Poetry, spiritual, nature, oceans, love, trees
I wear the skin of living
to contain the tumult within
it presses at the edges
of escape
I speak the sound of words
to give us comfort in the drone
of illusion
we shake the hands of meaning
and walk off shaped like pieces
in the perfect puzzle
of our lives
A hundred of this
two of that
the season turns
who can count the leaves
a thousand of this
one of that
son of god
who breathes and speaks
of love
the seasons turn
the leaves fall
pain and darkness don’t go away
but sunshine waits
under every leaf
What do you swallow
when the world
goes down your throat
what do you eat
when the world
is inside you
what do you see
when the world
is in your eyes
what do you think
when the world
is in your thoughts
who can you be
when the world
is in your mirror
Did you ever come to know something
then discover that you have always
known that
or maybe you realized
that you should have always
known that
or you could have always
known that
or you wish you had known that
fifty years ago
maybe it has been tapping you
on the shoulder for fifty years
trying to get your attention
and you’ve been saying
stop bugging me
I already know that
There is no original way
to pass through doorways
in the dark
it has already been done
in every dream
that can be dreamed
desperate people
have fought for their passage
with armed guardians
of the Same
everything that seemed so new
and exciting
is soon frayed at the edges
is there a rot that grows
from the inside out
or the certain cycle of death
and renewal
on the planet ships
cruising among the stars
The roaring silence
fills my inner windstorm
as I sway from side to side
bouncing off the invisible blue walls
of my bulging world
there appears to be a direction
up and down and flat
with many corners
thank god for the quiet
soothing havens in the dark
The sadness and the joy
of small precious things
on a shelf in the dining room
a collection
pink flowers on a tea cup
and a tiny dancing horse
carefully arranged
to show the neighbour
the niece the granddaughter
or the moving company
If there was a line
between the perfect
and  imperfect
how could you ever cross it
If there was a space
without a place
how could you be there
If there was knowledge
without information
how could you know it
If you were a being
without a body
how could you be
If there was an answer
without a question
how could it be asked
Sleep into darkness
wake into light
live loving into light
the ideal life
I wrote this poem in 1968. It was the first poem I ever had published – an annual publication from my creative writing class.
daninmaya 