We’re One

How strange

That love must have rituals

That elaborately and

With excessive pomp and show

Declare on a fixed date

Year after year

The design of our love.

Of course, this works beautifully

When one has to live up to the lie

Of words and sentiments

That were, in the first place,

Exaggerations of plain feelings

That would otherwise go unnoticed

And unheard

In the loud and garish spectacle

Of a theatrical world.

Love is essence, not feeling

It’s not a hope, or an ideal

Neither is it a needy prayer

It’s there in our midst

When we speak through silence

Needing nothing

To decorate our being

Or to celebrate our love

(It’s not an accomplishment)

We’re no longer together

We’re one.


It’s Not a Small Thing

To be given the chance

To learn something

Isn’t a small thing

It means that your heart and mind

Have qualified to receive

The gift of knowledge.


They’ve gone through

The treachery

Of phony knowledge

And paid a heavy price

For ignorance…

And survived it!


A humbling experience

At some point

Has earned you the merit

Of this moment

The realization that

Knowledge can only be received, not claimed.


That moment

When your receptive heart

Is sitting at the feet

Of a knowing preceptor

And listening intently

To words that make perfect sense…


That moment is not a small thing.


Lose It

Reality doesn’t necessarily abide in

The architecture the world has designed…

There exist men of high morality and character

Wearing the face of convicts in prison cells…

And there are murderers and rapists

In the guise of priests in places of worship…

The best teachers and students

Don’t necessarily sit face to face in elite institutions

But may be living in old, decrepit workshops, inns and shanties…

The best poet may not be found in between the hardbound covers of a book

But may be speaking his heart to an unlettered ear in a tavern…

The best art may not always be in elegant homes and galleries

But may be lying neglected in a corner occupied by a homeless man…


To know life then…

One must learn to do away with a contrived sense

To look outside of the shape and structure of things

And meet life bare and naked in mind

With the wisdom that understands

That knowledge gained

Must be knowledge lost.


I know you see me live

And ask of me all that I can give

But I’ve always wondered why

We don’t see each other die

Things often taken a turn

When the last remains burn

So easily we let go

Of all unworthy sorrow

And see clearly through moist eyes

That death claims us


long before we actually die.

Getting Real

The Real and The False

The problem is-

Exist not as two, but are one

Not white, not black

The fog in my mind

Is a dense, ambiguous grey…

It reveals nothing

I’m left to speculate

About reasons for my pain

For my suffering… For my challenges…

The only thing I know

Is that I’m ignorant of the Truth

That I can’t see beyond this lying,

Indistinct grey haze…


That’s my only and most primary sense

Of the Real.

Not Me

Memory persisted

Old battles were recalled

The same arguments were replayed

The same reactions followed

I resolved to deal with this

I was eager to put this behind me

But what was this?

What is ‘me’?

I began to search for answers

And the harder I looked

The clearer it became…

Existence had no trace

Of my conflicts

Nor any interest in ‘me’.

The problem, the memory

Were mine alone.

Memories had molded my mind

Memories had left me with joys and sorrows

Memory needs more memory to be…

The mind is a mad king

A sovereign who usurps experiences

And calls them his own.

Without the mind

I just am…

Memory is not me.

The Last Hurdle

Life changed me

Just as much as

I changed through life


Old sentiments were discarded

Compulsions disguised as affections

Had now vanished


I distanced myself from the unnecessary

And felt no moral need

To appease the disgruntled


I felt no empathy

For the irresponsible

Nor interest in the dramas gripping their lives.


Repetition is a chronic condition

That cannot be cured

By either reason or rage.


I no longer saw the sense

Of paying a price of solitude

For the lesser charms of company


The desire to be surrounded

By relationships and

To be attended to, adored and celebrated-also gone!


All has left me

But this voice within

That judges me for drifting away


Telling me

It’s a fault I need to correct

That in the end I’ll be left alone.


I know

That it’s a matter of time…

The voice too will fade into the distance


A faint murmur

And then nothing…

Nothing, but oneness.