Nirakula

Nirakula

There is the view of trees that are worshipped,
changing shade by the turn of leaves -
the birds whose panel of feathers shackle inconsistent
attention -- the watcher feels only for its sight -
the wind storms that pass like a ruffian
through the tall growth, and tempt the mountain peaks
with a burial -- it speaks through the torments of its speech.

From the mountain's flat top, she surveys beneath:
the wind from shifting, the vibration from stepping,
the dissonant echo from separation that would raise the faces
to protection, the frantic inspiration to hold another
in the release of your self - her presence sits awake
without dust, the eyes seeing its reflection.

Mata

Mata

Mercy is with a smile
from a mother that never sleeps -
like the steady beams that climb
through the night road, the motion
of her eyes lift her children.
And down we arise
at her feet, offering our head
on a tray of devotion
that her breath can blow our thoughts like sand
that grudgingly attempts to stick to the wind.

To the Bluff

To the Bluff

In the spring, there is more shade
to drop your head into, to linger and wait.
We praised the sun, rising out of winter
like the birth of a child.

Expanding like muscle, trees lull stems into widening
and the darkness beneath thickens.
The fragrance of a meadow makes your eyes clean
in the shade, turning by the wind.

To the bluff of drop and above,
the waves creasing over its finality,
almost reaching, almost reaching.

The Poem that Saved the World

The Poem that Saved the World

The shape of the letters
light the faces -
their serenity in no other
place than the realm above.

With a word that is water
and no distinction to movement -
the reader’s eyes relish in broken watches,
the sounds of what has been read wisping to the hand that gives.

Even the empty page
has threads of effulgence
that the moon cannot speak
for or against its blinding sight.

Bowing together as a leaf leans towards the sun -
who knows difference in reverence?
To feel contentment, we all sit
to empty our eyes of words, that we may see union in our faces.

Soft, Floating Smiles

Soft, Floating Smiles

I could swear upon a hundred days
that the formal life leads to death,
that my chin could break in rigor
with soft, floating smiles.

The eyes stern form pity for the idle self,
that I may call a worn vision the fire
that clings after burning,
and the wish of bane in joyful wiles.

Boiling Watch

Boiling Watch

The ambition
of the hands meet the ripples
of a mind plain,
where blue jay penetrate urge
of staid claws
into the boughs vibrating
with fragrance - still
with its course emptying, kind
smells lower eyes.
Unfurling the blinds over
glass, where to see
through is denying sight that
burns at night, lifts
the blinding glow
of day - whoever watches
forgets the time.

The Serpents of Gold

The Serpents of Gold

Prologue:

Crown that fits neither king, page
or renouncer - the gentle
brilliance concealing pure.

The threads of propitious shine
weave together the grand ease
of the head, universe haze

in the emptiness of shore,
where both banks unfurl lupine,
whose dew cures reminisce.

Movement:

The serpents of gold press, chaste
eyes, with no speech in distance,
through the narrow, pale membrane.

Mouths stretch into foliage;
the scales plummet in a gorge
while leaves flourish from collapse.

This is where I want to be,
the fragrance of an entrance
of an invisible smile.

Above my head, the pasture
places its soil, chickadee
notes on the wind, disintegrate

into rain of a square stone
where spring the thousands of vine
and the fruit and fragrance.

Kind Thoughts! Kind Thoughts!

Kind Thoughts! Kind Thoughts!

Kind thoughts! Kind thoughts!
The bubbling of pleasant reminisces
and fingers pointing to oneself,
as if I was all that mattered.
Watching the wet grass with warming
compliments to myself,
there are thoughts pricking the soil
and convulsing to the tress, clouds
and heaven cries for the thorn grows
as if it was all that mattered.

Where Does the Time Go When You Sleep?

Where Does the Time Go When You Sleep?

Where does the time go when you sleep?
Does the air speak of metronomes
or laugh memories until it weeps?

My head rushes to still
after the day’s gorging and supplication
the bent brain regains the solitude of what is real.

Through the Bottom Window

Through the Bottom Window

Through the bottom window,
our garden had dew from stars,
and a pole of light that was a parcel -
as an arm, it stood to touch unmoving skies.

Half in the earth’s atmosphere, half in the cold outer region
a bird with wings like fans sped towards -
in awe or anger it saw the light with prominence.
To puncture through or lay obeisance,
it could not decide -
it saw, and watched.

And the light that gave all its birth
smiled like a mother’s stillness.

Feet of a sprout and crest of a crown,
the brilliance had dissipated -
inside the outline of the remembered shape
the particles of silence -
and harboring outside breach,
a sanction from the creator of forms.