the miracle

when the dormant
self awakens,
the world wakes up
with a magic wand,
the miracle
happens

getting back

in darkness,
I was dreaming...
my hands flew
away, as birds,
my head,
a cage broke
in an instant
into pieces,
I heard a cracking
sound,
my feet melted,
chains transformed
as a garland that
freed as flowers, 

slowly, I gave away
everything I had
with grace,
my body, 

its parts adorned
the garden, the sky,
the ground,
yet, I was complete,
until I woke up, 

in a second, I got
back everything I lost, 

broken,
with thoughts,
words, 

imperceptible virus,
black fungus,
white lies,
cold wars,
global warming, 

I know I will get back
when the day breaks
into silence,
being in the dark, is it
ever so disorienting,
I wondered
wide awake

No one knows

Death is on the rise,
the world, a cemetery.

Countless lives succumb
to the terror, unable to breathe,
without any hearse,
bodies burnt, buried. 

The outfit has suddenly
become white, for the
dead and the alive. 

Leaders cheering the
helpless healthcare workers. 

Little hope to efface the virus
from the face of the earth,
the black fungus adding to
the loss of life, vaccines
generating revenue from
the locker of the hearth. 

TV channels earning their TRPs,
eyeballs glued to the blue horror,
addicted to the scores of the
game, to the useless conspiracy
theories, and to many other
stories; the naysayers, writing
their lines in the debris
of hopelessness. 

The imperceptible Tsunami
is on, the nature is intact,
it had taken the village
by the storm. 

The new normal is
that the world is on fire,
forests are not burning.

Caregivers, nurses, doctors,
the only harbingers of hope,
the silent workers. 

Innocents dying, while
disparate parts of the globe,
thinking in their boxes,
unable to counter the challenge,
they're counting the footfalls,
blaming, and counting. 

Families breaking into tears,
the crematorium grounds
lost in the pyre. 

How did it originate,
what is the remedy,
whose wars are we
fighting, which act of
the play's going on, no
one knows, neither the
martyrs, nor the players,
nor those selfless
heroines and heroes. 

mind

mind
a broken mirror
piercing painfully
into the mundane, 
with a glue of belief
it becomes spotless,
scratchless where, who
I am reflects

...

with practice of
yoga kriya,
like a sculptor,
a chisel and a hammer,
I create an idol from
a stone, when it is done
I become free to worship
myself as a devotee

...

in bhakti the rituals
are tools to experience
bliss, to found the father;
but those ingredients
are not with the intent
of getting his company, those
rites are for discarding
the habits that had
separated me from me

...

mind is the prison,
a poison of treason;
it is also a prism that
helps to show and see
the light beyond reason

It's not a prayer

I am Atman.
I don't have love
In me, I am love.
I don't have happiness
In me, I am happiness. 

I am established in wisdom.
My mistake was to
Come in contact with Prakriti.

My goal is to severe
The last link with nature.
Nature, that derived all the strength
From me, and is now making me
Subservient, what a pity. 

Eternal peace, freedom
From all false identities
Is the sole reason for my
Existence. 

Made for each other

The sky is freely
tied with the earth,
a bondage, or a
bonding;

wherever they are,
they're seen
as a whole,
forever together. 

Throughout their
journey,
they have a sense
inter-dependence,
and their own identity.

a couple of small verses

my sense organs,
a disoriented cattle,
grazing; a clumsy 
shepherd with a broken
flute, I watch helplessly

...

yoga means to connect
with who I am,
it also disconnects
me from nature

...

the sun - 
clouds cover,
slowly they go
away, I discover
the absence of
relationship between
the sun and the clouds,

the moon -
playing with the fish
in a dancing pond;
there is no link between
the moon, the pond,
the fish, and the breeze,

actions lie in the images,
day and night

no answer

why was the world created,
aimless, weak logic,
but it was created, like
a miserable magic

...

we know killing is bad,
revolvers, pistols, guns
in the hands of children
of all ages; wealth created
by manufacturing such
toys, playful instruments,
films that market killing,
deceit, treachery, violence
gain on visibility

...

good and bad,
my mom must have 
taught me to gang-rape 
a woman, the skill 

to kill, and steal, 

she must have taught me
to open fire here and there

...

flocks of sheep,
coward, flocking together,
gaining strength, creating
a ruckus in the world

...

the world, the only abode
we want to destroy through
thoughts, words, and actions

...

the rich becoming richer
the poor poorer,
explanations, written down,
remedies, written off

the ping-pong ball

the seed and the fruit
bad, or good
playing the ping-pong ball
game, perfect for all

the pen

pen,
an eye of the storm,
in the middle of chaos,

the smell of the ink,
the touch of the skin,
the look,

shades of identities
in the noisy crises
struggling to 
write a horrid,
a borrowed story,

a silent traveller
bewildered in the crowd
of unspoken words

the device finally triumphs
to crack the squall
with a sound of a crack