Waterfall

Waterfall like a saddhu's dreadlocks.
Shades of gray and silver.

I can feel your life and spirit
Rushing, falling into
Holy Mother Ganga.






Rishikesh February 2010

5 Haiku

In the woods I found
fourteen types of mushroom. Wow!
Nature is so full. 





 






Copper. Amber. Gold.
All changing, changing, dying.
So full of promise. 
 
Watching the steam rise
from a cup. It's November. Outside cold winds blow.





Outside, wind whistling
Gusting, pushing to enter.
Inside, all is still.





Tick, tock, tick, tock make
it stop. Tick, tock make it stop!  
Tick, tock make it stop!

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick
Make it stop! Tick, tock, tick, tock

Tick, make it, tick, tock
 

1000 Lions!

Take me!
Like a thousand lions.
Eternal lifetimes of our passion
Combined in this moment.

Again! Again! Again!
ALWAYS.

But baby, raise it up.
Raise it up, up, up
Infused with the warmth of love.
And fly.

Trust

Trust yourself.

Trust others.

Trust the universe to carry you

through the valleys and mountains of eternity.

Without trust, we have nothing.

We trust and our hearts open a little.

Betray my trust and, on this human plane, I suffer:

My pride stings and my ego cries,

But in my heart I am still free.

Betray my trust, not realising, in your ignorance,

That it is your innermost, ever-present heart

That feels the agony of your actions.

Losing trust, anger and resentment close my heart a little

But if I trust again.

If I trust with fortitude and faith,

My heart will open to embrace heaven on earth.

on a bus to Kannur, November 2009

Untitled

What is that part of me 

that wants so badly to possess him?

Certainly that part is bred of

Fear, attachment, clinging

Is it the part that wants to relax,  

To give up and die?

I want him to fill the hole

The hole in my body

In my mind

And soul

But sensing the desperate, grasping child

I see the error of my way

And like the butterfly

I try to free him

With open hands

And an open heart

Radiating love

on a bus to Kannur, November 2009 

Ode to an Indian Gentleman

(Disclaimer: If you are an Indian Gentleman reading my Ode, this poem is NOT about you so please don't take offense).

Oh my King, my God, my mustachioed Lord.

You are ever-present.

You are everywhere I go.

You are there at dawn, when I awake

to the gut-churning hawk

of your morning ablutions.

Each day I am greeted by your regal belly,

while you welcome the sun

in your highness's dhoti.

My life is in your hands, Oh Great One,

as I navigate the perilous highway.

Your permanent hand on the horn makes it very clear

who's King of THIS road.

Your lusty looks follow my every move,

my esteemed Master,

from chai shops, wine bars and street corners.

Bodily functions pose no obstacle to you,

great Celestial being.

You are squatting at the roadside as I go by,

doing what has to be done.

As evening falls, my Prince,

you are to be found prancing in the streets,

arm-in-arm with your buddy.

Your talents know no bounds.

Only One of your inestimable reach can

steer a motorbike, chat on a mobile and

scratch his balls ALL at the same time. RESPECT.

At end of day, my Dream, my only Master,

I am lulled to sleep by

the reverborating echo of your incredible, manly belch.

The White House, Mysore 2008