Better Days

Some would look at me and say, 

“He’s seen better days.”

That might be true, but I would counter

by saying, “Today was a very good day.”

And, “I will see even better ones in the 

future.” For though my body and my mind

have absorbed much punishment, my 

soul has continued to rise, just as

a tree that is tested by heavy winds

and lightning strikes, whose bark gets

twisted and warped over time, continues

to rise. Better days? Perhaps. But this

has been a fine day. I have recognized

beauty as more precious than I ever 

have recognized it before. That, to me,

is a wonderful success. I have never

been closer to God. I have never known

myself more closely, I have never loved

myself more deeply, even as my eyes

have never been so faded, and so

wide-open in all my life.

Words Like Leaves

Words are like leaves falling in Autumn

slowly upon the air, turning and dipping

gracefully on their curves and edges,

somewhat buoyant but falling, falling nonetheless.

Like the trees, we shed these words that

have grown too heavy. Sometimes they

have already lost their meaning by the time

they fall—just cumbersome detritus that must 

be expressed so that we, as trees, might live. 

But sometimes, they are filled with a colorful 

magic that expresses the living soul, that reach 

the ground alive and sparkling. These are the leaves 

which children gather, that lined up one by 

one upon the grass make a poem.

Words like leaves in Autumn fall, and these truths

we speak get tossed around by the breeze. 

You can watch them dance around you

and gather the ones you find most beautiful,

to ponder on later as you sit and simply breathe.

Dream of the East

In a field, I saw a great Guru of the Akali Nihangs, riding on his gray horse, wearing the Dastar Bunga upon his head, and the electric blue Khalsa Swarupa over his body. His eyes, dark and piercing, gazed at me from his handsome dark face. Around his wrists were six silver chakram, and a kirpan in its silver scabbard rested at his side. He spoke a language of a thousand tongues, and I stood petrified. More and more demonstrative he became in his speech, urging me, demanding me, but to what? Finally, he let out a great yell, kicked his horse and galloped away. I watched him recede into the distance, toward the great sun setting in the west. When he had disappeared completely, darkness reigned, and the stars rode across the sky like the great warrior Gurus of the Akali Nihangs.

Poem Heard on the Shores of Mystic Lake

I. Introduction

Like wind-born words from a faraway country

in a language like that of the sonorous sea

this poem arrived as I lay in the golden hour

beside Mystic Lake, amidst somnolent dreams.

Troubled by thoughts of loves I had squandered 

out of carelessness and foolish pride,

I hadn’t slept the night before and I saw visions

as the water rippled beneath the sunlight.

Women I saw, dressed in Victorian dresses, 

being helped into carriages by men in suits,

and soldiers upon their silver horses riding,

blowing their trumpets in victorious pursuit.

So beautiful it was, I strained so as not to fall asleep

for I knew that an empty blackness awaited me there,

and once I’d waken, I’d have to return to the life

whose burdens and responsibilities I hated to bear.

But my eyes were so heavy, and I could not resist.

And just as my eyes were beginning to close,

this poem was whispered into my ear,

and as if I’d been electrocuted, I awoke.

I stood and, full of vitality, ran back to my home

where I took up my pen and wrote down this poem.

Now, I offer it to you, my friend, as one who, so it seems, 

is bound by chains to his life, and to his pen:

                    II. The Poem

Dreams are fickle, flighty and fleeting.

Conjured as quickly as they come to quiescence,

like a tempest or zephyr they pass 

in their own singular and mysterious cadence,

always leaving behind a changed mind—

more aware of death and more awakened

to the beauty and brevity of life and its pleasures

which are manifold and ever nascent.

And who’s to say whether a dream of day

which comes to us in the night

is not the soul’s way of telling us

to be bold and walk out into the light?

Or whether a dream of falling to our doom

is truly a warning from our soul

to live our lives to the fullest 

before we die and pass from this world?

It is up to us to decide the meaning behind our dreams,

which ones we let go and which ones we follow,

though we may never truly decipher them

and though they might bring us only sorrow.

But whether our dreams bring us misery or joy,

there is wisdom to be gained from all.

They teach us to linger long in what is healing

and to rise up quickly when we fall.

 

Go Ahead, Weep

Go ahead, weep

for all of life’s fleetingness.

See how quickly the tears,

pregnant with the crux

of your pain, dissipate

and disappear forever?

These tears, blessed 

by the priest of your sorrow,

baptize your weary eyes,

and tomorrow’s sun, though

we cannot see it,

is already on the rise.

Its light, like a bullet,

ricochets off the moon

and pierces the eyes,

emptying them of tears.

Oh sacred moment!

You pass through our hearts

like water through a sieve.

If we could but grasp you

and keep you with us,

surely even the stars then

would seek our counsel

and make wishes 

upon our luminous souls. 

A Trifling Matter

I finally found the courage to tell her

what I had waited for months to tell her:

Quite simply, that I had acted foolish

and had only wanted to impress her.

Naturally, she assured me that 

there was no need for me to be sorry,

that she understood it all, and, smiling,

bid me: “good evening.”

I knew I had just been rejected, and I

sadly skulked away, not yet thankful

for her subtle cruelty, which so 

swiftly clarified the boundary

that I had crossed when, unsolicited,

I had given her my poetry.

Now it all seems a very trifling matter.

These love games always appear so dire

until we get a chance to count our losses,

which in the end essentially always amounts

to nothing.

Talking

Let us talk of God for a while.

And yet, how can we speak of that which

we know nothing of?

Then let us talk of love for a while.

And yet, what is love if not an extension of God?

What you are really after is the Truth.

But Truth cannot be had by speaking.

Even that which I just spoke has its exceptions.

Then what shall we speak of, my love?

There is nothing in this world that is worthy 

of your words. Be silent, and accept this kiss

as a testament to Truth, love, and God.

And where have the shadows gone, my love?

All I see is this impalpable light.

They have gone back to the source,

as has our love. Leave them be there.

This light that you see, that is the unity,

the Trinity come together as one.

Let it enter your heart, and sing.