Thursday, May 28, 2009

Silence- two moods!

1)
Silence Between Us
Some days silences between us
seems so soft and warm...
a comfort of known
as an old blanket in winters
which enwraps me with out suffocating.
It doesn't have the sharp edges
of a broken mirror.
It fills the space around,
without intruding into my existence
into my body.
Fulfills the needs of skin
like an intimate caress,
like a smell one like very much.
sometimes the silence between us...

2)
Silence Around Me

Some days,
Silence around me
Cuts and bruises,
Like icicles.
Some days it makes me
breathless, with
Heavy mist and smoke.
It enwraps me and I can not
see you, call out your name
My periphery, my senses
Go numb
Inside, something still burns,
But
Dies slowly.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

When You Come- Maya Angelou

When You Come

When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.

Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,

I CRY.

Apology of a Strong Woman!

Do not think
I am too proud,
And too strong,
And too dry,
To ever cry.
Oh, you, for sure
Are mistaken,
That I do not weep.
I do, As Jesus did.
But only after
The corpse is cremated.
The visitors well fed,
Have left.
Only when,
The house is silent,
Empty and clean again.
I weep, alone.
For all the deaths
within and with-out.
Of innocence and smiles,
Of playful giggles and pure images,
Of fake loves and real losses
Of things near and far away.
And offer it to
Gods above,
as my true earning
My true offering.

Monday, May 18, 2009

I am not that woman (by- Kishwar Naheed

I am not that woman
Selling you socks and shoes!
Remember me, I am the one you hid
In your walls of stone, while you roamed
Free as the breeze, not knowing
That my voice cannot be smothered by stones

I am the one you crushed
With the weight of custom and traditions
Not knowing
That light cannot be hidden in darkness
Remember me,
I am the one in whose lap
You picked flowers
And planted thorns and embers
Not knowing
That chains cannot smother my fragrance.

I am the woman
Whom you bought and sold
In the name of my own Chastity
Not knowing
That i can walk on water
When i am drowning

I am the one you married off
To get rid of a burden
Not knowing
That a nation of captive minds
Can not be free.

I am the commodity you traded in
My chastity, my motherhood, my loyalty.
Now it is time for me to flower free
The woman on that poster,
Half naked, selling socks and shoes-
No no, I am not that woman!

A Poem dedicated to Mother Kali- God of death, time and transformation


Death is a woman (by....Ulrike Gerbig)

In the face without masks

Death is a woman

In the moment you know yourself

Death is a woman

At the end of all questions

Death is a woman

As the well of all answers

Death is a woman

At the end of all regrets

Death is a woman

In the liberation through tears

Death is a woman

As the relief from battle

Death is a woman

In the loving embrace

Death is a woman

As the end of all pain

Death is a woman

As the return to the source

Death is a woman

In the dreamless sleep

Death is a woman

In the endless peace

Death is a woman.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY ...befitting so many of us!

Wow! absolutely loved this one ... :)

seems an autobiography of all humans... but.... in second thought... even if we think it is US, its not!

Humans have un-imaginable ability to find or dig new holes to fall... even after changing the road!... And so much apt are the three new chapters added today by a friend!


AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN FIVE SHORT CHAPTERS (by Portia Nelson)

I
I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk

I fall in.

I am lost ... I am helpless.

It isn't my fault.

It takes me forever to find a way out.


II
I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I pretend I don't see it.

I fall in again.

I can't believe I am in the same place

but, it isn't my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.


III
I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it is there.

I still fall in ... it's a habit.

my eyes are open

I know where I am.

It is my fault.

I get out immediately.


IV
I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.


V
I walk down another street.

--------------------------------------------

Well...here comes the post script... as a friend wrote...

VI
I walk down that another street.

I miss the deep hole

So I dig one and fall in

I know where I am.

I get out immediately.

VII
I walk down that another street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk

I dug it.

I fall in.

I know where I am.

I sit there.

I feel lonely.

I get out immediately.

VIII

I walk down that another street.

I see the deep hole in the sidewalk

I make it bigger.

I fall in.

And still there’s space.

I sit there waiting.

She falls in.

I am not lonely.

We sit there.

Monday, May 4, 2009

The Invitation (by Oviah Mountain Dreamer)

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk
looking like a fool for love,
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched
the center of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of pain!
I want to know if you can sit with pain,
mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it,
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy,
mine or your own,
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic,
to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another
to be true to yourself,
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul,
if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty
even when it's not pretty, every day,
and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure,
yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"
It doesn't interest me to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up,
after a night of grief and despair,
weary and bruised to the bone,
and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire
with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what
or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you, from the inside,
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.