Cosmic Me
in these futile
spasms of existence,
some cobwebs,
still unstirred,
support this life
with their indelible words
of a forgotten wisdom.
the aum-kaar
that spur as the first voice,
of the created universe,
still echoes in my veins,
and arrives in the pupil of my eyes,
as the secret of my being.
my inner world,
remains still unborn
and as the birth of my being
sets it's first felt ripples
of pain,
from that holocaust
of birth pangs,
my emotions evolve,
with the roar of a thunder,
that leaves pug-marks on the moon.
the scattered stardust
is the ashes of my long lost
sputtered incarnations,
heaving softly
...each time the creator breathes….
-by sarvesh and indira babbellapati.
poem by Sarvesh Kulkarni
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Related quotes
Of Birth And Death
Of birth and death,
life is but a cross-fade.
A tinge of meaning,
painted to the trembles of my tendrils
as the soul of each encaptured emotion.
The aumkara of the first voice of the universe,
fumes up in my crevices.
With the smoke of ashes,
the wisdom of soul
smothers my ambience.
In the receding mist
of the unscribbled unclarity,
as I open my eyes-,
flown with the wind,
I find me gone…
I take birth,
in each bubble of fatality.
And I die in the sublimation,
of each vibration of music…
of every birth and death,
life is but a cross-fade.
poem by Sarvesh Kulkarni
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Birth Energy
I am opening
I am opening up
Birth energy
Be my teacher
Birth energy
Heal my fears
Teach me trust
Teach me compassion
Walk me into the darkness
And into your light
Birth energy
You are woman
Birth energy
Within the man
Ever constant
Ever changing
Let your winds blow
Rock me in your storm
Let the bough break
Let me fall
Into your arms
It is you I trust
When I say
Im trusting love
Invocation:
I stand among the sisters of the moon
I am held by the creator of the world
I am opening
I am unbounded
I am luminous
I am powerful
I surrender to this power
Life and newness are continued and
Renewed through me
You are the ocean
I ride upon your waves
I am opening
I am blown apart by your caress
I surrender to you
I embrace you
I am ready now to sing the moon
To be her voice
I am the singer
And life is her song
I sing creation
I sing joy and pain
Beginning and ending
Giving and taking
Existence
Goddess
I embrace you
I am opening
I am opening up
song performed by by Kenny Loggins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The creator's struggle
The uneven shadows
of a ghastly nightmare
cast their indescretions
upon my silently closed eyes.
The poignant pointlessnesses
of the unexpressed emotions
surface in my eye-pupils
and their glistening encore
gets lost,
in the tremendousness
of the mist of irony.
I grope in despair,
at the hidden archives
of my being,
and come up with a painful pang
of abstract unexpression
which might be the birth-root
of all this enormous creation.
[Inspired by the belief that the universe is just the non-absolute expression of God]
poem by Sarvesh Kulkarni
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My Breath
the winds breathe
with a sweep
the ocean and coulds breathe
with a roar
then breathes the rain
with a tip-tap
the fire breathes
crackling silence
the space breathes
with an echo
the sweep
the roar
the tip-tap
the fumes
the space
expand the universal energy
connecting every breath
i absorb all these
that my body breathes
in silence and peace
25oct2009
09.34hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Unasking
Timeless,
the eyes and fractured wisdom,
the two of us, extremely prudent, suffering
the dislocation of vigilance against wrinkled sin,
I am on my own today
disconnected to
the unearthly rehearsal
of breaking the cycle of carbon assimilation
in the veins of white lies, of crude bombs,
moonbathing we were colloiding in void
of consciousness and scattered verses
in scriptures remained unsearched;
the brutal hierarchy of chromosomes,
loud and merciless, in the birth of new settlements,
huge ovens for cremations, collecting the golden
teeth from the ashes, celebrating the
return of blood and death, me,
blessing the unborn poem.
poem by Satish Verma
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Scattered echoes
To my wonderfull family.
I so very sorry.
Yes I finaly done it.
I took my own life.
But my life was taken long ago.
I heard scattered echoes in the wind.
They told me to go back home.
I listened to the scattered echoes of the wind.
Becuase I'd had enough of pointless pain.
Yes you'll be angry.
I know you'll be sad.
I guess you'll grieve for a while
But soon you will see this was meant to be.
Things have worked out for the best.
In the scattered echoes of the wind.
If you listen carefully you'll hear my cries.
My cries to you on earth below.
I'm sorry
My echoes in the scattered wind are crying to you.
I'm sorry really I am.
Go get on with your life.
Live for each other.
Live your dream.
The scattered echoes of the wind shout out to you.
Now the time has come let her go.
Move on with your life.
She wouldnt want you to live this way
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Eternal Creation
The Parent’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to the child; but to irrefutably ensure that the infant was nourished with their breath and blood till the time it could unflinchingly fend for its symbiotic survival; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created them for,
The Sun’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to light; but to irrefutably ensure that the rays optimistically enlightened even the most infinitesimally lugubrious cranny of remorsefully cloistered earth; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
The Rose’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to fragrance; but to irrefutably ensure that the majestic resplendence ebulliently blossomed into the lives of countless haplessly beleaguered and bereaved; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
The Peak’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to victory; but to irrefutably ensure that the royal triumph peerlessly massacred even the most ethereal iota of devilishness form this Universe; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
Nature’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to newness; but to irrefutably ensure that the evolution metamorphosed every bit of egregiously stagnating ghoulishness into a sky of rhapsodic freshness; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
The Cloud’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to rain; but to irrefutably ensure that the water stupendously ignited vivaciously iridescent life in every ingredient of hopelessly dying soil; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
The Conscience’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to truth; but to irrefutably ensure that the righteousness insuperably conquered every trace of diabolical lies on earth and the atmosphere; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
The Ocean’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to salt; but to irrefutably ensure that the tanginess wonderfully illuminated every treacherously spiceles and deliriously lackadaisical moment of life; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
The Poet’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to fantasy; but to irrefutably ensure that the dream spellbindingly impregnates the winds of Omnipotent romance into monotonously monstrous robots; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created him for,
The Lip’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to smiles; but to irrefutably ensure that the happiness altruistically perpetually perpetuates into every dwelling incarcerated in chains of murderous gloom; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
The Rainbow’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to vividness; but to irrefutably ensure that the color timelessly enshrouded every gruesomely befriended orphan; miserably deteriorating on the globe; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
The Shadow’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to tranquility; but to irrefutably ensure that the peacefulness granted celestial reprieve to every bizarrely estranged soul squandering on this Universe; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,
The philanthropist’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to unity; but to irrefutably ensure that the oneness miraculously coalesced every spuriously staggering and cold-bloodedly fighting caste; creed and tribe into the unassailable religion of humanity; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created him for,
The wind’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to freedom; but to irrefutably ensure that the liberation unequivocally freed every element of torturously enslaved earth till times immemorial; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,
The night’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to sensuality; but to irrefutably ensure that the passion brilliantly transformed every speck of infertility into the chapters of everlastingly Omniscient procreation; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,
The eyelash’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to flirtation; but to irrefutably ensure that the mischief serenely catapulted every fretfully frenetic organism into realms of impeccable childhood; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,
The soldiers job just doesn’t end at giving birth to martyrdom; but to irrefutably ensure that the valor to timelessly serve the mothersoil; throbbed fearlessly in every chest; even centuries after his veritable death; was what the Almighty Creator had created him for,
The breath’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to life; but to irrefutably ensure that the exultation inexhaustibly transcended over; even the most inane anecdote of baseless corruption and demeaning death; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,
And the heart’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to Love; but to irrefutably ensure that the compassionate togetherness tirelessly bonded the entire planet into a paradise of Omnipresently unshakable strength; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for…
©copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. All rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Wilderness
What sanctuary am I to seek beyond the blanket of your arms
When I can find no asylum in the eyes of another?
Familiar faces seem strange to me
A circle of kings surround me
A circle bound in time and set by destiny to strive
To live and be alive within the moment ever after.
I have forgotten the wisdom of the willow man's secret
I have lost the ability to see with eyes of ecstasy upon the world
As if it were of innocence.
Forget the night unwinding
I find myself in the arms of the one who holds me closest.
What is the dance without the dancer?
Think not that I have forgotten the love that lay fresh for you amongst the rotten.
We are as lost within the wilderness -
I have arrived at the town of my birth to find the generations lost to self destruction.
Is it a lifetime of parading the silver screen you seek?
Or is it that you would inspire the dreams of men?
We have created ourselves a world into which we sink
Free of the shackles of conformity
Free of the shackles of normality
Free of the shackles of reality
I am free for they shatter in binding my soul.
Deserted upon an island
Left alone through a mutiny of the soul
Underground unfound are we
Those souls of midnight ecstasy
That seek to set their spirit free
And be as one as all should be.
poem by David Lacey
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As I Face You On This Battle Front
this i can tell you
in all confidence
gone are swords
or daggers or missiles
or ak47s or anything
else more advanced
in this battlefront
all these and more are
but mere obselete
a look or
a word or
nth part of a glance
of ignoring or a touch
you shudder from
is far more lethal
than all these put together
even a dropp of blood
will never be seen
no ashes will ever get scattered
one goes about with blood
frozen in the veins till the breath
freezes at its appointed time
at its appointed place...
04jun2010
14.56hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Another Book Written By The Heavenly Author
I was intricately woven upon Your heavenly loom
as You carefully knit me together in my mothers womb.
In that most secret of places when my conception took place
You prepared me for my birth and entry into the human race.
Before the first moment of my earthly existence began
You had written in Your book my inmost being and life plan.
Each syllable penned with words in calligraphy composed.
There as each sentence was handwritten the paragraphs flowed.
From the first chapter of my birth to the last one of my death
each had been lovingly written before I'd taken a breath.
I praise You that I am fearfully and wonderfully made
the handiwork of my Great Creator is in me displayed.
My life is like a book that can be read by everyone
because it tells of Your Grace and the wonders Jesus has done.
For in Your mercy before the world was made and time began
You had included this poor child in Your great Salvation plan.
On Seeing You...
On Seeing You...
The body that so far felt
Like a hollow shell
Thrown on the beach
By a vagrant child
The body that so far felt
Like an empty piece of severed bamboo
Fallen on an untread forest path
No longer felt hollow or empty
The shell vibrated with the roar of the sea
The bamboo set ripples of mystic music on the waves
Strangely enough, even the half-moon
Sprayed brightness on the dark niches
Your joy resonated in my heart
Sealing all the crevices and pushed the body
Towards the one loved…
Ah, the stuff dreams are made of
13 May 2011
Evening
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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A Bittersweet Rise Of Naiveté
a troubled child wanders the streets
orphaned at birth, she knows nothing different
passers-by ignore her lonely tears
her gaze has never met the eyes of this world
while her identity remains,
she is not recognized
it’s hard not to wonder
how her voice goes unheard
for how long will her aimlessness intensify?
with a bittersweet rise of naiveté,
her existence drifts away
her name is faith
will you lend her a shoulder?
poem by Manny Negron
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A Poem of Once Upon a Time...
***
Once upon a time
From the ashes
I was made to come alive
From the breathing ashes
Was I condemned
Back to dead ashes
Now I know
Why all stories begin
With 'once upon a time! '
***
Once upon a time
You made me
Come alive
But then,
As if the creator has right
Over his creation
You sent me back to death
Now,
Am I alive
Or am I dead?
I'm neither!
25 Aug 2011
14.19hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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A Life Pops Out Song
A life pops out
When the mother is giving birth
Today
And at the same time she is feeling the pain of giving birth
Birth doesn't come without pain
Because pain is the part of giving birth
poem by Aldo Kraas
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A Life Pops Out
A life pops out
When the mother is giving birth
Today
And at the same time she is feeling the pain of giving birth
Birth doesn't come without pain
Because pain is the part of giving birth
poem by Aldo Kraas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Today... 'God my Maker
I was intricately woven upon His heavenly loom
As He carefully knit me together in my mothers womb
In that most secret of places when my conception took place
Ready at the time of my birth to enter the human race
Before the first moment of my earthly existence began
God had written in His book my inmost being and life plan
Each syllable penned and words in calligraphy composed
There sentences were handwritten and the paragraphs disclosed,
From the first chapter of my birth to the last one of my death
Each had been thoughtfully written before I'd taken a breath
I praise God that I am fearfully and wonderfully made
The handiwork of My Great Creator is in me displayed
Living letters turned into syllables and then became words.
These words began to form phrases and the sentences emerged.
Chapters made out of many paragraphs were arranged with care
each carefully written by the in the book of my life there.
For my life is now that book to be read by everyone
because it speaks of His Grace and the wonders Jesus has done.
For in His mercy before the world was made and time began
He had included Roy Allen in His great Salvation plan.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
To-Day
OH God, where hast thou hidden Truth? Oh Truth,
Where is the road to God?
Lo, we, that should be old, have learned our youth;
We are not manly ripe; we have not dower
Of all the wisdom that a world can gain
In the centuries of work, peace, war, hope, pain;
We are not strong with all the gathered power
From age to age left our inheritance;
We stand not near the goal, there by the advance
Of step on step, through mire and blood and tears,
Forgotten fathers trod;
We are new in a new world; where shall we know,
Where in the ancient years,
Sign-marks to guide us on the way we go?
We are new in a new world. As children learn
Life by surprise and doubt,
So life must learn itself at each return
Of the upsoaring Phoenix birth from sleep
Among the ashes of an ended Past.
In its own strength, and singly from the last,
Each age's long To-day begins to creep
In baby paces whitherward it goes.
And from too far with too unsure a close,
Like void sonorous echoes in the hill,
Yesterday's voice rings out,
So gives the questioning turmoil of our cries
Answer such as we will.
Has Past writ Present in its histories?
Our fathers saw, we see not with their eyes,
Knew, and we learned in vain:
We seek old wisdoms in a novel wise;
We toil beginners of the things that are;
Like lessons which we early get by rote,
Heedless of meaning in the words we quote,
And by and by, the schoolroom left afar,
Discern at last their sense or find a new,
The just, the unjust, the counterfeit, the true,
We said from books upon our fathers' shelves,
All must be learned again:
We, children-like, still wondering as we grow,
Change, and become ourselves,
And only as ourselves can henceforth know.
How shall we know? what must we do? what be?
Answer us, Life, instead:
Past speaks us a dead tongue, we look to thee
And know thee teacher—yet a tardy one;
For now we labour, fearing to what end;
We journey, dimly seeing where we tend;
We do, and question was it rightly done;
Doubt and distrust of self beside us stand;
And who will find us Truth? where is her hand
To guide us on or back by the round path,
Leading but whence it led,
She travels on from God to reach him by?
What is the name she hath
To find her by to-day? Life, make reply.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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gentle lazy
roar of reluctant thunder
sky blinks at the sun
haiku by Indira Babbellapati (24 October 2010)
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Is Abortion Murder?
Is it human rights to have an abortion and kill the unborn?
Is this a holocaust of hidden murders and secret scorn?
So certain folk can stay in fashion and the secret is kept,
Out of sight, out of mind like the baby they would not accept.
If this is murder; where are the folks who should show some scorn?
About the little unborn baby boy/girl who will never be born
Not mentioned in establishment media and kept out of sight,
Is this a sign that it’s completely accepted and right?
Why do I feel that this holocaust of babies is very wrong?
And our appointed Supreme Court went where they didn’t belong,
So much for the religious right who never raise their voice,
Bowing down to the feminist cause so they can have their choice.
Nov 26th 2010
poem by James Bredin
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Human Existence On Earth
How do you define human existence on earth?
Some say our life on earth is like a journey
The journey begins from the day we are born
And terminates the day we die
Others say that our life is a school
We start learning from the day we are born
Everyday of our life on earth
There is always something new to learn
The schooling ends the day we die
Few compare our life on earth to the sun
Our sunrise is the day we are born
While our sun sets on the day we die
Our life can also be likened to a flower
The flower is planted the day we are born
As we grow up, our flower germinates
When we reach middle-age
Our flower blooms and sparkles
After we retire, our flower fades away
Life of humans can also be equated to the four seasons
The spring covers birth to adolescent years
Summer of our life begins from adolescent to middle-age
While fall season starts from middle-age to retirement
The winter of our life will be from retirement to death
Another analogy is to liken human existence on earth
To the waxing and waning of the moon
From our birth to the time we retire from active service
Can be compared to waxing of the new moon to full moon
While our life from retirement to our death
Can be associated with the waning of full moon to new moon
Whatever may be your own analysis of life?
Always live everyday to the fullest
poem by Julius Babarinsa
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