New Poems
Amid the marigolds, the laughter, the cheer,
Sat a mother, her joy laced with a tear.
Her daughter, the bride, a radiant glow,
Circled the fire where vows would grow.
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Miscellaneous are the
desires born in our psyche.
Some are satiated,
deem them 'okay'.
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I keep my memories
on my shoulder
A slight scratch on it
I do not accept
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Der Stuhl trägt mich,
stumm und fest.
Die Luft um mich,
unbewegt und still.
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De kamer is stil,
de tijd beweegt traag,
alle geluiden lossen op
in een onzichtbaar niets.
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The sky stretches wide,
a canvas of endless ink.
Pinpricks of light scatter across,
whispering stories older than time.
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A fragile balance,
held by threads of unseen hands.
Each breath, each step,
a quiet echo in the vastness.
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Lots of works at hand
No time to stand
If one wills to sleep
Something good he fails to keep.
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'And now to local news.
Thieves break into a local church and...'
Insignificant it appeared, this piece of news.
Burglars had broken into The Good Servant Church.
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What is not possible by other arts is possible only by poetic art;
For, Poetry only has the capacity to deal all subjects under one roof;
Poetry only has the power to say unknowable ideas by known words;
Poetry only can stay forever to live eternal life even if the creator goes away!
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Everywhere... in our society
Lord Krishna is presented to us
with Sri Radha
as her sweet boyfriend
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Today I'm grateful for James M. Barrie
when he created Peter Pan
the boy who would never grow up be a man…
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May we be blessed as we grow older….
not to make a fuss…
and no matter how old we grow
to take our child along with us
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A family purchased Peter Pan in the bookstore the other day…
and when it was time for them to go
I found myself smiling as I was reminded of a time…not so long ago.
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The rose rapes my nose with its presumptuous fragrance
Words of birds, songs penetrate ears, from these lascivious tree vagrants
Eyes assaulted by naked beauty exalted, my virgin senses aroused
Skin molested, by sun's rays protested, gently I submit, warmly roused
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When time lapses
into a single, boundless silence,
a moment stretches—
infinite, edgeless, untethered,
...
I stand on the edge, gazing in,
to contemplate the world outside,
caught between looking in and out—
wondering if what manifests outside
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The dust devils keeps blowin around
And I keep hearing the same old sound
I'm not a stranger on my own land
The soil under my feet has my blood mixed in the sand
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What is needed for enlightenment
is for the inner self to awaken,
to become eyes, ears, tongue,
nose, and skin—
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In the houses of God, worshippers gather, their hearts alight with devotion, yet their tongues speak languages they neither know nor understand. The sacred verses flow in Arabic, Hebrew, Sanskrit, English—each syllable recited with reverence but rarely with comprehension. The prayers rise like smoke, unanchored to meaning, as though the divine has decreed the native tongue unworthy of sacred communion. Even the sermons, meant to guide and inspire, are delivered in foreign cadence—Urdu to a Kashmiri congregation, for instance—a melody of words that struggles to reach the heart.
One wonders: how can this bridge of borrowed language connect the soul to the divine? How does a prayer, recited but not understood, ascend to the heavens with purpose? Does the divine not dwell in the language of the heart, in the simple, unadorned words that spring from the depths of our being?
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The key to the secret knowledge of true life
lies not in the external world,
nor in the accumulation of facts, but in the reclamation of our authentic essence.
It is only through this return to our core
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Denmark's war
When the Germans occupied Denmark during World War 2 the old king was not dethroned
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I am the first—not the last
Before Adam's creation
A breath before the dawn,
Before the stars whispered their names
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Ogen zwaar, als gordijnen die weigeren te sluiten.
Gedachten, als wolken, drijven traag
maar onrustig voorbij.
Het lichaam schreeuwt om rust,
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Underneath your wings
I find the quiet---
the kind that hums with the breath of trees
and whispers of unseen rivers.
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Born beneath the Norman skies,
Granville nurtured a boy of vision.
He grew amidst gardens,
a world painted with flowers and dreams.
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Every soul has a twin,
Once in a while it wants to entwine.
A soul shared with only one,
In various relationships, often.
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In the pursuit of spirituality, one of the hidden traps is the attachment to fleeting sensations that are mistaken for the true essence of spiritual growth. The belief that constant peace or positive feelings signify spiritual progress is a fragile illusion, one that easily crumbles when faced with life's challenges. This dependence on comfort and tranquility clouds the purpose of a spiritual journey, which is to cultivate resilience, stability, and the ability to meet adversity with grace. The longing for a spiritual utopia, free of imperfection, only deepens dissatisfaction and misdirects the seeker away from true contentment.
True peace lies beyond the surface of transient emotions, in the alignment with our innate nature—our Fitrah. This divine harmony, once lost in the fall from paradise, can no longer be taken for granted, and guidance from beyond the self is needed. The path to spiritual awakening requires a balance of inner work, self-discipline, and intellectual discernment—qualities that go beyond seeking sensations or avoiding discomfort. Sensational experiences, often emphasized in New Age spirituality, can become a shortcut to bypass deeper growth. They may offer temporary satisfaction, but they often feed into an ego-driven desire for comfort rather than true transformation. The seeker must transcend the conditioned desire for pleasure and pain, aligning instead with the deeper, enduring truth of the Fitrah—where goodness is found not in fleeting sensations but in the profound and enduring reality of divine harmony.
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Be still— to see the thread of creation
in the silence before the first word,
where no name is spoken,
where the Creator exists,
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De koude adem van de ochtend omhult de wereld,
en toch voelt de stilte zacht, als een warme omhelzing.
De bomen, kaal en trots, reiken naar de hemel,
hun takken als stille getuigen van de tijd.
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I fall into Satan's hands, and it seemed ‘cushion-like'
I see the world glittering and showing crimson pleasures,
Luminous bodies revolving around catching me;
Satan giveth me a vehicle for a ride around the world,
...
The cells in the body withers one by one,
As there is no oxygen and no respiration.
The cells die and releases enzymes,
Bacteria and fungi grow and eventually decompose..
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The day my lord returned from his banishment,
14 long years exiled from the world, his punishment.
No matter the reason, by treachery he was expelled,
Accepting his father's unwilling decision, he fulfilled.
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My Lord Krishna, another form of god,
Was born to uplift justice and to be a guide.
In this world due to decrease of righteousness,
And rising cruelty with no kindness.
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In the calm breeze of the night,
In the soft morning's light,
You never cease from my sight,
I forever will love you with all my might.
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Intimacy is not always physical,
It is a profound connection to a soul.
Intimacy is not detaching from clothes,
It is to witness and know one's emotional paths.
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Chained by love,
a weight both heavy and tight,
it pulls, it anchors,
a tether to the unseen depths of another soul.
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Vervreemd,
als een figuur zonder lichaam,
zwevend tussen werelden die niet ademen,
maar staren.
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Grim reapers are not always men,
Some appear to be beautiful with a grin,
They are not after my physical body,
But for my soul and they are bloody.
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In a garden of life, stands a tree tall,
The Kind of people often grows, a story to tell.
There are three kinds of people that grow and bloom,
Each makes us feel with their unique way and charm.
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I made a hit list of all,
That is pulling me down for my fall.
I will kill them one by one,
Until I rise, and they are gone.
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Every man must play his part,
Whether joyful or sad, it's the universe's art.
No one can escape the life's show,
For there's no place on earth we can go.
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Sharp Edge
Thin line
But high frequency modulation momentum
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Jij bent de belichaming van ware liefde,
een fluistering van eeuwigheid in een vergankelijk moment.
In jouw ogen weerspiegelt de essentie van alles,
het zachte en het sterke,
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Beichte,
ein Flüstern in der Dunkelheit,
nackt und schwer,
getragen von müden Lippen.
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The light of my heart has been forever extinguished
By the darkness of your words that made me
Hate your love intensely and fiercely, like
A poor sick person hates their pain.
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The rustle of the leaves
The gently swaying palm
The slow refreshing breeze
That acts like a balm
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The favor you bestowed upon me by bringing me into this world
Has long since transformed into torment and sighs.
I have always sought to find a meaning in life,
But too wounded by the world, I have lost myself forever.
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Berichten,
Worte, die reisen, ohne Gesichter zu sehen.
Zeilen, die flüstern, schreien, schweigen,
getragen von unsichtbaren Winden.
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An die Melancholie,
du stiller Gast in tiefen Stunden,
schwer wie der Nebel,
sanft wie ein erster Schatten.
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Dae sonder jou,
soos die wind wat waai oor leë vlaktes,
stil, maar onrus dra dit saam.
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Diep onder de grond,
waar het daglicht nooit komt,
bewegen mannen als schimmen.
Steenkool worst geboren,
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First we'll deport every illegal immigrant
Said the sitting president,
Then we'll rid those with a birthright citizenship
We will get rid of all of them really quick.
...
World nations celebrate Independence Day and Republic Day;
In their Constitution of Nation all agree to honour sovereignty,
Integrity and Independence of all other world nations sure;
Also accept non-aggression and non-interference in other
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Poetry along with
Utopian Horizon.
Galloping and alchemising breaths of voices from the past centuries along the rivers, from valleys and plains, depending from mountains and high lands,
The posttruth theatre of the absurdity and of the meaningful future of the bravest wise men has been ploughing the field of the present montages of moving_rhyzomic_fluxus soils of the original seeds of the good wil_l TAOED mindscaping energy of vibrated frequency land of the postconceptual wisdom.
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I return,
the weight of years carried softly,
each step a familiar echo on the path,
the air thick with memories,
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I left when the dawn painted the sky,
took the winding roads that led me away,
the mountains fading into a memory,
their towering forms a silhouette against the horizon,
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The mountains rise like walls,
tall and unyielding,
their shadows stretch across the valley,
a heavy blanket that stifles the sun.
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In the quiet dawn, where mist drapes the hills,
a girl stands at the edge of the woods,
breathes in the earth, the stories woven into the soil.
She gathers the whispers of elders,
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How dangerous can a book really be?
Words that can be smudged
Pages as fragile as a porcelain doll
Ripped, crinkled and wrinkled, their ink unrecognizable
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Imagine a world where every word
Ever spoken, ever written, ever uttered;
Simply faded away.
Just into the ether, leaving not a trace.
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You are a new and shiny book
Your pages are just waiting to be turned
Your words are just waiting to be read
Your covers are yearning to be held
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Are you looking to expand your knowledge?
Journey to a new world,
Learn about a time long, long ago?
I have the thing just for you!
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Crackle, crackle, pop
Pages smoldering in the streets
Instead of words searing themselves into minds
They scorch the pavement
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Ahem, we call this meeting to order.
An official gathering of
The Banned Books Club.
Please stand
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I sometimes hear people complain
of all the things we eat,
getting really hung up about
the consumption of meat,
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Overwhelmed and underprepared
I'm feeling weak like my soul has teared
I've succumb to the darkness once more
As an old friend knocks at my door
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I love you as the vastness of the world,
And yet our world lies within our soft heart,
I love your tenderness, light spirit, and mirth,
And your patience with my mood's changing chart.
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Mapless Mars
Imaginative words
In apoetic_innovative syntacticality
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Plant my heart somewhere warm
Plant my hopes and dreams
Pick up my leaves and leave my pieces
That have fallen underneath
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We're flowers that bloom in the snow
Flowers make me feel at home
I'm not sad, I'm alone
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The Postconceptual Question
The conceptual Meditatives
Assemblages of concepts
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Love rests on no foundation, no stone, no earth, no clay,
No pillar carved by mortal hands, no form that fades away.
It floats upon the endless sea, a tide that knows no shore,
An open sky, eternal blue, forever, evermore.
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The unraveling mind
There comes a time in your life when everything is wrong and nothing seems right.
When your sight starts to fail and your house seems like a jail.
When you become an annoyance to your family and the fighting goes on endlessly.
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Believe it or not
The Parson is right
We shall return with zeroes
Many zeroes. Let's be Heroes
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I'm done
I lost, everyone else has won,
I'm no pretender
I surrender.
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as does yours truly,
whose ecological ethos
goes out the window
into the cold freezing iceland
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they walk among us,
slipping through cracks in the drywall of laws,
hidden in neighborhoods where swings creak empty.
their eyes,
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The Southern Pinwheel is thought to possess
a nucleus double or dual core
due to how it happened to coalesce
as barred spiral galaxy; furthermore,
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In my sleepy realm,
Someone whispers to me,
'It's beyond the reach, '
But I say,
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There's always some fool eager to criticize
Full of the majesty of his own inflated ego
New clothes invisibly draped ‘round the convolutions of
His brain
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A mirror does not show me
What is in my mind?
It even reflects like a mirror
at me a certain distance
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(for a digital collage by James Koehnline, posted Jan.14,2025)
... ... ... ... ... ...
Looking at James Koehnline's picture of imaginary undersea creatures, my noggin started riffing on words like 'carapace' and 'casque.' A living thing crafts a seemingly fanciful covering to protect its vulnerable innards, sort of like an ornate treasure chest. Being encased in such proud armor ('cuirass') , the creature swaggers through times of blood and thunder. Ultimately the undissolved remains will remain like a 'catafalque'--- a fancy casket displayed as a memorial. The hypertrophied covering will become death's cenotaph and loom in the land of the living. By a wild coincidence, right around the time I was jotting down those 'C's, my friend John Olson was writing a prose poem, taking a riff on 'M-words' in a different direction. Apropos of carapaces, Fabienne Collignon writes: 'The fetish is a carapace: it is a fixed thing—it endures; it has an originating event—and a thing which fixes, has ordering power.' Mmm... mm-hmm... hmm-mm.
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Lavish the heart
Extend its beats
Seeing a happy face of a child
A peacock spreads its feathers
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There are those
who never
open their minds
to the possibility
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A day in Cascais
Storms and rain have blown away
Green grass grows on cracked pavement
...
Its reflection is
Still within,
It has brightened my soul
In a significant way,
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1/24/2025 9:52:56 AM # 1.0.0
