A Seeker

The seekers of truth,
are not the ones who abstain,
but ones who aspire to see things the way they are,
if body urges are taboo,
than family affaction is also a taboo,
then intellectual meandering is also a taboo,
for a spiritual seeker,
everything is taboo,
or everything is divine,

the eyes of seeker,
are not poisoned by guilt of bad,
because for him there is no good too,
good is also bad for him,
for him sweet is as poisonous as bitter,
or sweet is as wonderful as bitter,
for him everything is equally close,
doesn't matter if he plays any role,
it doesn't stick to him,

His only companion is silence,
the deafening loudness of silence,
is his only nectar which feeds on,
he creates this space of silence,
rubbishing all the good and bad aside,
let the rigramroll drum itself out,
be like burning fire,
but without an object to be burnt,
simply burning and aware,
of even simplest of moves in actions,
freeing the self from clutches of compulsive reactions,
by the awareness of action,
letting the madness of stillness to manifest,
and ready to forget the world if it takes, to absorb it,
and then wait  . . .

Everything seems to be changing,
at a superfast past,
but the stillness also growing,
like a tornado creating havoc,
with eye/center of tornado surprisingly still,


That is how seeker of truth,
is creating the space of silence,
for the ultimate madness of existance to manifest,
cause buckets of emotion will not be able to contain it,
bucket of intellect cannot absorb it,
none of the buckets can hold the intensity of truth,
than the absolute womb of silence.

Past

It gives me goozebumps,
to describe the struggle I went through,
to have amateur dreams of mine,
fly in the sky,

I studied all the wrong things,
which didn't mean a thing to me,
but with a hope that it works out for some dreams,
but now I see its brevity,


If only we could open pages of our memory,
very quickly,
and future simulation of present,
we would just get baffled,

We justify the wrong choices,
the memory rules you,
the hands are tied,
until the pain is apparent,

and you decide to move to next step,
and leave  behind,
the past, and jump into the future.

It takes courage and wisdom,
to see what is needed and not just go by flow.

Goozebumps still fresh ,
when I revisit chapters of past,
and see the fragility of life.

 

Whispers of Truth

The creation soo gripping,

the pleasures soo fleeting,

the love so intoxicating,

you whisper in my ears,

o dear truth,

in a rythm of silence,

always,

but I hear it not,

but sometimes I get close,

to hearing it,

This silence is opposite of quitness,

This silence is stormy than the storm,

this silence is beating more and more,

In this never ending chaos of world,

I sometimes have breaks,

but those breaks become stormier than storms,

they become so strong, that they take form of silence,

To contain a storm forever,

requires a form of silence,

this sane insanity of having storm,

is just killing me,

but I am not yet killed,

because its tune is silent,

some songs rythm storm,

some song rythm pride,

but some songs don't even have sound,

cause the intensity of song is beyond words and sounds,

This silence is rare visitor,

it visits after some storm,

may I be blessed with such storms,

storms that become as intense as silence,

for a lot of readers, this poem might be mumbo jumbo,

maybe it is, may be its not