Archives for the month of: August, 2012

It was showering shreds of paper,

as I walked upon the pavement,

of a small city street.

I stood still to watch.

One settled upon my shoulder,

two upon my head,

and one upon the toe

of my loose left shoe.

Each shred held

just one word.

All four together read,

“His Voice Was Lost”.

How could you separate

one word from another,

hoping they would not meet!

With all my techniques of meditation, I’m still dozing off.

It’s a whole lot better, now that I’ve given up my techniques

and sit without stratagem, in the presence of God.

It’s all getting, so alarmingly spiritual!

The alarm rang. I switched it off and continued to sleep, finishing the business of my dreams.

This was after I returned home from hospital, surviving a heart attack.

I felt guilty for lying there and yet I was only preparing to wake up, as I went from room to room, closing each open door.

There was so much that needed my attention, work to be done, a will to be written.

With the last door closed, I rose from my bed and checked the clock.

There were a few minutes left for the alarm to ring.

That was when I discovered that no one really agreed with anything I had to say.

There was no need for it now.

I switched it off and left the room, closing another door, noiselessly.


I forgot to drink the tea.

It sat there out of mind,

While i searched for meaning and love,

roving hearts and grey crows.

I scratched around for ideas,

Jumping beans and crickets

In the grass all around me.

Scowling with intent

I chased all the rabbits away

down hillside holes and returned.

There was the tea, tepid,

Waiting for me.

There’s an image of the Buddha, inside that Spa, in meditation, by a waterfall.

It’s an image of tranquility, of absolute relaxation and utmost attention.

Perhaps what one is seeking in all that pampering of body and mind is just that state of stillness.

It’s not about what the Buddha said, or, did.

It’s about the presence he brought of absolute calm.

No one feels judged by the Buddha for seeking conscious pleasure.

And yet, I wonder, waiting with the Buddha, by the waterfall,

if the path to becoming the Buddha, really must pass through that Spa.

Standing In the desert where water is most precious, he asked as I passed, “Could you give me some water please?”

I was on my camel while he stood on blistered feet. “I’ve just enough for my journey, my friend. If I give you some, your plight now could well be mine, before I’m through with all these dunes”. I ignored him as he sank to his knees and urged my camel on.

“Stop!”, he said, “I might have something you want. All I ask is just one drop”.

I looked him up and down wondering what it is this poor fool could offer, to one who had a camel and a water flask.

“Take me with you. Your camel could easily bear the weight of two. And I’ll not ask for more, than the water that dribbles down your chin while you drink”.

“What’s in it for me?”, I asked. The man rose and stood, withering away as we spoke. “It’ll surely bring you back”, he said, “from this desert you’re in”.

He’s going crazy, I thought and for some reason, I couldn’t just leave him there. I bid him climb the camel’s back and gave him water to wet his lips.

It was a long journey out of there and I gave him at the end, my very last drop.

But strangely enough, that fool was right. Every time I quenched his thirst, it felt as though it was the desert that walked, out of me.


Hovering over still pebbles in flowing water,

the mind clutches on to thought after thought,

lest it should fall and be food, for the fish of awareness.

The Shepherd collects his flock of thoughts

and sends them bleating down the road,

piteously, to the sharp awareness of the Butcher’s knife.

Making its nest upon a moving cloud,

is it surprising that the bird has lost its precious eggs?

The Universe whispers to me from behind every empty page and blank canvas. I’m listening.

Could it be that all this while, what I thought of as an escape, is simply the experience of what it is, to be in the present?

Could it be that all I need to do, is to be present to everything, even to the nausea, to the fever and to the delirium, and to see from where it comes?

Could it really be so that all is well with the present moment?

Could it be so that it is only in the present that I am truly creative, truly healing?

Could it be so that I’m well in the very same instant of my thinking it so?

Where else but in the present could I find my release, from my prisons of past and future?