Bliss

Woke up to a morning of such mystic bliss..
the esctasy blew my mind..
Sunrise and the soft sun of dawn.
Walking on the rose feet of the grass in Portland's Farmer's Market.
It was heavenly summer
and the smell of roasting kielbasa sausages
and your feet in the grass.
even though you were physically elsewhere
you know where you were.

Then the sun filled the air with this dappled light
and the people with the liberal eyes filled my soul.

And I so wanted to be home..
A home is a state of mind.
not a claustrophobic bourgouise walled garden..
I will not be in a walled garden.

I will be with you.
Always.
in the dappled sunshine,
reading books
by the kielbasa sausages
in the farmers market.
As you walk with your feet
in the dappled sunshine.
 

Berlin Diary, Part Deux

I am holding a 61 year-old copy of William Shirer's classic, 'Berlin Diary' in my hands.
Found it in the history section of the famous Powells in Portland.
Holding it feels weird.

Feel like I am witnessing history, a la Marcus Aurelius, witnessed the 'Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire'. Marcus was there, as Caeser rode into Rome.

Shirer witnesses the stand of the last revolution, standing on its feet in Germany, France, Spain, as the communists, fascists, democrats fight it out on the streets in Paris, Vienna and Berlin. He is there, standing in the Place de la Concorde, as the gendarmes spray bullets on the Communists and social democrats. It is fascinating, as he describes those very moments we read about in history, sitting in a cafe in Berlin, sending dispatches to the Chicago Tribune that he worked for.

He describes the 'Anschluss', the takeover of Austria, by Berlin
and the erstwhile 'Americans in Paris', the Gatsbys/Fitzgeralds, Hemingways..
hanging out with them and having 'A Moveable Feast' with the Spanish intellectuals, who carried the flame of freedom through the darkening '30s.

How the war correspondent turned into a witness of history
unfolds though the the pages of this 61 year-old book,  that I hold in my hands.
It is bizarre to read about Dolfuss, the tottering Austrian dictator and how he hangs the last vestiges of democracy in Austria, and the social chaos that ensues, leads to the rise and fall of Europe..
Little did he know, that the little dispatches he wrote,  sipping dark coffee
in a Paris cafe,
would become a witness to history..
that an Indian girl would read in the middle of the night, in a hotel in Portland
dark coffee in her hands..

Voyageur, Part Deux

Are you and I
linked forever
together in Paris..
when I wore dark lipstick
and you picked up Le Monde
for me?

Bringing me black coffee
as I fermented revolution
through my pen?

You pined and sighed
for me
through
the bourgoise boredom
and the black print
of the burning papers
kept our love
alive,
through the centuries.

Burning
brightly
through
the burning centuries

You and I
and black print..
can it ever be snuffed out?

As long as freedom is alive,
our love
with burn through the centuries
burning brightly
like the flame
of flight..

 

Voyageur

I am here in Portland.

In the middle of the night..
With black coffee, books and loved friends.
Reading William Shirer in the middle of the night.

Decaf black coffee.
Nothing could be better..
than books and dispatches, a la foreign correspondent
in the middle of the night.

I feel like I am an erswhile traveller
in the the 1930s
travelling through the French Riviera
and Morroco..Casablanca.

My loved one
with me,
reading his paper
avec cafe noir
hands in the air
gesticulating fo democracy.
As I watch him from a distance.

My journalist
from the 30s..

Gatsby is always
with me.
Since the 1930s
we've been together.

Travelling
through
Europe
America
Bon voyages
Berlin
The sea
Baghdad
Bahamas
His eyes
are always with me.

Drinking black coffee
he watches
me from a distance
wherever I go..


 

Birth pangs

The Birth of the Buddha
is writ with painful labor,
bloostained
removal of angst
and opening of the heart chakras..
without the layers
of darkness
covering
the light.

Open the doors
and you will see
the light.

The riddled shining light
that streams
through the doorways
of your life.

The light of medicine and healing
that conceals
beneath,
all your lust and greed for money..
killing patients instead of curing.

The capitalist system
at best
owns your soul..
like the Third Reich, without the slave camps.

You still feed the system
of the Matrix
watching the women come and go
with their trophies
men's libidos
in their hands,
but no more
shall you serve the Reich.
Burn the Reichstag
so you can be
born anew.
Buddha.

Freedom is sweet,
But birth is bitter..
but labor on,
labor on
beneath the layers..
the Light
shines.

Be born
anew.
Buddha.

 

The one who finds his own Path

The one who finds his own path (Siddh-artha)

---

When Siddhartha sits in one place,

he doesnt budge.

Until he has opened the gates and achieved the goal

he doesnt flinch.

 

 

He lets the arrows of Mara slip by..

driving lust, desire and lures away

the sweet-tongued traps.
 

He doesnt flinch until he has opened the doors of Truth,

and revealed the gaze of light

within himself.
 

His own conquest

makes the universe faint

and walk away.
 

"The young prince who abandoned his inheritance to discover his true calling..and changed the world forever.."

 

 When was the last time, you made a Siddhartha of yourself?