Sunset from my window. 2012 11 29.

Kalyan!
Each time I attend to it,
there is
so much more,
so much more.
Each session is
like a new wave,
formed
from the same water,
approaching,
overwhelming,
enriching,
the same shore.
I,
feel like a child,
each time,
—splashing,
—diving in it.
At times
swept off my feet,
but always,
so much
in awe of it…,
seeking Kalyan.
For
the relentless waves, and
the manner in which
they lure,
I’ve hope.

Snow it was meant to be, poured tears instead…

I am learning,
still…
—am wondering still.
Every crisis teaches me,
enriches me
—about me
—about the world
that I think is mine.
Of all moments of crisis,
the first one is the most important.
For it is like
that moment after –
the first note of cry, of calling…
the first smile
the first burp
the first love
the first failure
the first success.
when I didn’t know
—just what to do next…

bbs.
Glen Cove, NY
November 27, 2012

Words are like waves.
A word is, in fact, the content of a wave.
Each wave is seeped, and content, in its content.

The moment a thought arises, it begins to flow as a wave, until it merges into eternity. Where the destination is none other than the point of origin but which is transformed solely for the memory of the journey of the wave.

I am a mere witness, of the countless waves that flow by, frozen in awe, on the bank of the aab,
atop a mound of fleeting sand.
But, I have only seen my words drown – I can’t explain why –
perhaps were they burdensome – empty?

Wahu! A moment when a wave was born, a wave that then rode atop the waves that flow on from times – the witnesses – before. My eyes follow it, my being filled with joy inexpressible – so infinite!
Infinite? Then, melancholy set in as the wave was lost to the horizon.

I am only a moment – a mere fleeting moment but have found (my) arth – the meaning of being.
That I flow on in the intent of the word that rode aloft – as if in prayer – as if in hope.

Tradition is
not the wooden logs,
but the flame.

—logs come and go—
(at times wet, small or large)
seldom one burns
as did one
Farid’s qoyal.

It is not the soil
Nor in the seed,
Neither to the blooms.

Fragrance belongs
to the winds,
Alas! The winds belong nowhere.

Not an orchard
where the saintly meet,
but in the winds.

Wherefrom the winds blow
and where to
they flow;
I belong to the winds.

25/10/10 11:56:54 PM
© 2010. bhai baldeep singh