The lens that brings light to my eyes
dims and distorts most of it.

Yet my eyes are all I have
for seeking the few oases of truth
that melt into mirages.

Everywhere and Nowhere

I stand in the middle of
everywhere and nowhere,
with my feet rooted frozen
to the point where all paths meet.

My mind is in a whirl.
like a kite cut loose
being buffeted by gusts of upheaval,
going everywhere and nowhere
all at once.

The Limitations of My Senses

My eyes can see only so far;
they look so ahead
that they can't follow
the earth's curvature
to its very end.

My ears can hear only so much;
they listen so little
that they can't comprehend
the laughter of playful dolphins
and the cries of cut trees.

My hands can touch only phantom mirages;
they never turn towards
the gnarled roots of ancient forests
or the callused palms of a caring mother.

My nose can smell only fragrant privilege;
perfumes often mask
the stench of sweat and blood
that stops my world from falling,
like Atlas' mighty shoulders.

My tongue can twist only in some ways;
a muscle so atrophied
can't stretch
to include the voices
of the plundered and oppressed.

My mind can hold only so much wisdom;
the eyes of my eyes
the nose of my nose
and the ears of my ears
often lose their way
in the bewildering maze
of meaningless facts and figures.

Landay

A cloud just drifted over the moon,
and you were just here- now you're gone too soon.

Note to Self

Nothing will happen
till you cease to rest against
the bulwark of crumbling glory.

Nothing will happen
when you look above,
for a call from the muse
you'd long left behind,
in rusty abandon.

Nothing will happen
when you wipe the dust off
dead ideas and tired metaphors.

Nothing will happen
till you peer clear-eyed
into the fog of the future that awaits you.

In short, nothing will happen
till you put pen to paper.

The Idol Maker's Prayer

To you who sits serenely on her chariot,
thronged by hordes of mad devotees;

to you whose brilliance bursts through burnished bronze
 never quite buried under layers of silk and fragrant garlands;

to you whose smile is a lotus just starting to bloom,

I, being a petty mortal, am always aware
that the whole world dances to your whims.

You are
the fecundity of green paddy fields
and cracks on parched earth of a long drought.

You are
a house filled with the laughter of children
and cries of women with barren wombs.

You are
the comfort of full coffers
and the emptiness of a beggar's bowl.

But as I lie prostrate before you,
I desire nothing,
except to mould you with my own hands.
All over again.

No matter how hard I try,
I can never numb this
piercing pang of separation.
I can never forget
that I birthed you
and you birthed me.
But who birthed whom?

You're a daughter I'm about to lose
to your bronze counterpart;
he's dying to wed you
just to bed you
in the sanctum sanctorus
of a timeless temple.

You were
the germ of a Goddess in beeswax
as you flowed through my fingers
and filled yourself out.

You were
pliable clay with which I caressed
the lotus blossom of your bosom.

You were
bliss that became solid
like the clay that caked your body.

You were
a spurting stream of molten beeswax
that gushed out in the heat of the moment.

You were
a hollow womb
yearning for more than just pleasure.

You were
green glowing bronze
straight from the furnace of frenzied devotion,
with which I filled the aching void of your being.

You were
a babe becoming a Goddess
in her secure cocoon- a womb of clay.

You were
agony tearing me apart
when I cracked open your hardened cast.

You were
no longer mine
when I carved your eyes
with a golden chisel,

For
you became Devi
when you opened your eyes to the world.

All that glitters is not gold.
All that's gold does not glitter.