The Creative Script

We are not our thoughts, our own mind
Or the life we made; the intersection of time
We are not the lottery of birth
The ranks among men; the torture of the towns

No; we are something else…
Further from the cities of holograms and projections
Where a drop of sacredness changes everything
Like a dissolution of all the cravings

Where we turn invisible to the old way of things
We are not the actors and the roles
Not the sacrifices we thought we had to make
We are not the life scripts and labor and duty

We are the heart broken and made whole again
We are the cosmic patterns that sowed in us
Miracles and wonders that had little to do with us

Those things that put you beyond beliefs
Those events that change all further moments
Where the self is no longer just a self
And our work is no longer just a selfish thing

There we find remnants of who were before the fall
Before a sort of dumb materialism and capitalism
Those idols that destroyed us on the inside
Worry is itself the idleness of loving not enough

We mustn’t complain for the secret choice we made
But find fruit in the ordinary and nectar
Also in the suffering; that is our way of life
Our habit of doing and repeating
What we ourselves expect us to do; the designs
We follow irrespective of the outcomes
We are all brief experiments in a violent seeing
Where there is not time to be; but rush like an art in pain.

Suicide of a Diwan

The streets are mute
And the downtrodden are cold
And the girl pretends she
Has many suitors
The handkerchief in my hands

Is nothing much more
Than a rag now
And the night only has one moon
And the fountains have
Ten thousand pennies

I carry the “No” that you gave me
Buried somewhere, as if
It was a part of me now
My love is spinning
The murmur of the masses

Grows loud and I tremble
At the greed of this society
That takes more than it gives
Until giving means giving
To those who would profit from you

The afternoon was something else
Sunlight had been forgotten
If I die like this, from regret
Leave the balcony open
The reaper will harvest

The soul of my art
In my study
Beneath my dirty sheets
From my balcony I can see him
He finds the weight of the snow

Annoying like a transparent shadow
The streets will still be mute
And the downtrodden will
Still beg at the metro of the church
And when I am gone

I will feel myself both like
The balcony, and the tower, and the skies
Moving up, in a stream of shadow-light
And there, I will
Pretend that God loved me.

Last voice of the organics

i

There is a river around
Me of love, a writing of fire
A slab of jade on my back
A testament to the love

Of what we do, not why we do it
It’s like God working through
Us, or a snowstorm in August

ii

Or the circular days finding
A year of extraordinary fantasy
That’s art, and that’s also life
Relationships, mutual influences
The energy behind a book

The process of alphabets
Converting on a brain
Unifying incoherent symbols

iii

A language of creation
How birds and stars can meet
And how creatures evolve
There is a river of sound
It’s the narrative of all stories

Of the very act of story-telling
It’s the inheritance of millions
Of years of effort, to grow

And to understand truly
What it means to be human
And now, it’s all changing.

Anthem & Alchemy

So this was Earth
Handfuls of light
Europe on reverb
Beaches covered with
Ancient jars like

Star-shells fragrant
With some golden empire
From which they came
I saw young bodies
Throbbing breasts

Heart-beats of infinity
Shells rose-pink
A blur of traffic
So this was Evolution
In the minds of

Organics where
Drifted thoughts
Of arms spread open
For the coupling of desire
These youth who

Would one day pair off
And the sky’s veins
Would not recall
Who was with who
Or how children came

Each has no handles
The waves touch
The pebbles each time
They curl on to the shore
Like time, formed by clay

They gather tools to
Change themselves
Civilized barbarians
Becoming barbaric once again
So this was Earth

I’d heard the stories
Souls that could not
Be unmade, they learned
And grew somehow
In a software of

Reincarnation, I knew
Their minds emptied
Death was beautiful
A simple reset and
And the slaughter of

Selfishness, what a sight
Wheat doesn’t take long
To ripen, sex doesn’t
Take long to become
But a whisper in a life

Desires melt away
Attachments drift
Hopes once so vital
Seemed secondary
Each dream separately

Lulled, like the birds
Who cry at morning
Going quiet, at the coming
Of the Sun, it was
Just natural, and perfect.

A Civil Nakedness of Poetry

Poetry is the x of music
The hum under the Sea
Too exactly the wind
A dirty silence of the stars
Poetry is not what we say
To ourselves but to the nature
Of syllables behind speech
From the floor of philosophy
Where feeling is her own author
Poetry is not for particulars
But for universals, an elegy
To the creation of sound that
Had a human voice or felt
Vulnerable and ready to dream
For the imitations of better realities.

These questions that defined us

The day writes itself
And withers for what?
The lecture of the beautiful tomorrow

O’ thou present beloved
With the hem of planets
And the scent of roses

And these passing minutes
As delicate as my awareness
As ornamental as is my

Personal perception, all these
Frames of references
Bright like the quantum

Signature of pure energy
The day writes itself
And changes for whom?

We are but observers or actors
Or some part of the category
Of believers, that we are

Not the same people as yesterday
Somehow our questions differ
And what fulfills us embroiders

Its own meaning in our
Evolving tapestry of experience.

Photo Courtesy:

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Take-Me-Away-493475228

Cup of Sachitananda

The cosmos has hid
divine herbs in our dreams
and one day upon
the west river we

shall all awake
to see truth, to live
in the light, and

in those blue flames
of the dawn, hope
will no longer be necessary

and faith will seem immature
for supramental identity
will be self-evident

alone, spring’s floods will
drip the bliss of worlds
and the grace will overwhelm
any circumstance of fate
by the ocean of poetry

in the forests of prophecy
on the beaches of mysticism
the Tao will reveal herself

to our mind like a sponge
of all the secrets of the
universe and synchronicity

spellbound for consciousness
as a boat drifts to the sun
creation and the great observer

will meet, and we will forever
be left speechless with the awe
of laughter empty of anxiety
and understanding mingling

with a pure love for all things.

SECRET LETTERS TO DAYBREAK

My favorite font would have to be, poetry
Each letter is a gem that haunts
The very notion of memory & attachment
Dark fountain splash cursive

In the breeze of cherished fantasies
The lonely streets of personal dreams
My favorite alphabet would have to be, poetic
The poetic vocabulary, I write without

Knowing the outcome, like a kind
Of experience of entwined sounds
Or water embracing the shores
Or, disembodied soul sick of duality

Craving the original unity before
We had personalities, lovers, children
My favorite time would have to be, writing
In the middle of the night, naked

Literally and figuratively, able to be sensitive
A symbol flirting with the Absolute
A myth-making fiction of a flaming letter
These phrases of burning vowel-shaped-tombs

Where I can belong to Eternity, privately
Where everything is sculptured as it
Pleases me, and I am a part of Free-will
Like nothing else, that is the bliss of poems

The purification of the fever of forms
Where everything is mutable and dissolves
For the good of the white canvas that are
The saints, animals, laughing intangible skies

That are the wandering hours of my outlying districts
Where I run among the villagers, and plant signs
And move in the dark, and speak with you always
Yet there is no light here for the luster of your eyes.

Art Credits goes to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Daybreak-453040055

Light Builds Temples on the Sea with Mere Words

In my animal belly, into the belly of time
I swear prophecies, and make melodies out of
Melancholy, I avenge God and poor fathers
With armed lyrics, assault on secrets
With fingernails, frantic for a Divinity
Lost in language, in sanskrit manuscripts
In Mandarin idioms, I hunt for these idols

Behind words, in between nouns
In the devotional songs of women unremembered
I beg the many beings that meet in a word
The worlds that cover narratives
The brink of nothing that the writer must uncover
In my biological neurons, into the future where history

Is lost forever, at that point of extinction
I am gifted the existential proper nouns
The streaking supermind verbs that fulfill
The eruption of white music, this spring-water
Hymns among the ruins, sentences to represent
The suffering of sentience, these momentary truths

Mimicked forever by broken statues gnawed by light
And beings, partial and hungry-eyed
I stretch my senses to hundreds of millions of living planets
I hear their call, heavy with the minutes of
Politics, mating, wealth-accumulation and self-discovery
Eternity’s brimming cup of art, sex, sun-shivering love.

Photo Courtesy: http://birthday29.deviantart.com/art/–468529981

SONG DAWNS THE TURRETS OF YOUR MIND

Words, towards a poem
I have profited from them, quarter-hour wrenched
From these hands, survivors of poverty
Enter and exit, hope
On the corridors of Earth
From the charred tree of language
From noplace to now-here
Lost, between the good mornings and goodnights
Words, as an umbilical cord with faith
They are all made-up, I know it
Bibles, sutras, mantras, poems and history
Faceless divinities, abstractions
In the mineral belly of imaginations
The Modern poet must dare futility
To find a way out: the poem
To speak for the sake of speaking
In tongues desperate and incredulous
Hours of the somersault, myth, savior
So I spill these phrases, syllables, stars
That turn to a fixed center on paper, screen, eyes
Indelible letters that no one can dictate
Until I ignite and burn this dreamy gold to nothing
This is how poetry exists, how love exists.

LOWS BETWEEN MANUSCRIPTS

I have written to the heart in you
Re-wrote it several times
Read it to you while you were sleeping
In whisper, free-form, without rhymes

I have spoken to the silence
That you put under your pillow
The easy dreams of zero heartbreak
In a world of such little gains

I have decided to honestly gift you
Entire poems to remember pain
It’s all backwards since we became artists
At the center of my life, I Forget my own names

I have written to the soul for you
Our soul, the one soul, the truth cannot stop
Just because one voice dies
Our manner of speaking changes

With the times, I’m sick of saying
The same thing, reading the same poem
There’s nobody as sick of themselves as me
Because I wanted an end to language

I become sick of duality
So I have written to the spirit in thee
In exchange, I will opt for a shorter life
One with tragedies that can potentially teach
Poems from obscurity, of absurdity, for posterity.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Writing-Owl-188040299

WHY EVERYONE SHOULD WRITE POETRY

I’m my own utopia
In my Utopia, we would dream awake
Writing poems about each other

Speaking in whispers hushed
I could say out loud
That I felt loved without

Trying to find a measure
Or a reason to be appreciated
In my own utopia
We wouldn’t judge each other

But act as parts of the same exposure
To compassion, we experienced
Through years of living & suffering

In my Utopia, everyone would be artistic
Painting, music, dance would be
As common as speaking
Or conversing over the internet.

photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/utopia-133483723

THROUGH SNARLING HAILS OF MELODY

I

Dear poet, with lost morning’s eyes
Don’t churn too much beneath
Stranger skies, I know you explore
The Sun’s tipped wet stones
With derelict markings for your
Blinded guests, dear poet don’t

II

Harvest beauty too colossal
That this world looks ugly
Don’t mine secrets so subjective
That shift as bright virtual dungeons
The solstice calls you, and I feel
An epic dialogue remains in your Heart
Hidden and partly unsearchable

III

You to whom I can only know
In your writing, whose date is limitless
Ancient with yearning, dear poet
Priestess of the imaged Word
Unfolding floating islands of light
Don’t weep with the hieroglyphics
Of the daunting night, but unbetrayable

IV

Reply to the future’s day, Farewell
To the new amazements born of other minds
A metallic paradise could never reveal
Your incandescent nuances of naked whispers
That fresh with faith renew our intricate parts
Dear poet, your throat is the bridge
Across lifetimes of the gardened skies.

ODE TO ANGELOU

i

You may write me down in history
With faint acclaims of martyrhood
But we were all heroes for living
We faced and trod in this world’s dirt
And still, like dust, we rise

ii

To the stars from which we came
You won’t see us any longer
But we’ll be back with new faces
Hungry minds, stronger hearts?
There is no stopping change
How many teardrops did we catch
On our shoulders? That day, those years?

iii

We were shot with words, and killed
By discrimination, prejudice and politics
We outlived history, with our soulful cry?
Because we believed in doing Good
Doing good anywhere is good everywhere

iv

We took the time to speak to the people
Without being victims or seeing enemies
You may write me down as anonymous
But I strove to be a good citizen
To laugh and cry in balanced measure

v

Never to be afraid of life’s energy
Don’t complain, if you can’t change it
It takes courage to display empathy
Day after day, don’t be a coward
Even if you have just one smile left
Give it to the people you love
And if you have nobody, smile to yourself.

ARTISTIC MOTIF

i

Our talents were exceptional, and invisible
Deviant in our lack of public merit
Or civic utility, we were paranoid
Maybe suffering from delusions of grandeur
It was expected, our heroine was art
Photography, poetry, music, painting

ii

We were illiterate in living
But so full of life, so wide open with love
Our circumstances were humble
Our personalities sensitive, we had
The potential to become martyrs & lonely
Our class was a privilege in knowing
How to suffer, suffer embarrassment, learn humility
Empathy, by possessing nothing

iii

But the faint property of our own creative genius
Our families may not have spoken openly
About our sickness, of our obsession with
The search for beauty, for our sequence
Of originality, we were broken, unable to earn
A pit-bull’s living, to be a good rat

iv

Our infatuations felt as beacons of our muse
Our drug was as dangerous, bi-polar birthright
Born creative, our life-expectancy was lowered
We who don’t drink, might still sure like the dark continent
Known as chocolate, anything to keep us up at night
Registering the failings that make us whole
Discovering the first love that could not die.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/painting-76736088

WORDS LIKE FIXED STARS

I’ve felt the echoes of words
In the deepest part of my Psyche
Years later they surfaced

Echoes traveling like the
Sap of dead poets, I knew them all
The greens of language

Bitten through to the stars
To the core of semantics
Rejoincing in phrasing

Colorful floods of syntax
I’ve felt the striving of words
Not for expression but for symbolism

The metaphors that fly
To open the heart with mirrors
An association of unity
That travels, and never rests.

A THOUSAND PREGNANT SUNS

i

Here is a map of our country
Our souls glazed in books, language, ideas
This is the birthplace of our truth
In the aristocracy of craft

ii

In the feudalism of art
We are like painters on caves
Loving our canvas, more than our body
Here is the map of our journey

iii

I drive inland over poetic roads
Every person is a character of my muse
For life and death, is finally the same
We dare not taste its water

iv

The battlefield is a myth, there is no
Right or wrong, only neutrality, nature
Creation, we became poets
To find our way back to the light

v

We wrote of the promise
Of a thousand pregnant suns.

Sad Eyed Lyricist

I’ve spotted it with tears (I pronounced to all my living verse) Your infant faces are proof of it ! The crumbled years, the kissed cheeks White as snow, red as apples The harmonics of a life enriched By syllables …