September 29, 2015

Into the Mind of a Seeker during a Full Moon Meditation. {Poem}


The frozen crescent suspends,
amid softening into a full moon.

Appearing motionless to the human eye,
she hungrily licks the final sweeps of color
as permission to destroy her incompleteness—

A magic bowl awaiting one delicious kiss,
before puckering up
to deliver oozing silver
against the black sky.

Perky edges of a shy something-ness
strain under the creator’s watchful gaze.
They stretch to curve and bend to meet,
owing to life-beckoning soft prayers
of those like and unlike me
that work on breaking all spells
on the crescent’s emptiness—

As below so above,
she is a portal, a bridge—
erect just like an erect me,
only by now she is used to it
and probably doesn’t wait to see
that she’ll soon bloom into a full moon
unlike me who has no clue
what I will grow into—a better human,
a pseudo saint or a werewolf.

The stars tug moodily at the invisible strings
that try bunching them together,
they huddle like helpless puppets
who are made to march as per order:

“Now. Contain your light,
There. Dim it just a bit.
Now. Let go but with caution.
Be aware. Don’t release the entire flame
for tonight you could burn holes
in the vast velvet curtain.”

I lay still, though not as frozen or forced
or helpless as other elements,
I lay still in my own cocoon of pink velvet.
The thoughts strewn in my head
nudge me to fathom out worldly concepts
of life purpose, karma, free will, destiny and enlightenment.

Nothing is happening
and I am tired of romanticizing
my search within.
I wonder, and try grasping the Almighty’s play,
creating at will what fancies him.
First the desire in me to surrender,
the very next instant the fear of losing,
one moment truth seems crystal clear
the very next moment conflict surfaces from within…

“Shhh. Let go.”

A command for silence to rule
so there it flexes at first
but soon eases between my breaths.
Words become redundant tonight
I feel more awake without them.

The frozen crescent in its changing,
the aching stars dipped in their solitude,
the she-bridge itching to arch—
I am one of them, I am one with them, I am them.

With all their wakefulness and mine,
I wait for what feels “next” to him.
He would decide when,
until then silence must speak,
until then heaven and earth long to meet
so they can have their long awaited kiss
through me—

For I am the Bridge.



Supermoon. {Poem}


Author: Malvika Vazalwar

Editor: Yoli Ramazzina

Photo: WikiMedia Commons

Leave a Thoughtful Comment

Read 0 comments and reply

Top Contributors Latest

Malvika Vazalwar