Hanging Garden on the 8th Floor

The light casts a shadow of the sun

as the mind sits and weaves illusions.

Hope stirs a cup of fresh lemongrass tea

as despair washes itself away with rain.

Curtains of green and mustard bellow 

a symphony of breeze adrift with petrichor.

The fairly lights will soon arrive in the mail

and there will be a dance among the greens.

Someday a bright blue dragonfly will visit 

our little hanging garden on the 8th floor.

A Home of Its Own

The door speaks
with its mouth shut
in a language of knocks,
but is quiet soon as
it opens up.
I feel it is an introvert.

The windows wave
and often slam aloud
or spew raging winds,
unwelcome critters and dirt
to demand attention.
I feel they have ADHD.

The ventilators are
either asleep or awake
for they do not know
what twilights are; they
are just their own self.
I feel they are the wallflowers.

The staircases never move
but always urge a haste. They
look up, look in front but never
can make up their minds, if
they go up or they come down.
I feel they might be bi-polar.

The floors, oh them floors-
they are Atlas-esque and
bear with everything, everyone
as a weight upon their shoulders.
Creaking at places, sinking in some;
I feel they are depressed.

The walls pretend to shield,
to protect but often fail. They
don't let go, unless the doors
speak up or the windows wave.
They cannot move on, nor forget.
I feel they are stubborn.

The ceiling however, sees them all,
sees it all and never discriminates
nor does it interfere. It covers them
all and keeps them together with an
all encompassing benevolence.
I feel it is the consciousness.

The house l believe,
lives in a home of its own!

 

The Awareness of the Empty

The arriving dawn of that morning,
The departing dusk of that evening.
We the emptiness, within the empty,
Still, tranquil, calm and cellularly aware.
Aware of the silence resonating within
The cluttered echoes of the chore
That has comes to pass as life and living.

Aware of the frightening contentment
Of no possessions or chases after them.
Aware of the rarefied viscosity of the air
Which we breathe in absence of rushes.
Aware and afraid of the atomic vastness
Of this emptiness and our inconsequence.

Aware truly of beginnings and culminations
And the continuity of rebeginnings of culminations.
Aware of a universe which awaits in a blink
And cycles through existence and illusion
With every deep breath and sighing exhale.
Aware of the only permanence of impermanence
And the futility of craving what is mere material.

Aware of the simple complexities of our responsibility
Towards the life accorded to us by the cosmos.
Aware of the elusive line which tries to separate
What it is to be happy and what it is to be content.
Aware of everything being stardust of some death
And destined to be stardust again for a nebulous birth.

But aware most acutely of you, sharing this emptiness
And realizing life is meant to flourish in dualities.
Aware that as we strive for our duality to unite,
Our identities to fuse distinctly as a singularity,
We are entwining into each other as the warp and weft
Of time, weaving our very own nucleic emptiness.