"God must become an activity in our consciousness." Joel S. Goldsmith

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After every violence-
The thoughts percussion,
I lay in spiritless ambience;
My parts seem to under go separation
Unable to balance between the yes and nos-
I shut the lids off and-
Concentrating between the brows
In darkness I do land.
I march towards a faded spot
Catch the track and towards Him
Am carried by the beck
Until am misled by the trim-
Of beauty, mundane pleasures,
Love that ruled by passions,
Asserts, monetary treasures
And of contemporary fashion-
For the spontaneity I do lack
And even the self-effacement.
Again on reminder I am back
To search for the paranormal existence.
I climb the mountain,
Cross the valley, the river,
Bear the wind, the pain
And the body's shiver-.
A doubt, a deficiency of hope,
A bit of tiredness, and
Patience unable to cope
Again in darkness I do land.
The lids open-,"Next time,"
I promise,"I'll cross the barriers
And search the prime,"
If be mitigated those barriers.
But my eager desire for objects beautiful
Will lead me to the result tire-
That is, in his search I'm unsuccessful.

Creating Poetry

A stricken body-
Dark tinged, skin drawn tight-
Lays in the lap of nature-
With leaves, with flowers,
With butterflies, with bees,
With waters and under them,
On moon and even beyond that.

The lids move;
The heart is heard beating again.
The beat, as harmonious
As the advancing waves,
Has some sweet thing to say.
The heart beats with those of flowers,
With those of waters, of waves,
With those of sky and of earth.

From beneath those opening lids
Sparkle the eyes-those precious jewels.
They have something to interpret,
They have something to say.
They have the sight to pierce the heart
That of things, matters, beings,
That of love, hatred and fear.

The lids open-
Sweet life is restored.
Accompanying it blooms the flowers,
Blows the wind, and all.
Sweat leaves the pores.
-And the result is sweet poetry.

Remembrances of friends

Cool home a pond besides it.
My head floats on the water
With thousand other known faces;
-Meet many people, let go
Expressions of formality.
It moves along with the dial,
Leaving behind frequent expressions.
A sweet breeze ripples up to me,
Tickles the software under the skin.
Dial tires, tired rays, alone in the pond,
No exercise of muscles, no wish for it-
The software waits for a breeze.
No breeze-spasms in thoughts,
Ripples in pond few heads nearby,
Beats in heart, harmony in thoughts
-Remembrances of friends,
Dead head on dead waters.