The Small Things in Life

A humble commencement,

A tiny offering,

A minute gesture in sentiment,

A little love in passing:

A baby, all small and sweet,

A twinkle, short-lived, not weak,

A smile, effortlessly immense,

A lie, a moment, but oh so tense!

A silent wish,

An ephemeral giggle,

A quiet swish,

An imperceptible riddle:

A look, so brief, yet so lucrative,

A word, succinct but still imperative,

A sigh, so minute, still so significant;

A star, magnificent, but just a little distant;

A peck of love,

A trickle of rain,

A soaring dove,

A sting of pain:

A blush, so sudden and so telling,

A kiss, so simple, yet so compelling,

A brush, so fleeting but still so cherished,

A pebble, so small, still never perished.

A ray of hope,

A spark of passion,

A gleam of life,

A slice of heaven:

The joy and the strife;

-The small things in life.

The Religion That Isn’t

A flaming Cross,

Of fear and strife,

A cold Candle,

That freezes life.

A judging Crescent,

Ablaze with bias and disdain:

Why can’t we choose not to choose?

-To remain stable and sane. 

Emotions dictate,

Never really any prophet or saint:

For we only pick shades,

With which we want to paint.

Everything can be justified,

And everything cannot,

One word against another:

Conflict is thus wrought. 

Rules can be broken without shame,

But inner conviction always shines through;

Where blind faith is impersonal-

True love and care defines you. 

Religions shed blood and tears,

Awareness and trust neither,

Ink fades to dust or runs with showers,

But belief remains with one ever after.

Look into your heart,

Not into a statue’s harsh eyes,

Live life, true and fulfilling,

Not obedience, and to yourself lie.

The Good in Every Heart

To see Mankind,

In solely one light:

His unabated, glorious, bright:

That gave their lives meaning.

Can it be expected?

Oh Seat so mighty and high,

That we could, with relief, just once sigh!

Seeing this world left with want for intolerance.

To not assume our reflections harsh;

To stare without distrust at our neighbor’s lair,

To be satisfied that the world is indeed fair-

For it would but give our own hearts delight.

Circumspection is most tiring,

And what a way it has!

Of replacing every sweet word with sass,

In conversation that was meant to be joyful.

Oh and to see the good in every heart!

For each soul has some, certainly:

The lion must hunt or perish, is slaughter thus, still unholy?

It would but, make our worlds a little brighter.

Not to uphold your will against another’s,

For this will but create conflict and ignorance,

And only conscious strides can ensure abundance:

-Of hope, trust, reliance and true life.

Perhaps idealism can be drawn to far,

But then, perhaps it isn’t;

Perhaps the world is just too active (or even indolent),

But unquestionably, it is not evil.

Could we not try?

To hear another’s pain and struggle,

To understand they ask for mere survival;

All it needs is love, and gentle, not imperative, tenacity.

Is it too much, to ask for effort?

Is it too much, to dream of excellence?

Apparently, it is, and apparently, it isn’t.

In Her Wake

Fragmented lives,

And broken wholes,

False convictions wield the knives,

That ravage our multitude of souls.

Lives divided into mere moments,

A planet divided into grains of earth:

History leaves us but mere remnants,

Of an existence complete at birth.

That existence, now assailed and brittle,

By countless fools, attempting to besiege the hold of Cybele;

Blind to the truth that we cannot allege any chattel:

For we’re hers even snow-pale, stiff and silent, hers: utterly.

But we may yet let true life return,

If united in effort and imagination,

Combined forever to learn,

Respect and awe for all creation.

Blessed with an earth intact to love and hone,

Not a mosaic of lands upon which we lay our claim,

We are but one part of a whole, which we cannot own-

Care for all, the ground everywhere is ours- and the same.

Memorize that no war yet seen has rested arid,

With want for sweat, blood or tear;

And live, no union ever did-

Without a trace of gladness near…

Peace we summon,

And our need is great-

Peace we beg,

Redeem us of hate-

Peace we submit to,

Live in her wake:

Of light, song, beauty, calm and love.

* Cybele (Sibuhlee): The Phrygian goddess of nature of ancient Asia Minor.

Pregnant With Desire

Love and light,

In unsteady flight-

Forced, in fear,

By eyes, so near,

I pray again,

Oh light, do send:

Bless me; shed this decaying skin,

Deliver me; born anew, of a brighter kin.

Towers tall: so strong and sound,

Unshaken by wind, hail and storm-

Give me their steadfastness,

Light, I beg- give me one scar less,

But leave one to hark me back- oh, the pain:

Let not indecision seep in, over again.

As the arms of delirium come forward in embrace,

And the lips of lust kiss my face,

Insatiable inquisitiveness now takes over,

A rush ensues, in apparent race-

And then the sting- so raw and bitter,

Light, I am chastised, and for the better.

But I urge, oh Light, do provide,

That this lesson is forever remembered,

That it shall never meander, or hide:

And into the crevices of my mind surrender-

The memory of a filth that overcame,

Rushed in and almost remained:

Spreading, as does with wind fire,

Leaving my soul-

Pregnant, with desire.

Lost In Translation

Misty waters whirl around,

Transparency is further dispelled,

All it took was transient contact,

Ripples and ripples, succeeding in cataleptic slumber-

Which were begun, by but a diminutive yearning,

Longing, that numbs the conscience.

And then, again, the same touch would awaken:

A thousand minds in rapid succession,

Unity in utter independence-

Where awareness brings hopeful venture;

One mind, must instigate,

One heart- must set them in action.

Energy in its eternal and pious concentration,

Passing through a coarse coexistence-

Saturating and disappearing,

Sometimes in distraught squander,

Where souls annihilate:

-In mirthful ignorance- usurped only by insanity.

This miasma, now overwhelms,

And clarity is involuntarily beckoned,

Seeking its connotation- in what it is not;

Realizing- reality would halt in absence of denial;

Questioners now question:

-Tearing all meaning apart.

Where is this planet?

Soaked in ludicrousness-

And somehow, still, ostensibly rational.

Where be my kin, I, even?

In relentless flurry-

Magical, still, limited and bound.

Lost in desire?

Lost in faith?

Lost in love?

Lost in hate?

Emotions, words:

People, worlds:

Lost, in translation…

Two

It was dark, dark, day-

The lightless sky had gone astray,

Children hid away in fear,

As they saw the evil thunder leer,

But the music still played-

And two hearts still swayed-

Two souls and the wilderness,

Two hearts that won’t forget,

Two words of tenderness,

Two lives that should never have met.

It was a slightly lighter day-

The world was hung in sheets of grey,

Children peeked into the clear,

As they saw specks of blue appear,

But the clouds still wept-

And two hearts still kept-

Two souls and the wilderness,

Two hearts that won’t forget,

Two words of tenderness,

Two lives that should never have met.

It was a bright, bright day-

Faces mirrored the sun’s warming rays,

Children played outside in delight,

Assuaged that they needn’t take fright,

And the trees still offered shade-

And two hearts still escaped-

Two souls and the wilderness,

Two hearts that won’t forget,

Two words of tenderness,

Two lives that should never have met.

Creations’ Death

Onwards upon this strange behest,

The everlasting earths’ one call,

I walk with the fear of failing my quest:

Lest mine be a true soul’s true fall;

For in this feral void of disaster,

Lay those dispelled by the lone eraser-

His black sorcery to continue,

His perfect balance to review and renew,

They put most in plight-,

Allow few the gift of flight,

Dark that arises from the light:

Myriad shadows through myriad suns-

Banished, nevertheless His own sons.

With pain and delusion came the first day,

And their lightless life was ticking away-

When He turned to His punishing face,

Turned existence into a race,

Imprisoned minds in heaven and hell:

And with a vortex of lies He does quell.

How can I call such my father?

When I love one and another?

Paths do fork, and may have mislead,

Many a traveler may perish in dread:

Unsure of which path to tread…

Angels who rebelled against-

But angels still in their core essence,

Questioning can not be a sin,

So why’ve we been lead, to expel it from within?

Which true being, angel or mortal-

Would ever restrict, the flow of nature,

Would ever unsteady, her ancient anchor? 

Remember love, and forget sin-

Mistakes are natural, embrace nature,

And search within.

Conscious steps lead to freedom,

Truth is and truth will enlighten:

Recall these words when in dark despair,

And tell your tale, but tell it fair.

(Inspired by Philip Pullman’s ‘His Dark Materials’ Trilogy.)

Questions and Contemplations

Living; a succession,

Of actions and events,

Of love and delusion,

And their consequence.

Of hope and trust,

Of blunder and fate,

It never concludes,

For it never commenced.

People and places,

Vanish into a labyrinth that astounds;

Belief and imagination,

So intimately bound.

Creativity created,

And the tale still weaves,

With twists, with turns,

And wonder and strife-

Drawing everything that is and exists,

Into a vortex: a whirlwind called life.

It seems so bizarre,

To be living,

Hanging on the brink,

Of such a slight chance.

Life is a word,

That someone defined:

Tell me, if it remained unheard,

Would each breath we take, still keep us alive?

I question who we are,

But slaves of our own making?

Ruled by restrictions,

Created ourselves?

Imprisoned by emotions,

We’ve defined ourselves?

And restricted by time,

We measure ourselves?

Would we die if we were never alive?

Could we sing without knowing music?

Could we see without knowing sight?

And would we be wrong, if we were never right?

Oh, this world is curious,

Disguised as nude,

But in truth is cloaked;

In attempt to elude:

Skeptical minds,

And wandering souls-

For they remain detached,

From her earth: her soil and water,

Instead they seek something deeper,

They tear her apart, not feeling her pain:

They search her for meaning,

Not knowing she has naught,

They remain, as they are: 

Unsighted, naïve and condescending.