I transcribe, write down the words
spoken in Satsang.
I am not a scribe from ancient times,
but a trans-scriber,
a trans-former of spoken word into text.
This is not creative, you might say,
not like poetry—
but in its own way,
it trans-ports,
from trance to source,
from here to Here.
Call and Response
Are these cells echoes, calls of our ancestors?
Cries, prayers-struggles and triumps—
passed down,
so I may stand here, thriving.
The cells in my hands,
cells from millennia of life,
flowing now in me, my fingers...
allowing words to metabolize with grace,
and tell of sorrows, joys, and who we truly are—
Where do my loyalties lie?
And my longings?
Am I called to pass on
all I hear and feel?
My cells speak,
and listen too.
Deeper Into Yourself
If you are willing to fall
off the edge of the earth, off the brim of the sea,
off the verge of your ordered world...
You may discover
you've been holding on to nothing.
And you cannot fall off—
you can only fall deeper into yourself.
Bashing Against the Pane
A pair of bluebottles hum around the kitchen,
unbothered as I watch,
their bodies thumping against the glass,
again and again.
I walk to the window,
open it wide, and watch
as they fly back into the room.
Perhaps some flies prefer captivity
trapped by their hunger,
by their very name: "Housefly."
A
nd what of me?
Am I bashing against my own glass,
my own name: "Housewife"?
Maybe it is so.
Maybe it is not so,
Or maybe—
will I simply fly?
The Cloak and the Wind
Let me lay it down right here
on this moss-covered stone,
my cloak of countless pockets—
pockets stuffed for generations
with insecurities,
tales of human woe.
Just for an instant,
I lay it down,
drape it limp and idle
over this sacred ground.
Let longing lead me—
show me what remains
when my cloak of burdens
slips from my skin,
no longer holding the reins.
And I step forward,
cloak-less, unbound,
my body still heavy,
cold upon this earth.
Yet my spirit rises—
billows wide and seamless,
rides the wind, untethered,
blown across the endless sky.
Wakes of Joy
I am keeping vigil
with a touch as watchful as a bee.
I am playing
with a heart as open as laughter.
I am growing mindful
with a mind as full as an embrace.
I am...
waking up
with poems as joyful as can be.
Grateful Is Too Skinny a Word
Grateful is too skinny a word
to hold the joy that grows and grows—
seedcoats inside a pomegranate,
ripe to overflowing,
tended, watered
by You.
