Journey of the Heart

I was slowly walking short distances on the Atlantic's shore during the period I wrote this poem… I was nearly dead inside, and hadn't yet faced that my 28-year relationship with my life partner needed to come to a close—should have come to a close some years earlier. The shifting shells on the shore created pale, dripping-like patterns that reflected my melancholic heart. My toes wanted to touch the nourishing water as I remembered the Bhakti analogy that the soul's nature is similar to the demarcation between the ocean and the sand.  The line between water and sand—spirit and matter respectively—is sometimes wet; sometimes dry. The self chooses where she wants to invest herself and thereby is nourished from that nature. Desperately wanting to be held by the divine, I saw my steps leading me, slowly, painfully, indistinctly—like the colors of the shifting sands—yet somehow surely, too, like each step I was taking. I had a faint sense of trust in the intelligen...

  A friend had described a house she was temporarily visiting…  It had exquisite vistas, was well appointed, and she didn't have to pay rent. She was free to use her time in her creative work. I was so happy for her   and   I felt a twinge of desire to have a similar situation. Then I thought about how it seems that all our desires exact a payment from us. Payments that are due from us cannot be escaped even through death. But we can be released by entering seriously into our relationship with God and we can choose   that   at any moment. 'Cottage by The Sea' painting by  Artist Barbara Prikle Alone Borrowed house beautiful on land without title hills loaned lovely 'Windswept' painting by Pino Dangelico who’s free when everything must be paid with a dollar, a kiss, or blood? How will she spend the allotted days, breaths before Time calls its Note? Any way I please she assures herself seals...

As I observed her I made judgments about her … The exotic-looking, young European woman, who was chanting the Bhakti maha-mantra, grabbed my full attention. Looking at her, I noticed myself making judgments about what I perceived her worldview was, as if I knew something about life she didn't! I intentionally stopped that line of thinking and prayed that all of her spiritual aspirations be realized. Seeing my prejudiced and miserly thinking, my prayer became deeper and I wished this -not just for her- but for everyone in the world. I wished that we all soar spiritually regardless of what containers hold our spirits, and without being distracted by those of others.  Photographic art: 'Don't Tell Me I'm Dying' by Gabrielle Shamon Delicate Thick kajal outlines her eyes bold-black white-skin features fade behind those haunting eyes hang in space long after she leaves walks fast a circular path, chants genie pants billowin...

  On my last pilgrimage to the holy town of Vrindavan, India, I contacted Typhoid…  I wrote this poem the evening before I was diagnosed and rushed three hours away to a hospital in New Delhi. As I suffered that evening, I contemplated what it must feel like for a once verdant area to become a desert. That year of my visit, the monsoon rains had failed, meaning they didn't arrive. The rains are crucial for crops that feed the Indian continent.  For days I fretted about what no rain would mean for millions of people during the coming year. Somehow I felt that my suffering was the suffering of all people and animals and the earth itself. 'Woman Carrying Pot' by photographer Anders Blomqvist Before I Knew it was Typhoid Metal meets metal   worn cylinder sounds    release to crickets’ night trill then intrudes again into twilight’s static:   raw pads reflect    driver’s reflex and neglect Vr...

On my fiftieth birthday I was walking on the shore of the Atlantic ocean and spotted a diver in the water...  I immediately remembered my days of scuba diving off the coast of Santo Domingo when I was sixteen. The gulf of years between sixteen and fifty became pronounced, but even more poignantly, I realized that it was time for me to accept that I had passed through youth.  It was a stark, sinking sensation of moving from denial into an uncomfortable truth.  This is the first poem I ever wrote. I had never thought of myself as a poet, and the thought of writing a poem never occurred to me. These lines came out spontaneously. I felt quite awkward when my esteemed writing friend, a poet herself, declared me "Poet Pranada," but her confidence in me gave me permission to write other poems.  My relationship with my writing mentor has convinced me that each of us women should go out of our way to help each other find our voice and ...

For the first twenty years of my mantra meditation practice...  ...I envisioned reaching a specific goal. I kept thinking it would be right around the corner, until one day I let go and gave up thinking about "results."  This is how I envisioned my journey afterwards. "Autumn River" by Stanislav Rico Watercourse   It’s entirely possible  for the daily hours     with beads in hand     chanting Shri Nam* to glide along     the wet slide     of pleasure and ease not unlike a youthful river    of showers and snowmelt    surging over stones coursing to its destination     the point invisible     from here the waterway    wends    meandering bends is in no conscious hurry     to pass through     lower or higher elevations ...