Archives for the month of: December, 2012

There’s a need for the oblivion of the night.
There’s a need for remembrance, in broad daylight.
But who’s to keep away the recurrent nightmare?
Who’s to ensure it never happens again, upon yet another, innocent, day?


How silly! The shore claims to have killed the wave!



Seraphine de Senlis
Rich and sad. Stained and intimate.
Your art is inside me.

Upon that field of grass, with buffaloes grazing, amidst a flock of flitting egrets, the Buddha taught me, the meditation of the open plain.


There’s no saying there’s a morrow.

Could someone tell me how I may save myself, from the emptiness, of all that I’ve ever done, coming undone?

Could someone show me how to be free even while I’m bound and limited, within this mind, though it seems limitless, and within this body, where every cell, contains the whole!

Could someone show me how, in dying, I live on still and how, in clinging to this transient life, I am merely, living death.

Could someone show me I’ve had enough to eat, while yet, my tongue craves for more.

Could someone show me a way past my obsessions, without making me feel, that I’m missing out?


When the curtain goes up, what’s lit is what we see. But what if, it’s simply, darkness revealed? Is it worth the sight, unless it’s lit, with inner light?


Could someone show me the way to be a flame that doesn’t need to burn something, to prove it exists?


Flesh dissolved. Breath suspended.
Becoming one with what was seen.
A trance too sacred to be broken.
A oneness with something so divine
That neither thought, nor, applause dare intrude.
A reluctant return from the one to the many,
When the one who worked this oneness,
Steps back, letting go the shored up seconds
And the many know once more, that time exists!


Photo Courtesy: Vipul Sangoi

A face with a beauty so terrible that it launched a thousand ships.
A world with a beauty so terrible that men forget their humanity, so as to possess it and to call it theirs.
Knowing it slips right through, men fill water into cloth bags and heap sand upon sieves.
It’s a thirst that cannot be quenched. There’s nothing that could pin it down, this flighty thing that men cherish, calling it beauty, or, power, or, wealth, or, fame! What an obsession with never ending death!
If only we could orgasm from the heart, and explode with love, for what’s within!