Mirror.

April 18, 2013 § 6 Comments

I have no preconceptions
anymore. I am blanked.
I swallow all that comes
in my way, without disliking
or loving anything. Without
judging. Unmisted.
I don’t lie. I ain’t truthful.
I reflect.

Sometimes i am a strong woman
with golden brown hair, at
times i am as fragile as a new
born. But mostly, i am
silver. I don’t shine. I
don’t contain. I, just am.

I am a mirror.
Do you see your self
in me?

Guest Post : KB.

February 26, 2013 § 4 Comments

Riots of Affectation: A Minor Play in Three More Minor Acts.

  (for Susan, lover of the absurd)

1

Act One

What color is the rain today, or did you not notice?
Things happen quickly now. In this age it is predicted
That paper birds will be perfected. Are you thinking
About statues? No? Well neither then was I.
I heard the sky had lost its memory though, and forgetting
What it was, lost its balance and fell to earth
Breaking into chards of disenchantment. You’ll know
When coerced opinions begin acting confused. Remember
They are only acting and will end misused. Like Lear
They will spiral down, down, down, exiled in time
To Bolivia, where despotism is understood.
Stand here by the window, I want to see the disguise
Your shadow wears when you leave the room.

My, what pretty eyes you have. It is such a shame
What you read in the light of understanding
Is sugar coated Baudelaire
In which things are not so evil as they seem.
I say worse
For wear, they are bringing in a new lexicon.
This language is so badly used, it’s a wonder we can speak
To anyone at all. But, now that I think of it,
I came in here for a reason. Oh! What is the color
Of the rain today, or haven’t you noticed yet?

2

Act Two

Yesterday in my apartment tower
I could have sworn all the doors were surly,
Slamming shut, or opening with no one
Knocking on or closing them. Sometimes
It’s enough to make a person use the windows
Though a little overly dramatic this high up.
I wonder what became of all the dreams
That Frank Lloyd had, though Levitt
Was certainly more practical, and anyone
Could get one. There’s a problem when
The same dream is had by everyone,
As bad as Wagner having written
A sixth undiscovered eight hour opera
For somewhere in the middle of the cycle
Of Der Ring des Nibelungen. Get a gun.

3

Intermission

It is easy to believe; if you puncture night
It will bleed out and create a vacuum
Only light can fill. That illumination
Is the opposite of the dark is a Medieval
Point of view that does not hold a candle
To the proofs that occur now every day.
One might think that love has changed
To fit our age. But the only difference is
Now in my fantasies I can have you on a bed
Of magazines, subscribed to for just that purpose.

4

Act Three

Everyone who’s read the paper undermines the news:
Tuesday, for example, all the trains in France ran
Right on time, but in reverse making commuters
Disembark in places they had never been before.
Panicked women and children trampled hundreds
To be assured they’d gotten seated in the church,
But since the clocks were in sympathy with the rails
The conclave was much too early, god was still asleep.
It is sometimes wise to remind ourselves that a god
Awake, is a god who takes his wrath out on the poor.
It is a fact that wealth buys happiness and blessedness.
Non-believers please use the side doors when exiting.

5

Curtain Call

There are times that try the souls of men,
Perhaps the time has come to try a few heels,
Before they’ve a chance to put Humpty—Dumpty
Back together again.

~KB.

About KB:

KB is a wonderful blogger I know from WordPress. One of my favorite followers, because his comments always make me ponder. His poetry is just as deep. You must follow his blog, here. Because you are going to love his works if you think I write “well”. 🙂

Negativity.

December 3, 2012 § 31 Comments

i don’t want to write.

 

i don’t understand the point of writing.

i think it is meant to fuck with you.

to crush you, to beat you down.

 

writing isn’t for the logical. they know.

it’s for the irrational and contradicted.

it’s for the ones who mentally masturbate.

 

writing is a fallacy and i am a part of it.

 

no one wins, but the reader.

the writer, loses.

his sanity. his emotions. his words. his deepest desires.

 

we intentionally crush ever cell of our fucking brain.

so that we can squeeze out something worthy.

 

we try conveying our feelings with words.

you can’t do that.

words corrupt.

 

you’re fighting with reality.

reality has a gun.

boom boom!

Life: Haiku.

September 30, 2012 § 32 Comments

The moment you give up
chasing life, you’ll see the traces where
trees meet grass and intertwine.

P.S. I am going to be away for a few days. On a vacation. No mobile phone, no internet access. Just a camera and serenity. To a place where beauty resides. They have songs for it. The one that i have attached, is my favorite! 🙂

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hW_WLxseq0o

Zen- IV.

August 26, 2012 § 35 Comments

When you say, “it is a beautiful rose”, you are classifying it. And no rose can be classified because all roses are so unique and so individual that classification is just not possible. Don’t give it a class, don’t pigeonhole it, don’t put it in a box. Enjoy its beauty, enjoy its color, enjoy its dance. Just be there. Don’t say anything. Watch. Be in mo chao, a silent, serene reflection. Just reflect. Let the rose flower reflect in you; you be a mirror.

~Osho.

Zen-II.

June 3, 2012 § 36 Comments

 

You have lived for ten years with a woman and suddenly one day she is angry. And you had never thought that she would be so angry! For ten years you have watched her and she has been always so tender, so loving, so compassionate. And suddenly one day she is so  angry that she would like to kill you. Unpredictable!

And you were getting settled and you had started taking her for granted, and you were thinking that you knew her.

Nobody knows anybody. Neither she knows you nor you know her. We’re all strangers.

 

~Osho.

Thank you.

May 23, 2012 § 26 Comments

Thank you for the versions, the visions,
the poems, the stories,
the long nights, the early mornings,
the electric guitars in my head, the silence,
the chanting, the wailing.
Thank you for rinsing me,
unmasking me, washing me.
Thank you for filling my dark church
with candles of your affection.
Thank you for showing me the strength
of the sweet fire in us.
Thank you for the public temples and
private shrines; the questions and answers.
Thank you for the books, posters,
websites, unexpected parcels of grace.
Thank you for the path, and the
torches you carried along.

And thank you for not knowing me,
not understanding me,
not telling me how.

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