poetry from another dimension

Archive for November, 2010

terrestrial serenade

resting on the shore
in the arms of the beloved
sprinkling kisses and stars
veritable showers of joy
a celebration of being

wrapping arms around me
the whisper of sweet nothings
begin like molten caramel
then mutate
into an agenda
of the movie
would have me star in
wait, this was never a competition
it was love’s sharing

the angel whispers “wake up, natalie”

heart beat frozen
sorrow and disappointment
kisses and stars
lay neglected and wilting
on the green grass
now turning brown

scooping the treasures
not repossession
but protection
fear that they will die of neglect
kisses and stars
having not been well received

by the
warm soft heart
trapped in the
gilden cage

may you be free
planting closing kisses on
the cheek of the beloved
sandpapery stubble
warm breath

“okay’ i tell the angel “i’m ready to go”

padding down
to the river’s edge
soft soles crush
brown blades
toes sinking
into wet dense earth
slipping down the bank
splashing in the current
jagged rocks pressing
tender feet

climbing aboard
tiny boat
propelled upstream
against the current
cool water
splashing sides
seeking the honest
clear carefree heart
awaiting my own

‘what you are seeking is seeking you”
wind whispers blowing through tangled hair

arrival on a cosmopolitan shore
friends issue jovial greetings
we traverse the path

up the mountain
brown grass and rocky outcroppings
from the top of the mountain
gazing down
sea below

“do you mind” i ask
‘of course not” it’s a loving send off
i drop the bag and the big heavy coat
when their acquisition occurred

naked and free
accepting solitude
diving into the ocean
and deep
an embrace
hugs of green and brown
and liquid kisses transformed
into infinite shades of blue
unlatching the door
this wild soft animal heart
never born
never dying
showers of kisses and stars
pour out into the being of this
terrestrial body

dropping into rock and
mud and sea



divine rhythm

Divine Rhythm

opens his mouth
to the beloved
a tumble of rhythms
and notes
of sound
spill into
not yet
having come
into being

this speech
the beat
i know
i know
it emerges

it’s potency
and then

rhythmic revelations

can you hear the syncopation
on the sidewalks
of New York?


landing in a valley
of breath
heart beat of sound
wind blown kisses
of sublime rhyme
without a word

I found an image of Nataranga with this ecstatic look on his face unlike anything I had ever seen before…I clicked to copy it and the word “FORBIDDEN!” flashed on the screen.  Okay, I’ll just use this instead.



what does it really take to get to the top of the heap?

it was
i know
but I had to ask

if money was no object
what would you communicate

everyone looked perplexed
the conversation lapsed back into
the market

do we really have a free market?
or freedom of speech?

is there art without
a buyer?

or is it all just governed by the bell curve
of purchases

two blocks away
academia embraces
the creative writers of the next generation

i wonder sometimes
if i should go
take advantage of the

get a few impressive names
under this belt of
who’s who that I have studied with

i’ve done that before
it never worked

that the market gibber
will ish this

not because i don’t love the
but because it seems to me
that the ones who master the market
are never bound by it.

on writing

no writing today
it’s just not happening….

and then away from the desk
neurons fire
images form
words and images flit across the blank page of this mind
they are good ones,
I think

“it was not a good day for writing
it was a good day for editing
cloudy and damp
the house was clean and tidy
the plants watered
the tomatoes from the roof garden ripened on the shelf
it was a mystery, how that happened
narayani annapurna sat down at the desk to transcribe …ah ..,…ah…”

what was transcribed?


is that a word? transcribed? oh no, passive voice
what did she transcribe?

“you are trying too hard”
the voice said
are those tomatoes ripening mysteriously?

/*the experts are not fond of adverbs*/

frozen like a deer in the headlights
(uh oh, is this a cliche?)

what kind of job is this that one sits in a room by oneself
and either restructures ones thought
or doesn’t

wondering what a writer does
on a day like this
where everything feels forced

/*what does a writer do, she wondered*/

can you transmit the flow of thinking
onto the page without judgment or criticism?

this, she cried, is a job for failed meditators
or expert ones, depending on how
one looks at the thing

what the helll is wrong with this sentence anyway, maybe it WAS a dark and stormy night

is it the wrong tree?



maybe this was god’s way of saying

YOU are barking up the wrong tree


(*inner seething, mild*)

stop dreaming

says the guru

stop dreaming

wake up

(*to what?*)

to the realization the world

is naught but suffering

(*so what you are saying is

I should sit

on this cushion and

close my heart to

this big beautiful world*)

you are dreaming

(*since when was a dream wrong?)

(*dreams built aeroplanes*)

(*invented medicines*)

(*painted waterlilies*)

(*fell in love with the wrong person for the right reasons*)

(*thus transcending the division between right and wrong*)

(*there’s a field out beyond that difference I’ll meet you there*)

(*wrote poetry*)


it’s not permanent the “Self” is

the “Self” does not change

(*oh, look the jade plant is flowering again*)

(*what was that, i’m supposed to be unchanging?*)

(*who came up with that idea?*)

(*I’d rather die first*)

(*ha ha ha*)

(*and of course be born again*)

(*and again*)

(*and again*)

(*hell if i’m going to have to do this over and over again*)

(*I may as well enjoy myself*)

(*and all those different bodies i get to wear*)

*young ones, middle aged ones, old ones*)

you will always be disappointed

(*maybe that’s just part of life*)

(*i could enjoy my disappointment*)

(*could be fun*)

you will be unfulfilled

(*forced out of complacency and into growth*)

[**you are barking up the wrong tree

the guru says, vehemently**]

“Oh really?  And who are you speaking for?” i respond



outside the window

a sunset

then a night filled with stars

people laughing

and singing

out this


celebrating god goddess all that is

in the life they have



(*is it irreverent to speak to the guru this way?

i suppose irreverence implies the existence of


“what i see is,

its god’s dream,

and we are in it.

deny the dreaming

you deny the source

of the dream

I suppose,

barking up the wrong tree,

is relative”


i don’t know who this dude is, but apparently we are contemplating the same things

wishes of an early morning

if only this heart could be
as awake
and full
and expanded as the one
i feel in you

prison walls

prison bars
and batting wings
don’t let them tell you
it can’t be done

the streets are paved with gold
but not like you think
not pocketed impermanence
possessed security
no-it’s the place where dreams
are acted upon

like hollywood

all a dream
dreams of lack
dreams of abundance
dreams of fame and fortune
and love
and romance

you created this collective dream
and now you are living it

once in prison
a felonious friend
walking in customary circles

around the prison yard
(one hour a day of light only)

spied a wise man, walking
in a straight line
eschewing the circular groove
of the similarly shackled

ankles bound
never to run
can you believe that?
yes it’s still done
shackled ankles
and my friend tells me
they do try to dig themselves out
with spoons
it’s a true story
but then
don’t we all

try to dig ourselves out
with spoons and walk in
well worn grooves
that go nowhere

so my friend

imprisoned for life

went to ask the dude
what was up
this was no dude, really
they called him yaya

“i walk that way” yaya said
“because of the space
in there center
no one there”

in silence they sat on the edge
of confinement

“your prison”
the yaya said
“is in here”
his head

“unlock your mind
and you will fly up out of these prison walls
and over the heads of all those
who have oppressed you”

and so the yaya
became the teacher
of the felonious monk
inside the walls of the state’s
sacred abbey of reformation
the land of reluctant saints
rebelling against god’s call to surrender
well, some of them, anyway.
it may be like the
alpha and omega
of the whole journey

yaya taught him to meditate
and to consume nothing harmful
only that which was good
and to fast when no goodness was

before long
a life sentence was commuted
and the felonious monk flew free

perhaps this is the only story
the only question we are being asked
you have wings
but their use is optional
will you use them?
or will you fly?
do you believe more
in the walls of the prison
or in the wide open sky

confined by the collective dream
will you step into the prison yard
where no one is standing and

dream your own dream?