RAINSTORM

The rain

weaves the skies;

each drop

stitch-ing

the clouds

to the earth.

A silken thread

to tie down

the Heavens,

as if it were

a kite.

The tapestry unfolds

a storm

embroidered with

electricity.

Night looms and

one can hear the

seamstress at work,

showering

unto the sparkling earth.

LOTUS

 

A closed lotus
seated in the skies, dusted
Earth underfoot,
a root,
afloat.

An open lotus,
a horizon setting, 
a perpetual turning.
I will rise to 
Meru’s 
morning.

 

I CAN SEE THE SPACE

 

Horizon guts the Sea's berth

and back

to sit on wooden slats: A look out.

A place for Now.

 

The metronome seasons

chime with the lapping tide.

The fours and fives form a rhythm - a

sound structure - as if

a foundation is laid and waiting,

like a pencil that never left the page.

 

I've traced these lines, 

these sights and steps, followed others close

through vacant lens.

And that wide snapping eye watches

a rise of roofs and roads, which

undulate in an arched exhalation.

 

I can see the 

site.

 

Each frame is spliced and fused, as if a reel of

film that plays out

a daily scene,

a scene of stillness,

instilled in us.

 

I can see the

 

space

 

NO MOON DAY

 

No Moon Day

Today the new moon
is no moon,
no crescent smiling
no tides turning:
how do you bow to the sky?

Everyone is offering
with palms up-facing;
plaited palm leaves
quartered petals
a pinch of rice.

Towns turn to the temple
bird houses bursting 
with prayer
and

thanks.

There sit the seeds -
embedded in the third eye,
the throat -
chakras like petals unfurling
opening
and language tumbling
free.

Still she floats in waters deep,
backs bent
willow seeking,
and only mountains
erupting
tilt and, in glassy truth,
bow to the moon.

 

 

 

INDIA LIKES MY NAME

 

Holly
Holy
Holi Festival
Holy Cow
Holiday
Holy Spirit

 

 

 

THE TEMPLE GUARDIAN

 

a proud lingam thrusts
it’s way through the earth and
ever up,
stagnant waters circling
the standing stone
the cut-away core

 

there the bending backed
guardian wades,
his spine a feather
arching,
in knee-high holy water

 

a silver palm offering
receives a shower sprayed
blessing,
he tends to the garden;
petals plucked and placed
at the base
so
the living withers
and the water waits
and the stone stands.

 

 

 

HOLY COW!

 

The slow
backward stinging
third eye,
recessed and fatty,
plod slurps the generic 
path. Regurgitating 
wordy mouthfuls and
spitting irony.

 

The wandering beast
paroles the beach,
Her soil sand is home to hooves.
Horn charged she
wrestles ‘gainst gated thought.
A push, heave and heavy,
her symbol pressing.

 

She seizes
the fly away naan!
To elegantly retreat.

 

Between us
the seas widen, with
waters brittle and fallen.
Distance swelling
and feeling forgotten.
Each an island.
Heads down-turned to every earth,
each pretending, that
ten toes are not counted.

 

 

 

THE NIGHT GANGES

 

For the souls of yesterday,
and the souls of tomorrow.

Time is shorn 
from the heads of the earthbound.
Years in clumps at their feet,
swaddled white like newborns.

The river cannot run from the eyes
downstream, as the spirits seek.
Flashlights steal sight, the 
way of the wanderers.

Red wrapped, gold glittering
processions up shoulder-high 
through streets 
shouts rise.

Laid bathed and oiled,
Shiva licks the body clean
cleanse
sandalwood fire flicks,
curls
cremates.

What remains 
passes on
passes down
Ganga’s own. Flowing
East and ever.

 

 

 

RIVER SETI

The Weaver’s been busy, sketching 
the skies, a pastel gauze trips over
to drowse out the hillside,
and us,
we dream down the riverbed.

 

As the tide takes us the vulture turns
his hunch, a conch calling
the horn blower’s brigade.

 

Silver trees twist, uprooted and
searching. Arms out reach
for passing waters, catching khata -
silken shreds, hang down dusty.

Bamboo hands shoot
spreading fingers
and tongue-ember fire.

 

From the Mountains’s hip juts 
island grey, crumbling
at the Water’s edge. 

Time lies in layered
clay cast husks.

 

The jade river runs

 

Mountains rise from swollen ink-pools into
snow frothed caps,
sinking away into the swell.
Appearing and disappearing,
above and below.

 

 

 

UP DOWN ROUND

 

Up down round
Up down round
Dust rust local bus, sweep
swerving, Tarmac-smacking
marigolds flying.

Sun lug beat.
Up down round
Up down round

Red root shrine;
Bamboo offering.

 

 

 

FEWER YOGA

Boat
Candle
Arrow

 

The lake watches our waving bottom asanas.

 

Hazy clouds hang heavy and thick,
as the skies pour into the valley.

 

 

 

CLOUD WEAVER

 

The tailor weaves a mountain cap,
to quiet the ears of silent scape.

 

Pierce the silk shawl veil,
the needle of the compass North,
through the mist we wind.

 

The haze dissolves beneath,
as if it were a dream.

 

 

 

BOUDHA

 

We join the surging current of people circumbulating the stupa clockwise.

Butter lamps are lit with woollen spun wicks,
Buddha beads, held in the left hand, count paces and prayers,
Mantras are muttered under breath.

Prayer wheels encircling the stupa spin wildly.

And we spin in circles;
We become the mandala.

At the centre of the universe,
At the centre of ourselves.