Open Wound

My love blooms from an open wound. It hurts.

 

 

Engaging the New Year with Questions and Drinking Green Tea

While I drink my green tea,
the old year is slowly slipping away
and in a couple of minutes it will be
a different year.
This is a moment of reflecting, of going inside
and getting deep, of listening intently
to an ancient voice, of looking longingly to some distant place
where hopes and dreams wait in silence,
of facing questions that keep on transgressing the confines
of my mind for a long time.
I think it is not enough to craft resolutions.
I think about pondering the deeper questions of life
in a submissive position that requires faith and trust
to a great mystery.
And I believe doing so goes beyond the telling and making promises.
And as to the answers to those questions, I am approaching them
from a position of reverence and silent wonder.

Tuesday Evening

Snow is falling silently

while I think of my friend,

alone in a coffee shop,

misty-eyed.

It is 10:03 pm, Tuesday.

One Day, I Can Only Hope

It is just a wish,
a description, an ideal,
but still with no face.
But I know there is not just one.
But where and when and how?
Questions that are not easy to answer.
Questions that are beyond me to answer.
I just live with them.
From time to time they gain prominence
and I cannot do anything except to just
accept that it is what it is.
I can only hope that one day
the veil will come down in a perfect
manner, ignoring issues and,
with a full heart, willingly and softly
accepts without questions scars
and still unhealed wounds
where flowers can bloom.

I Wish the Leaves Will Tell You

I do not know what to say.
I just wish that the leaves on the ground
can talk and tell you that even in the
depth of winter it still feels like Autumn.

Ancient Longing

There is a stillness
that runs deep
that strokes the soul
and a luminous silence
that unlocks an ancient longing
that I still do not understand.
I just walk, wondering, as I come
to terms with the deeper truth of life.
And part of that deeper truth is
not understanding that ancient longing.

Poets Urgently Needed

These are uncertain times and

the more urgent our need for poets who can see

the different shades of gray

in a pale early morning winter sky,

who can hear birdsongs even in the absence

of birds, who can wipe away tears even from far away.

The poet can redefine doom and make it

sweet but a moment of abandon surfaces

when a poet becomes silent and doom

releases its own vile definition.

The message is clear: that poets must be

kept alive for their relevance and for their

ability to rebuke, cajole, lament, praise, 

provoke, dream wildly, see deeper truths through metaphors,

symbolisms, rummage through the complexities of

metaphysical thoughts, and courageously touch the beyond.

And I am comforted just by the thought that

they exist in the fullness of life’s reality.

Seeking Truth

Pause, listen long and deep enough

and discern, and be the truth that

you have been seeking all along.

This is how the wise heart operates.

More Than Enough

Alone in this cold Grey November morning.

In this moment, I deeply surrender

to the pale sunlight, the silent leaves,

the wet grass that is still green.

There are no birds, no songs,

only the fluency of silence,

the knowing without words, the necessity of truth

and the feeling of bare, uncomplicated existence.

And this is more than enough to heal.

Stills the Heart

The snow silently came down last night.

There is a certain kind of reverence to it.

And then those warm tears just came out.

Just like that. So beautiful yet so strange.