Poetry is the subtle meandering path

Poetry is the subtle meandering path
That twists, turns, at last leads One
To the deepest nooks of the mind
Awakened at sunrise
In the mist of a dream.
There goes the enlightened spirit
That progresses through shimmering breezy shadows
Dotted with sparkling drops of light
Falling gently upon the stroller
Solitary and lost at will,
Wary of what might befall,
Looking up, down and sideways
For the meaning of one’s Self.

The verse runs like a cascade
Splashes the eye
From line to line
From rock to pool –
Fresh water collected in the cup of my hand
Like a pocket mirror to see
What lies inside of me.

A clearing for repose
A puff of wind to catch my breath
And seize the full meaning of Truth –
Or just a crumb of it.

I sit and watch behind my lids,
I sense the air, the colors, the sounds unheard
I contemplate the essence of Being
That wells up from below
And gushes forth in a gigantic plume.

I rest inanimate, supine,
Senseless and overwhelmed,
Agape and mesmerized –

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