain keeps hanging on my window
And the ants are started to make their kingdom
It stills the best place to express my feeling
My pink-walled room
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