Unravelled yarn

I sat  unravelling a mass of wool

As tangled as my identity.

One strand at a time, from the vicious loop

Towards a  possible harmony.

 

I am my country,

My colour , my creed

I am my gender,

My language, my breed

I am  wha t ” I” think

I ‘m what “You” see in me

A  prisoner enchained,

A  spirit that’s free.

 

I am my bones, my muscles, my cells

I am my genes ,  my chemistry

I ‘m  my  own compass to chart my seas

I’m  nothing but my destiny.

 

I am joy, I ‘m  sorrow

I am guilt, I am greed

I am what they taught me

I am what I read

I ‘m my past unfolding

I’m the seed, I’m the tree.

I am limitations

I am possibility.

I am the expanse of the  limitless sky

I’m  the mystery of the abyss  deep

I am the songs that I scribble and sing.

I am the secrets that I keep.

 

I am a poem, I’m a prayer

I’m a circle, I’m a square

I’m an island, I’m a stream

I am buried, I am bare.

I’m the cycle that repeats

I am life, I am death

I’m the silence that enfolds

My heartbeat and my breath.

 

I ‘m the bird in flight and I am  the worm

I am   the mountain and the meadow green

I ‘m the lashing  storm and the gentle breeze

I’m the seraphic being and the monster mean.

 

I am peace, I’m perfection

I’m the truth in  illusion

I’m the music in you

That sings in me.

I  dwell  in beauty

I’m Om and Ameen

I am the saint and the sinner

I’m the dawn serene.

 

 

I am and I’m not, I’m awake in my  dream

I am awareness and  eternal   bliss

I am what I am,  I’m not what I seem.

I am the kisser as well as the kiss.

 

I  am  in the conch shell

And the rosary beads

I am that  ocean

To which all rivers lead

I am questions at rest

I am below , I am above

I am the answer I seek

I am joy, I am love

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something there is in me

This poem is in response to the following post in “Into the Bardo, a blogozine’

http://intothebardo.wordpress.com/2013/09/25/writers-fourth-wednesday-literary-allusion/

Something there is in me
That doesn’t love a wall.
Separation always pains.
To think of destiny
As an individual call
Is like thinking of rain
As separate from the stream
And the ocean , deep
And the blood in our veins.
Life, to me, is like a common dream
Shared by us in sleep
Though different memories remain.

The first sentence has been taken from Robert Frost’s poem “Mending Walls” with a slight modification. This is the original version:

“Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Robert Frost

 

The singing stones

The river flowed on
Lying on the river bed
The stones surrendered
Of itself
Bit by bit.

The years moved on
Where Time’s reins led
And the stones marvelled
At themselves
And their grit.

 

The River

The river knows no restraint

It has to reach the sea.

From the mountains, when it flows

It revels in its spirit free.

Through jagged rocks and ravines deep

It wears its way along.

The forests smile when they hear

The lyrical lilt of its song.

Mud and silt and fallen leaves

Hold hands in friendly cheer

And race down in a rush and sweep

Without  a speck of fear.

In the plains where they reach

They slow down to catch their breath

From Nature’s lips , they have learnt

Lessons of life and death.

The stillness behind a lofty dam

Is neither right nor real

The river flows  through highs and lows

Till it finds its own level.

 

The world needs more love letters

This poem is in response to the following link

http://magicinthebackyard.wordpress.com/2011/09/02/free-write-friday-love-letters-welcomes-hannah-katy/

Also log on to http://www.moreloveletters.com/

Inside of us, there is a swirling sea
Of anger, hate and fear
And each huge wave sweeps relentlessly
As through our lives, we steer.

The waters rush over rugged rocks
And amidst slimy, tangled weeds
The distant shore sure seems to mock
When our bruised spirits bleed.

Darkness lurks behind the setting sun
In the shadows prowls the night
O’er the horizon, clouds on the run
Dusk puts up a losing fight.

The cold descends like a blanket dense
Not a star shines in the sky
The silence seems so immense
As the hours slink slowly by.

But just when it can’t get more bleak
The turbulence does end.
And the words of hope that the air then speaks
The despairing heart befriends.

It’s early yet to let the paddles rest
The striving will go on.
But then will come at Fate’s behest
A new resplendent dawn.

 

What am I?

This is written in response to the prompt on the following link:
http://magicinthebackyard.wordpress.com/2011/08/12/free-write-friday-do-you-know-who-you-are/

What am I?
Cells and tissues
Blood raging through?
My beliefs and views
That I thrust on you?

The rise of a wave
Pulled by the heavens afar?
A truant from the grave
Under the spell of a star?

A soul that’s been writhing
In anger and pain
Barren land that’s been waiting
To be graced by the rain?

A bit of the bamboo
A chunk of the weeds?
A slice of the song
Slipping through the reeds?

A self that’s been bound
By sorrows and strife
Going round and round
Through the circle of life?

A speck of dry dust
In the wind that is sown?
A lasting abundance
In which “I” will drown?

What am I?