Meditation

guru, meditation, india

Tie the thread to the farmer!
Marry the Bride to the Groom!
Arrange a wedding for five billion people,
We are approaching the end!

Road rage is the immediate,
And sudden reconfiguration of,

A prior expectation and we are doing well,

The old lady, the Guru and I,
We are making effort.

It is,
In this moment,
A crisis which kills on the streets of America, and
People are cruel.

Just off the ashen pavement, obsidian in the dark a boy is playing,

PlayStation, so –

Kurukshetra! Ping,
Lakshmi! Ping,
Mohammed! Buddha! Ping, ping.

The lady looks hypnotised,
I am cold,
And people are cruel.

They have left the Guru here and gone to bed,
Can you imagine that?

♦Picture♦ PJ Kaiser

– evocative, short poetry –

Puja

wpid-puja1.jpg

And suddenly there is life;

Cross legged,
Bug eyed,
Oiled and massaged in the temple,

Groomed by a priest in,
Orange robes and,
Fat, fat

Ghee smeared on painted plywood,
Cheeks,

Frantic efforts to recall the past-times of,
Gods,
Frolicking on Earth,

Right next to the toilet,
Near the paddocks,
In this life.

Planes punch through the,
Sky at the nearby airport,

More planes than it seems,
India has a right to;

And the man across from me,
Is fingering a grain of rice in his pocket,

Sweetened at the alter by the,
Guru’s tears,

and
smuggled through the airport check,

just so he can swallow it now,
as his flight number is called.

Photo – LotusSculpture

-evocative short poetry-

Love the sinner, not the sin

image

I go to church and sit at the back while you tell me I’m going to hell

I go to church and sit at the back while you announce the Dates for ‘Men’s Breakfast’

I go to church and sit at the back while you undress my sin, wanting to love me naked

Stripped, beaten, unrighteous, unholy, I sit at the back and go to church, every Sunday.

I go to Church.

I go to Church.

Demon

short poetry, God, felony, criminals, death, purgatory

You would walk into a quiet house,
In a quiet neighbourhood and,
Take a young girl,

Into the woods,
And rape her,
Leaving a father disfigured,

You would,
Take a husband,
In the middle of the night,

And break his legs,
And electrocute him,
Because he will not salute your
Blown up image,

You would,
Empty bank accounts,
Nurtured for years,

By elderly couples who,
Just want rest,
And something leftover for grandchildren,

You would dismantle life this way,
And bear no burden?

I tell you,

There were angels in the courtroom,
And in the playground,
And on the plane,

But I was not one of them.

I will find you and,
Eat you up.